Every Word is True (#fiction #imagination #autobiography)

By Lisabet Sarai

“Is it a true story?”

When a reader asks an author this question, she usually means, “Is this autobiographical? Did this really happen to you?”

When it comes to my tales, I can answer yes in a surprising (or possibly shocking) number of cases. Yes, I did drive topless in a sports car along Mulholland Drive, as Ruby does in Nasty Business. Yes, I was fucked with the wooden finial unscrewed from a bedpost, like Kate in Raw Silk. Yes, I got up on stage to dance with the go-go girls in 1980’s Bangkok, though my costume was somewhat less revealing than my heroine’s. Gregory’s emails to Kate quote word for word from the letters my master sent me during his long-distance seduction. The sex clubs and orgies I describe in Incognito borrow heavily from my experiences in New York and Amsterdam.

The settings of my stories, especially, are true. My characters walk the streets I’ve walked myself. They live in apartments I rented. They shop where I shopped. When they travel, they visit the same attractions and eat the same food.

However, even when I create stories that deviate from my personal experience, I work to make them “true”, in the sense of “genuine”. As I’ve matured as an author, I have moved further away from autobiography. At the same time, I’ve learned to create more complex, nuanced and plausible characters. Ironically, these characters are more true than my early heroines, who tended to be somewhat shallow fantasy versions of myself.

Over the last few years, I’ve gotten better at allowing characters to speak for themselves. Rather than consciously “designing” them beforehand, I set my protagonists (and my villains) free to act and react as the book unfolds. If I am successful, these characters acquire a sort of organic quality, a consistency and depth. If I told you these characters were based on actual people in my past life, you’d probably believe me.

There’s another kind of truth in some of the stories that are closest to my heart—the truth of what might have been. Quite a few of my shorter tales are set in an alternative reality in which I did not split up with my master, but instead made a life with him. I’ve imagined, again and again, the trials and joys of living in a committed D/s relationship. In these stories, I can express the emotions I’ve mostly had to stifle in real life. I can also consider the difficulties involved in such a relationship, as it is tested by time, external circumstances and the inevitability of imperfectly aligned desires.

In fact, I’ve spent so much time in this parallel universe that sometimes I forget it doesn’t exist. I smile when I think about that long-ago kinky trip to Rocky’s Ace Hardware. I remember the time I came from just a spanking, without any sexual stimulation. I recall, with queasy excitement, the night my master cut his initials into my flesh. These incidents are as real to me as yesterday’s news—more so, really, because I care more about them than about politicians and movie stars.

I’ve shared some of these visions here at the Grip, so I think you’ll recognize what I am talking about. My post from the last topic cycle is a perfect example.

This vignette, like much of the BDSM I write, is fueled by fantasy and wishful thinking. Still, it bowls me over whenever I re-read it. Maybe I am flattering myself, but I suspect most readers will sense the depth and power of the feelings in that piece. It’s totally fictional. Yet every word is true.

What Your Favourite Sailor Scout Says About You

by Giselle Renarde

Here's the thing about Sailor Moon: I'm too old to have loved that show as much as I did.

I was in my late teens when the Japanese anime television series was broadcast on YTV here in Canada.  I had an excuse for watching it: a sister more than a decade my junior.  My siblings and I would flock to the living room and be like, "Oh no, not another kiddie show!" and secretly be thinking, "Yeah, I love Sailor Moon!"

My friends at school (and, yes, we're talking high school here) didn't have younger siblings. They didn't have any excuse, and they didn't feel they needed one. They loved Sailor Moon too, and they didn't care if it was a kids' show.

There was something about Sailor Moon that drew us in, drew everyone in.  Everybody related strongly with one character, no doubt because each Sailor Scout represents the astrological characteristics of their associated planet. 

While my youngest sister's generation could perform the role of their favourite Sailor Scouts on the playground, those of us approaching adulthood played them out in ways that were closer to real life. In a lot of ways, children's fantasy lives are more well-defined than those of adults. Our fantasies bleed into our everyday lives, sometimes to our detriment.

Sometimes not.

