Come Away With Me, a post by @GiselleRenarde

Thank you for reading my musings over the years. It has been a pleasure bringing my thoughts to you and I'm honoured you've taken time out of your days and nights to read my words.

Today's will be my final post here at The Grip.

Not because I'm done with writing.

Not because I'm done with blogging.

Not because I'm finished sharing my life with you.

I've been writing erotica professionally for nearly 14 years, and I'll continue to do so.  I hope you'll keep reading the words I put out into the world.

I've maintained my Donuts and Desires blog for well over a decade. I'll keep updating that site with new works as they emerge.

I celebrated 10 years on Twitter this September. You can still find me there most days.

In June, I started a daily music blog.  I've published over 200 posts there this year, and I plan to keep at it. Yes, that's right: I'm there every day. I hope you'll join me.

You can also support me on Patreon for access to weekly audio erotica: my stories, my voice.

I'm not going anywhere. I just won't be here. But you can still find me all over the internet.

Go to your local library's website and search the name Giselle Renarde.  See what pops up.

I tell you, I'm all over the map.

And if all else fails... subscribe to my newsletter?

Ariadne’s Diary: I’m in Love with my Teacher! A New #Lesbian #Erotica Novel from @GiselleRenarde

If you follow me on Twitter, you've heard me mention the "lesbian smut books" I've been writing.

This is the first in that series.

The series is called "The Lesbian Diaries" and it premieres with my novel "Ariadne's Diary."

I've written three "Lesbian Diaries" so far, and Ariadne's is by far the smuttiest. If you're looking for erotica with lots of sex scenes, this is it. The story's about an 18-year-old student who can't keep her panties on around her sexy teacher. Her brain turns to mush thanks to Ms. Bambini's magnificent breasts, which spells trouble for her grades. She might not even graduate--that's how dire her situation has become.

Luckily, Ms. Bambini is willing to help... in any and every way possible.

If you need a break from everything that's going on in the world, I hope you'll turn to my new book for a dose of escapism.

Enjoy this first-in-series. Every book will feature different characters and situations, but they will all be written in diary form.

Ariadne’s Diary
I’m in Love with my Teacher!
by Giselle Renarde
Series: The Lesbian Diaries
Book: 1

Ariadne is desperate for love, and she wants her teacher to give it to her.

Ms. Bambini’s about as buxom as they come. Just the sight of her in those silky white blouses and black leather skirts sends Ariadne’s brain to fantasy land. How can anyone be expected to concentrate with Ms. Bambini at the head of the class?

When Ariadne’s grades slip into the danger zone, Ms. Bambini offers up some most unusual tutoring sessions. Ariadne never imagined her life would head down such a torrid path, but will Ms. Bambini’s help become Ariadne’s downfall?

Lesbian fiction from award-winning queer Canadian author Giselle Renarde.

Buy Now from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/958701?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=vOOvDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XZJ9FBT?tag=dondes-20
BN: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1133609166?ean=2940163338610
...and many more ebook retailers!

Read at Radish: https://radish.app.link/0FAhbwlh6Z

The paperback should be available soon.

Apocalypse of the Self, a Post About #Queer #Identity and #Aging by @GiselleRenarde

When I was a teenager, older adults warned me that no matter how old you get, you always look into the mirror expecting to see your eighteen-year-old self.

My eighteen-year-old self isn't all I expect to see.

There are so many layers to the person I think of as ME.

Most salient is my queer identity.

I don't think I'd heard the word QUEER used in an empowering way to describe one's own sexuality until my final year of university. I'd been kicked out of a psycholinguistics course because I didn't have the prerequisites. The university notified me by post, except they sent the letter to my mother's address--and I didn't live there.

By the time I discovered I'd been kicked out of my class, it was too late to pick up another course.

I wouldn't be graduating with my cohort. I needed to take a summer course if I wanted to convocate in the fall.

To complicate matters, I'd already secured a full-time job. I would be working for the same company where I'd worked part-time throughout most of my university years.

So I needed an evening summer class to accommodate my new job.

I'd shied away from taking LGBT courses in university. I felt like taking those courses meant committing to an aspect of myself I wasn't fully ready to embrace at that stage. But when one of the only appealing evening courses during the summer happened to be an LGBT course, it sort of felt like the universe guiding me gently toward my identity.

Gently, but firmly.

During the course of that course (which changed names three times that summer--I have no idea what it ended up being called), I felt like I'd found my people, and found myself. Hearing the lecturers talk about queer identities was both enlightening and empowering.

I still shied away from calling myself queer, because I didn't feel "qualified." Which is stupid, but it's easy to feel that way--and it was even easier to feel that way back when I was in university. There's a ridiculous amount of gatekeeping that goes on in queer culture.

In time, I adopted my queer identities. Not only is my sexual identity QUEER, but my gender is, as well. Even before I'd embraced my genderqueer identity, I pushed back against the gender binary by dressing androgynously. Androgynous attire felt like a safety net, for me. That's how I showed the world I wasn't the person they wanted me to be.

Another aspect of identity I've clung to throughout my adult life has to do with living under the poverty line and setting myself apart from "rich people." I grew up in a "bad neighbourhood," and that's stayed with me even after 15 years of living in a "good neighbourhood."

A couple weeks ago, I was on my way to a volunteer shift. My work takes place in an office space where people dress well, and so I started dressing well when I went in. My co-workers don't need to know that my business attire came to me in a garbage bag from a clothes horse friend of the family, who generously unloads her old clothes on myself and my sisters. Every garbage bag is like Christmas, particularly because this girl's clothes fit us so perfectly.

Anyway, I was on my way to my volunteer shift this one day when I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window.

My reflection truly shocked me.

Not only was I no longer 18, but I didn't look poor, I didn't look queer (whatever that means), I didn't look androgynous--I didn't look the way I felt.

I looked like a yuppy.

I looked like the kind of person who goes to their office job and comes home to a husband and kids.

How do I know who I am if I look like someone I'm not?

The image I'm used to seeing in the mirror is a greasy-haired androgynous kid in dirty, ripped clothes. I'm used to being mistaken for homeless. Not anymore. I dress better than I used to when I leave the house. And, because my "nice" clothes are femme, that means I'm presenting femme more often than before.

Not just that, but I'm no longer in a relationship with a woman--a relationship that outwardly validated that, yes, I am queer.  Just look at who I'm dating!  She PROVES my queerness!

The partner I have now is a man, so anyone observing us as a couple would make the assumption that I'm straight.

My sexual identity isn't reliant upon the gender of my partner. I can be queer with a partner of any gender, or without any partner at all. Queer is who I am. However, when you look like you're cis and you look like you're straight and you look like you're financially secure, the world treats you a hell of a lot better than it does when you look homeless and queer.

So, if the world is suddenly a more hospitable place, why am I complaining?

I don't know. It just doesn't feel like me. It isn't me. I look like something I'm not. And I'm rattled by that.

The mirror doesn't reflect the me I see inside. But the truly troubling thing is that, aesthetically, what I see in the mirror... I actually kind of like it.

An #Audio Exclusive from @GiselleRenarde: GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE GIRLS #lesbian #erotica

If you love lesbian erotica, GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE GIRLS is the audio collection for you! It includes twenty erotic stories from award-winning author Giselle Renarde.

Giselle’s erotic fiction has appeared in nearly 200 anthologies, including prestigious collections like Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Lesbian Romance, and Best Women’s Erotica.

This steamy audio-anthology features first times, erotic fetishes, bondage, spankings, friends becoming lovers and much more!

GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE GIRLS
20 Lesbian Sex Stories
Written and Read by Giselle Renarde

That's 7 hours and 40 minutes of lesbian erotica!

Get it from Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details/Giselle_Renarde_Girls_Just_Wanna_Have_Girls?id=AQAAAECMtz_3oM&hl=en
Nook: https://www.nookaudiobooks.com/audiobook/251202/girls-just-wanna-have-girls
Audiobooks.com: https://www.audiobooks.com/audiobook/girls-just-wanna-have-girls-20-lesbian-sex-stories/356820
Scribd: https://www.scribd.com/audiobook/389993061/Girls-Just-Wanna-Have-Girls-20-Lesbian-Sex-Stories
...and many other retailers and subscription services!

If you can't get enough audio erotica, become my patron for erotic stories every Friday, written and narrated by me, Giselle Renarde!

The Mind That Cried Storm, a post by @GiselleRenarde

Thunder and lightning woke me at five, this morning. Fireballs in the sky, crashes of sound and energy that reverberated through my bed. Storms are phenomenal, when they're happening outside your own mind.