In my last year of high school, I had a friend (whose name escapes me--isn't that awful?) who was all about Sailor Neptune.  I'm not sure how we knew Sailor Neptune was a lesbian, and her girlfriend was Sailor Uranus, but we did. According to Wikipedia: "In the Canadian dub, her relationship with Sailor Uranus was redefined as being cousins."

But everybody knew what was really going on between them.

Granted, I did (still do) own VHS bootleg copies of TWO Sailor Moon movies, both of which escaped the dub. They're Japanese with English subtitles. Maybe that's where my inside information came from. Or maybe it was just that obvious.

Anyway, this friend whose name I can't remember identified so strongly with Sailor Neptune that she dyed her hair green. When I talk about fantasy bleeding into reality, that's where I'm coming from. Not that I'm one to talk. I dyed my hair orange because I was obsessed with Gillian Anderson. Pretty sure all those photographs have been burned.

One colour I didn't dye my hair was blue--despite being a die-hard fan of Sailor Mercury.

Ami was my girl. She loved school, just like me.  I wasn't anywhere near as sweet or kind as she was, though.  In fact, looking back, I think a love of studying is all we had in common.

If I re-watched the series today, Sailor Mercury might strike the same chord as an ex-lover.  I'm not sure I'd be gaga over her anymore, but she still holds a special place in my heart.

Before I started writing this blog post, I typed the following into Google:

What your favourite Sailor Scout says about you

There were a surprising number of recent and relevant results, but the one that jumped out at me was an article titled:

Your Inner Sailor Scout Based on Your Myers-Briggs Personality Type

How could I NOT click that? I mean, really!  It's got everything.

I happen to recall, from my one year as a psychology student at the University of Toronto, that I'm an INTJ.  So I scrolled down the page to see which Sailor Scout corresponds to the INTJ personality type.

INTJ – Sailor Uranus

A quiet assassin, you slash through life like a Space Sword through a block of PC-friendly cheese. You cherish your independence and have few friends – but those few friends are your life. You’ve never been easy to categorize, whether if it’s by your fashion sense, loyalty, or even your gender. You’ve never tried to shock people, but it just seems to happen naturally. You’re just too advanced for us mortal beings, who still can’t say your planetary name without giggling.

Oh my God, yes! This is me! Independent, inadvertently shocking and genderfucked. Makes me wish I were more familiar with this character.

Moreover, Sailor Uranus is the girlfriend of Sailor Neptune--the hero of my green-haired high school friend. Maybe if I'd been more in touch with Uranus (haha) in high school, I'd have hooked up with that girl.

Imagine how different my life would be. For starters, I'd probably remember her name.

If wishes were horses...

Flow My Tears

By Lisabet Sarai

I cry easily. In fact, it’s embarrassing how often I dissolve into teariness. Almost any strong emotion is enough to set me off.

Of course I cry from grief or sadness. The loss of a loved one or a pet—one of the all too frequent natural, or unnatural, disasters that wreaks havoc among the innocent—even a sad movie can make me cry. I remember being hit with fits of weeping for weeks after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami (which killed over 200,000 people). And I was holding back sobs at the end of The Wind Rises, Hayao Miyazaki’s exquisite animation about war, flight and love.

But anger also evokes my tears. I don’t yell or get violent when I’m really mad; I cry. An incident a few years ago comes to mind. There was a used bookstore I frequented, which would give you credit toward new purchases in exchange for books you’d read and returned to them. I had saved up about thirty bucks in credits and was gleefully looking forward to a buying spree. However, when I arrived at the shop, I discovered that the bookstore had been sold to new owners. The new management refused to honor my credit slips. I was furious. I argued with them for a while, to no avail. Finally I headed home, tears streaming down my cheeks as I walked along the sidewalk plotting how I’d trash them on social media. (I didn’t.) (However, I refuse to set foot in that bookstore ever again.)

Frustration is probably the most common reason I cry. When I can’t get some piece of software to work, or when my students continue to fail exams despite my devoting huge amounts of time to them, or when some recipe I spend hours preparing turns out to be inedible, I may well weep. In fact, I sometimes throw tantrums, much to my long-suffering husband’s distress. Stress from over-commitment and looming deadlines will also trigger a crying jag.