Inside? That's another story.

I had a few bad months, mentally and emotionally. Well, more than a few bad months. But I had a few REALLY bad months. Depression and anxiety teamed up to poison my mind with all kinds of inaccurate thoughts. I kept imagining scenarios where everything went wrong, and reacting to them as though they were real. They weren't real. My mind created them out of nothing. My thoughts were not reality-based, and yet I responded to them as though they were.

One day I cried for 8 hours straight. I kind of reached my breaking point.

A friend of mine, who happens to be a doctor, recommended a workbook called Mind Over Mood to help me implement cognitive behavioural therapy techniques. It was exactly what I needed, because it teaches you to look at those thoughts, to examine them for accuracy, to determine whether real-life evidence supports them.

In most cases, for me, the anxiety thoughts had almost zero basis in reality.

While I was doing my worksheets, I didn't feel like they were helping me. I still felt anxious, I still felt insecure and unsettled. But the act of observing obviously changed me, over time, because these past few weeks should have been killer, and I've gotten through them with considerably more ease than anticipated.

I have my mother to thank, in large part. She doesn't know the meaning of the word "anxiety." Her philosophy is that she'll deal with stuff as it happens. No sense worrying about things that may never come to pass.

My mother's had a series of medical appointments throughout the spring and summer, culminating in a biopsy for which my siblings and I nervously awaited results. My mom wasn't nervous, though. "What's the point in being nervous? I'll just waste all this time when I could be doing other things. When I find out what's going on, then the doctors will tell us what to do."

We got the results last week. My mom has cancer. It always takes a while for these things to sink in, for me. I don't know whether I'm still in that numb stage, or whether Mind Over Mood truly did prepare me for this. Or maybe my mother prepared me by setting an example of not worrying. It isn't put on, with her. She is a truly happy-go-lucky person. She trusts her doctor. She trusts that the chemo and other therapies will do their job, and she'll be just fine by this time next year.

I hope she's right, but, more than that, I trust that she's right. Part of this is intuition. I woke up the morning of her appointment thinking, "It'll be cancer, but it'll be fine." It's just hard to trust intuition when its cousin, anxiety, has so often led me astray.

If you want more from me, consider following my music and anecdote site, A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day. I really do post there every day, and it pleases me so much to get visitors.

#NewRelease #Audiobook! SECRET CONFESSIONS: 36 #Erotic Encounters by @GiselleRenarde

No naughty encounter is ever complete until you tell somebody about it. And who doesn’t feel a tingle while reading a naughty story and wondering, “Is this true? Did that really happen?”

There’s one quality that unifies all confession-style erotic stories, no matter how sweet or how kinky: they’re all written in the first person. (I did this, I did that.) For that reason, when reading these stories, we’re particularly inclined to wonder if these stories are true. The author is writing as though they were (I ate her pussy, I sucked his cock), so why wouldn’t we believe it?

One of the best things about confession erotica is its unique capability to allow readers to suspend disbelief. When we hear these stories, we trust that we’re being told the truth. Even if we try to be rationally and consciously skeptical, we still believe, and there’s a bit of magic in that.

So, now I’m sure you’re wondering about the confessions in this collection. Are they true? Are they fiction? The answer is yes. Some stories are entirely fictional, pure fantasy. Others draw on real events, but aren’t entirely accurate. Of course, names have been changed, to protect the “innocent” parties.

Some stories are true, some are false, some are somewhere in between. Does it spoil the fun that I’ve made this confession? I don’t think so. I still haven’t told you which are which.

Listen to SECRET CONFESSIONS, narrated by me--Giselle Renarde! Look for it at Audible or wherever you normally get your audiobooks!

The Magician and Me #Tarot #Writing by @GiselleRenarde

Universal Waite deck © U.S. Games Systems, Inc.

I'm coming home to things I loved as a teenager. Tarot is one of those things.

When I can't sleep, I listen to tarot podcasts. One night, I listened to a podcast about calculating your birth card. I knew about significators--cards you use to signify yourself or other people--but I'd always used the card associated with my astrological sign as mine.

My birth card (Major Arcana card you get to by adding down your birth date, month and year until you have a number that's less than ten) turned out to be... The Magician.

I wasn't feeling particularly magical when I made this discovery. This past year has been full of grief, depression, anxiety, and plenty of other deep feelings. I've been in midlife crisis mode, big-time. I've made sweeping changes and questionable choices.

Where work is concerned, I wondered: "What is the point?" My books are still selling, but only the old ones. When I write something new, I can't seem to convince more than 3 people to buy a copy.  It's disheartening, it really is.

Life felt like something that was happening to me, not something I was actively engaged in. When I was numb, I didn't care whether I lived or died. When my feelings came back, I had too many all at once. Too many emotions, too strong. What's preferable? Feeling too much or feeling dead inside?

When I realized The Magician was my birth card, it opened up something inside me. Couldn't have come at a better time, because I was really starting to feel like I had no control over my life. Huge choices and life events all seemed to be in other people's hands, and I felt like I was just waiting for others to make a move so my life could finally begin.

The Magician doesn't wait around. The Magician makes things happen. He is me. I can manifest my will here on earth! I can do it!

One of the tarot podcasters I listen to and love is constantly saying that nothing's fixed in stone--if you don't like the direction your life is going, you can change it. For some reason, that had never occurred to me. I felt like I just had to wait around until something happened, and hope it was something good.

The Magician card convinced me that I have a part to play in my own life. I don't have to feel like everyone else is running the show (though, realistically, I still do, most of the time). I have the option of making choices and acting on those choices. I can choose which direction I want my life to go.

Even that much is progress. A few months ago, I felt like I had no life left in me.

July #Smashwords #Sale #Erotica Freebies from @GiselleRenarde

It's July, and that means it's Smashwords Sale month!

Pretty much my entire catalogue is 50% off this month, and a lot of my erotica shorts are available for FREE!  Collect them all!

Here are some free ebooks now!

And Kimi Makes Three: Lesbian Threesome Erotica
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/945948?tag=GiselleRenardeErotica

Not Funny: Playful BDSM Erotica
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/944091?tag=GiselleRenardeErotica

Artists' Wives: Lesbian Stranger Sex Erotica
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/943801?tag=GiselleRenardeErotica

The Psychic Harem: Lesbian Group Sex Erotica
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/941314?tag=GiselleRenardeErotica

Wife Sandwich: Older Man, Younger Woman, Older Woman Threesome Erotica
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/907660?tag=GiselleRenardeErotica

Country Roads: Lesbian Erotica
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/833738?tag=GiselleRenardeErotica

There's more where those come from. For freebies and sale items, check out my catalogue at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/GiselleRenardeErotica/authors#published

Music Lovers are Going to Love my New Project!

A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day with Giselle Renarde

In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm a pretty isolated person. I'm working on being less isolated, but it's not easy--especially when you live alone and work from home. I've never been great at making friends, and it's only getting harder as the years go by.

Lots of social agencies organize friendly visits for isolated seniors, but I'm hearing that younger people are living increasingly isolated lives. There isn't really anything out there for us--at least, not that I'm aware of.  

That's why I wanted to start... something.  I didn't know what, at first.

I wanted to start a new project that involved reaching out to other humans. I wanted to do something for my own benefit as well as the benefit of others. And I knew it had to be a daily something. When I'm experiencing a bad depressive episode, I need something to look forward to every single day. 

But I also knew I shouldn't overcommit. Creating original content every day of the year for goodness knows how long could cause big-time burnout, and who would that help? 

A couple weeks ago, I was tweeting about the song that was stuck in my head when I realized how often I find myself doing just that. I love music and I have lots of associations with the songs I like, and I could pretty much talk about them endlessly.

That's when it hit me: A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day. It combines the concept of a friendly visitor with MUSIC, and it's accessible to anyone with an internet connection. 

I just launched my new site this week, and part of me worried I'd get like 3 hits and be super-bummed  (that's what usually happens when I try something new), but the response has been great and I'm only 4 days in. 

If you love music or you're socially isolated (or both) or you just like reading what I have to say about anything that pops into my head, you are definitely going to enjoy A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

Check out the site.  At the top of the page, you'll see a little SUBSCRIBE button. Hit that and Google will email you every day after my new post goes up. The one annoying thing is that I embed YouTube videos in all my posts and those don't seem to get emailed, so you'll still have to click through to the website in order to actually listen to the song of the day, but at least if you're subscribed you'll get that reminder every day to check it out.