I really should act more mature. After all, I’m old enough to be a grandmother. On the other hand, I’d rather be the sort of person who expresses emotions freely than one who holds everything in. At least my crying fits these days, especially the less appropriate ones, tend to be short. For one thing, they really take it out of me physically. Ten minutes screaming, crying and railing against my fate will leave me exhausted and hoarse, with burning eyes and a runny nose.

As I sat down to write this post, I realized that unlike me, my characters rarely cry. That’s not for lack of tragedy or angst, either. Stella Xanathakeos in Exposure nearly dies in an arson attack that totally destroys the house she inherited from her father, her only asset. She responds not with tears but with emotional numbness that even love can’t dispel. Kyle McLaughlin in Necessary Madness is destitute, homeless and plagued with horrifying, prophetic visions of disasters. He tries to commit suicide, but he never sheds a tear. In Mastering Maya, the heroine is raped and betrayed by her master. To cope, she trains herself to be a Dominant, so detached and precise she earns the nickname “The Ice Queen”.

In fact, I can only think of one published scene in which a character succumbs to tears, in my erotic romance The Ingredients of Bliss. And Emily has a good excuse. Her lovers have been kidnapped by a brutal Hong Kong gang. The captors are threatening to kill the two men unless Emily can recover a load of narcotics stolen from the syndicate by another gangster—dope that has already been passed on to a buyer.

Emily’s not the sort of woman to sink into despair for very long, though.

It was barely two. Toni had promised to come fetch me at four-thirty. After the feverish activity of the last thirty-six hours, I wasn’t sure what to do in the interim.

I glanced around. At this hour, I was the café’s sole customer. One waiter hung out behind the bar, peering at his mobile and ignoring me.

All at once, I felt utterly alone.

Roger had called the Tastes of France team back to the States. No one knew how long it would be before Etienne and Harry were freed, and meanwhile, we didn’t want one of the crew to let the secret slip. If the police decided to take another look at the case, the Triad might respond by cutting their losses—and their prisoners’ throats.

We broadcast the official story that Etienne was in isolation due to complications from influenza. Apparently, the studio had been deluged with get well cards and messages of sympathy.

I’d stayed in France ‘out of concern for my colleague’, a tale that only confirmed the popular assumption that Etienne and I were a couple. Meanwhile, Harry was such a low key presence—at least outside the bedroom—that nobody even seemed to realize he’d disappeared.

Nobody but me, that is. I hadn’t had time think much about my Master since we’d spoken two days ago. Now it hit me, like a speeding train with failed brakes—sharp fear and terrible need. My beloved, rumpled, horny, bossy Harry! There was some possibility I’d never see him again. That he, or I, might not get out of this alive.

My stomach lurched and a sour taste filtered up into my throat. This wasn’t a game of Go. One false step and his life could be forfeit. I liked to imagine I was clever, some sort of woman of international intrigue, bargaining with the Iron Hammer as if I had the upper hand. But what did I have, really? Nothing. No drugs. No weapons. Nothing to offer in trade for Harry’s life. Nothing I could use to protect him.

Hysteria built in my chest. Tears blurred my vision. I had to get out of here. I tossed a twenty onto the table and ran for the elevator before the storm burst.

Back in my room, the floodgates opened. I sobbed and wailed, face down on the bed, until the pillow was soaked with tears. A fit of hiccups seized me. My moan became a silly yelp with each rhythmic clench of my diaphragm.

‘Get hold of yourself, girl.’ I could almost hear my grandmother, scolding me. ‘Crying won’t help.’

Closing my swollen eyes, I breathed deeply, trying to will the spasms away, along with my despair. I needed a clear mind for what was to come. Fear would only muddle my thoughts and corrupt my judgment. Gradually my panic ebbed. I released it, grateful for my Dragon training.

That’s it. The whole crying scene lasts four short paragraphs. It’s a bit weird.

Maybe my characters are changing, though. The Ingredients of Bliss is a rather recent novel. In my current WIP, The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, both main characters succumb to tears, albeit briefly. In this case, the stimulus is lost or thwarted love—a standard in romance. They may well cry again before the book is finished.

Which reminds me—to meet the publication deadline, I have to finish the manuscript in the next two weeks. With at least 15K to go, that feels impossible. I’ve got to get to work on it, right now. But I hate working under stress.

I think I feel a tantrum coming on...