I'm really excited about this new project. It has lifted my mood tremendously. If you know anyone who's feeling low these days, or who needs a little internet visit on the daily, please tell them about A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

I hope you'll join me as I share music and memories!
Giselle

https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com

30 Days Hath April. Read #Erotica #FlashFiction Every Day!

Got a minute? Read a quickie!

Erotica Every Day includes thirty works of flash fiction by award-winning author Giselle Renarde—that’s one for every day of the month, if you can wait that long to read them. Once you start, you might never want to stop! You’ll get a delicious taste of fetish fiction featuring heels, panties, balloons, human furniture, public nudity and stranger sex. Enjoy stories about bondage and wife watching, food play and foot worship, brilliant sunshine and delightful darkness.

There’s a little something for everyone in this collection, so get ready for a frenzy of flashers!

You can get this great little anthology as an ebook from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/890972?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GR4R6JW?tag=dondes-20
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=p39qDwAAQBAJ

Or in Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1725995883?tag=dondes-20
Or Large Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1726050483?tag=dondes-20

If audio is more your style, get the audiobook from Audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/B07GVS6CLV/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-126320&ref=acx_bty_BK_ACX0_126320_rh_us
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details/Giselle_Renarde_Erotica_Every_Day?id=AQAAAECMHRFdjM
Nook: https://www.nookaudiobooks.com/audiobook/245280/erotica-every-day
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/audiobook/erotica-every-day

Too Close for Comfort #TrueStory #Adultery #Erotica

 

A post by Giselle Renarde.

Lately, I've been devoting a lot of my time to creating audio versions of my books.

Until this fall, when I bought myself a tablet (which I refer to as my "tip calculator" because I have no idea how to use it), I would record audio by reading from hard copies of my works.

But there's one book, in particular, that kept getting pushed aside.

I'd pick it up. I'd look at the table of contents. I'd flip to a story of particular interest and I'd read a paragraph or two. My words--words I wrote more than a decade ago--hit me in the heart. Like a punch.

They're too real. They're too true. I can't say these words out loud.

The book I'm talking about is Audrey and Lawrence, my collection of short stories inspired by the relationship I had with a married man. The stories aren't true--not strictly speaking. Well, some come pretty close, but most are completely made up.

The emotions expressed in those stories? The emotions are true. They're probably truer than anything else I've written. That book is my heart on the page. I can't get away from that. How can I tell those stories out loud? How can I say the words all these years later?

Audrey is not the most flattering depiction of me, but it is an honest portrayal. I hope I'm not so much like her now. I hope I'm a little less needy and a lot less jealous. I'd like to think that's the case. But reading those stories reminds me of my faults--of my character flaws and my missteps.

A lot of people from the romance world hate me because I write about adultery. And not just readers--authors too! I understand that they're not fond of cheating, but I'm not a romantic. Nothing I write is really romance. You aren't safe with my work. It's not safe. I'm not safe.

My reputation precedes me, and not just online. One time I was hired for a job only to discover that my boss went to school with my ex. I guess he did a little digging, asked around a bit, and discovered my true colours. After that, he started warning all the married men in his employ to steer clear of me.

I was a bad girl. I couldn't be trusted.

It was really such a shame, you know. I loved that job.

Anyway, here I am, many years later, wondering if this post is starting to sound like a cautionary tale. It's not. At least, it wasn't intended that way.

I just started re-reading Tristan Taormino's Opening Up and, as much as I now strive to live my life with honesty and integrity, I understand why people lie. I understand why people cheat. I've lived that life. Honesty is easier and even less hurtful, in the long run, but we cheat out of fear. Fear of loss. Fear of hurting those we love. Fear of admitting what it means when we love more than one person. Fear of opening up.

What fear is holding me back? Why can't I bring myself to create the audio version of Audrey and Lawrence? After all this time, why can't I say the words out loud?

Am I too scared to tap in to my inner Audrey? Am I too scared that she's still me?

Pie Girls and the Very Lonely Man ~ New #Bisexual #Erotica from @GiselleRenarde

When Butler meets a retro rockabilly pie shop owner, the last thing he expects is that she’ll try to seduce him. No, scratch that. The last thing he expects is for the pie girl’s wife to walk in on them! When the pie girls invite him to stay at their house, a visit to a lonely small town grows into the kind of adventure Butler wouldn’t have dreamed up in his wildest fantasies. Can a lonely man live in a dream?

PIE GIRLS AND THE VERY LONELY MAN is new bisexual fiction from award-winning queer Canadian author Giselle Renarde.

Available now from your favourite ebook retailers, including Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/920415?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=l3-FDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07N7BJ8PL?tag=dondes-20
BN: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/pie-girls-and-the-very-lonely-man-giselle-renarde/1130417118
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/pie-girls-and-the-very-lonely-man

Let me tease you with an excerpt:

Who was this girl?

She lifted her skirt and grabbed his hand. He couldn’t see what was going on down there, only feel. And what did he feel? Fishnet stockings. No panties. A smoothly shaven pussy. God Almighty! A slick, wet slit. Did she just walk around like that all day long? Wet and ready?

Or was she turned on by him? Was this all for him?

No. Of course not. He was nothing special. Tracey had told him so when she ended their six-year relationship.

Six years. He hadn’t touched any woman but Tracey in six long years.

Not that they felt long. No, they went by in an instant.

And now they were gone.

She was gone.

But Lindy was here. Lindy, who seemed so warm and compassionate. Everything Tracey wasn’t. Other than bold. Boldness was a quality they shared. Tracey had made the first move, too. They’d have never gotten together otherwise. He’d have never had the courage to hit on someone like Tracey. Dark hair. Model thin. Firm breasts. Long legs.

She always seemed to come so hard. Had she been faking all those times? Was she really so impressed by his sexual prowess?

Well, Lindy sure seemed to be, and he’d barely gotten started. All he’d done so far was rub her juicy clit through those wicked fishnet stockings, and already she was tearing at his fly.

“Put it in me,” she begged. “God, it’s been forever.”

Hard to believe a girl like this, who was willing to get it on with a stranger, was capable of going through a dry patch. You’d think she’d just go up to the nearest guy, remove his dick from his pants, and place it commandingly inside her.

That’s what she seemed intent on doing with Butler.

Except wait—what was that? A noise out front. A key in the lock.

Lindy froze, then backed away.

Butler’s mind went straight to the money pouch she’d left on the counter. “What’s happening?” he panted. “A break-in?”

“Worse,” Lindy said. “It’s my wife.”


Here are those links again so you can buy a copy!
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/920415?ref=GiselleRenardeEroticaGoogle Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=l3-FDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07N7BJ8PL?tag=dondes-20
BN: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/pie-girls-and-the-very-lonely-man-giselle-renarde/1130417118
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/pie-girls-and-the-very-lonely-man

"Giselle has lots of sex and then writes books about it!" @GiselleRenarde

by Giselle Renarde

I spent the day with my grandmother. She's back in hospital, unfortunately, and she's been so badly delirious that the nurses have been dosing her with anti-psychotics.

But today she was pretty much back to the good old grandma you know and love. Her hearing is really bad, so when one nurse told her "I'll check on you later," my grandma shouted "You'll sext me for lunch???"

She should go into comedy, I swear.

In an obvious attempt to embarrass me, she said to another nurse: "Giselle has lots of sex and then writes books about it!"

Yup. My grandma said that.

I made no comment, but what I was thinking was... I wouldn't say I have "lots" of sex. Though, I must say, the sex I do have is pretty damn noteworthy. That's why I do incorporate it into my fiction. Some of my fiction. Not all. And mainly just short stories.

In fact, I don't think I've ever written an entire novel based on sex I've actually had. I could be wrong. I've written a lot of books, at this point. But when it comes to novels, the sex I write is generally fictitious in the extreme.

Since this fortnight's topic is Anonymous, I would be remiss not to mention a book I wrote called... "Anonymous." Especially when you take into account the fact that the audiobook just came out two days ago.

If ever there was a book about sex I haven't had, it's this one.

I wrote "Anonymous" years ago in response to a demand for MMF menage erotica. It's about a husband who wants to suck another man's cock, and a wife who wants to watch him do it. The husband's got his eye on a waiter at the bistro down the street, but the wife thinks the only way to go is to hire someone anonymous. No strings. No names. Just sex.

It's a "careful what you wish for" situation, big-time, because once they've gone through with the big date, the wife becomes obsessed with discovering "Mr. Anonymous"'s true identity.

She thought she knew what she wanted, but she didn't. Isn't that always the way?

Recording the audio version of this novel was an all-round awful experience. I love doing audio narration. It's fun, it lets me put my acting chops to good use, and it's a great way to focus my mind when I'm having a bad time with my mental health. But I have a short attention span in all things, and this book took me more than two months to record. Plus, in the middle of recording, I got strep and I blame the gravelly voice I was trying to pull off for the husband character.

There's this trend in my life where things that feel easy end up being highly beneficial (financially and otherwise), but anything that's hard and/or takes a long time falls flat on its face. It happens every time.

That doesn't bode well for this audiobook.

It took a long time to create. I worked hard on it. It made me physically ill. You're taught that hard work pays off, but that's never been the case for me. Easy work pays off. Hard work ends up being a huge waste of time.

So why work hard?

Good question. I guess I must figure one of these days a project will come along that'll break all the rules. I'll work hard, put years of my life into some book, and lots of people will read it and enjoy it.

Anything's possible. But my hopes aren't high.

In the meantime, feel free to use your Audible credit to listen to the book that made me physically ill. You can also buy a copy... well, pretty much anywhere you can buy digital audiobooks. If you're a member of other audio subscription services, you can check and see if they've got Anonymous. My distributor's busy getting it out into the world, but sometimes it takes a little while.

I've also released my Eugene Onegin adaptation, TRAGIC COOLNESS, as an ebook and in print. I haven't even begun to promote it because I've been so busy with family and other stuff, but it took me two years to write, so it's bound to fail no matter what I do!

(I keep hearing authors say that they're cutting negative people out of their lives, and I'm kind of like... oh, so that's where everyone went... heh)

Closing the Door on The Superfluous Man: Eugene Onegin, a post by @GiselleRenarde.

I’m proofreading and I’m obsessed. Obsessed with turning this book I wrote into the best piece of writing it can possibly be. Because, you see, this book of mine has been years in the making.

It’s a contemporary adaptation of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, a tale I’ve been into since I was a teenager. That’s when I first heard Tchaikovsky’s operatic version on the radio. Instantly, it became my favourite opera. And it still is. The Canadian Opera Company is mounting a production this fall—a Met production I’ve seen twice on TV and once live… with obstructed view, granted—and I’m going to have to scrounge up a ticket somehow. Just one. I WILL go to the opera alone. I’ve done it before.

Tchaikovsky didn’t even refer to this opera as an opera. I think he called it “lyrical scenes” or something. Which is just as well, considering the work it was based on was a verse novel rather than prose. The whole thing rhymes.

I’ll admit something shameful, here: it’s been 20 years since I read the original Pushkin (in English, not in Russian—I’m not that impressive). When I wrote my adaptation, I shaped it by basically laying my words over the structure of the opera. I had the libretto open beside my computer and I even went line by line, at times, creating this new version. Mine does diverge from the original in many ways, but not in form. When it comes to structure, I need all the help I can get. It’s always been my weak point, so I’m not afraid to steal from opera.

Maybe I should tell you what Eugene Onegin is all about. I think of the story as being popular because I’m aware of it, but I also woke up this morning with a song in my head from a 1992 episode of Jeeves and Wooster because I’ve watched it 6 times this week. This might be niche knowledge. I just don’t know anymore.

The best summary I’ve heard of Pushkin’s story comes from the introduction to the 1979 translation by Charles Johnston and it goes like this: “Tatyana falls in love with Onegin and nothing comes of it. Then he falls in love with her and nothing comes of it. End of novel.”

Sounds like quite a romp, doesn’t it?

But it’s full of angst, and that’s probably why I loved this story as a teenager. I believe it was Turgenev who referred to the character of Eugene Onegin (and those of his ilk) as The Superfluous Man. He’s got money, but it doesn’t make him happy. Everything bores him. He seeks amusement in travel, in gambling, in women, but nothing floats his boat.

Tatyana is a much less cynical individual, but something attracts her to Onegin. She’s infatuated, pretty much in an instant.

I just realized I’m spoiler-ing this story for those of you who aren’t familiar with it. So I guess you could stop reading now, and pick up a copy of Pushkin’s novel… or, better yet, wait for my book to come out and buy that.

But I’m going to continue with my spoiler-y post, because this book was written nearly 200 years ago, so I’d say ample time has passed.

Anyway, Tatyana proclaims her love for Onegin in her famous letter scene, but he rejects her. Hard. He’s a condescending jerk about it.

Years pass. Tatyana marries a prince. When the Fates conspire to put her in the same room with Onegin once more, he decides it’s a good time to return her love. Now he’s infatuated and she’s decidedly not. Also, she’s a princess. Eugene, dude, all the ennui in the world can’t compete with that.

“Tatyana falls in love with Onegin and nothing comes of it. Then he falls in love with her and nothing comes of it. End of novel.”

So that’s that. Interest lies in these characters’ emotional experiences.

I began my adaptation of this work a couple years ago during NaNoWriMo, but I did something weird with it—something I’ve never done with any other book. I wrote my entire first draft as dialogue with the odd stage direction thrown in. I guess I did it that way because I was working from an opera, but also because the contemporary characters existed so strongly in my mind that I was just recording their conversations.

It took me years to come back to my first draft and fill in prose where it was practically non-existent. I wouldn’t recommend this process. Or would I? I’ve got to admit, the dialogue is very snappy, and I think it came out that way because I wasn’t stopping my characters’ conversations while I filled in dialogue tags and descriptions. I just let them run wild.

That said, writing the second draft was a considerable slog. I felt like I’d already written this book and why did I have to write it all over again?

As much as I enjoy this little book of mine, I’ll be glad to close the door on it, and the reason for that is a personal one. Nabokov said, of Onegin, “those most anxious to read a moral into the poem are apt to impose on it not only their own interpretation but even their own version of its events.” I’ve gone so far as to write my own version and, as I look back on the adaptation I’ve created, I can’t help thinking how strongly it reflects one aspect of my life.

I don’t need to go into detail about the man I was once in a “relationship” with. The married man who was my teacher, whose mistress I became. You’re sick of hearing about him and I’m sick of reflecting on that time in my life. I’m ready to close the door on that, too.

Well, I can’t help thinking how much I was like Tatyana, in my younger days. Wanting not only his attention and affection, but wanting more. Wanting a real life together which, thankfully, I wasn’t granted.

Ten years went by. I didn’t marry a prince, but I would make a terrible princess anyway. Plus, I’ve got my girlfriend. I’m happy with her. I don’t want my ex back. At. All.

So when he started sending me all these pleading emails recently, it grossed me out. Big time. Especially the one where he actually wrote the words “You are my bucket list.” Eww. Who wants to be called a bucket list? I shudder.

I asked my girlfriend what to do about this grossness. She agreed that responding was not the answer, since he would take any response as an open door to further communication. She said, “Why don’t you block his email address?” and I was like, “You can do that?!?!” I had no idea. That’s me and technology for you.

So I did it. Immediately. I closed the door on him. I blocked him out of my life for good, and I can’t begin to tell you how empowering that felt. I’m sure you can hear it in my voice. I was so done.

John Bayley, in his introduction to Pushkin’s work, points out that “Eugene Onegin not only tells its own story to the reader but tells a story which feeds the reader’s own particular needs.”

Onegin wants Tatyana back, but nothing’s going to come of it.

She’s closed the door on him.

End of novel.

UPDATE: My Onegin adaptation is now available and it's called TRAGIC COOLNESS. Buy it now! Or ask your local library to acquire a copy. Read it now!
TRAGIC COOLNESS is available from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/901726?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07JHW2Q2V?tag=dondes-20
Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=NNpyDwAAQBAJ
BN: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/tragic-coolness-giselle-renarde/1129759465
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/tragic-coolness
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1439408697

The Flood, a post about grief by @GiselleRenarde

I used to be an art snob. I never bought prints. Money’s a little tighter now than it was when I had a “real” job, so I can’t always afford to buy original pieces anymore. I still want to support artists, especially young ones and those just starting out, regardless of age. That’s why I don’t mind so much, buying a print.

Last month, I bought one that gripped my heart: it’s an image of a girl, a giant girl. She’s crying so hard that she’s flooded the streets. You can only see the tops of cars. That’s how many tears she’s shed. She’s drowning out vehicles.

The night before my cousin’s funeral, I flipped on the local news. Their breaking story was weather-related. A severe localized rainstorm had caused flooding in the downtown core. They had footage of cars stuck in underpasses. You could only see the roofs. The weather guy kept saying it reminded him of footage you see from other countries, not from here. We don’t get this kind of flooding in Canada.

Except we do, because we did.

It stopped raining during the night, but started up again the next morning. By the time I left my apartment for the visitation, which would precede my cousin’s funeral, the rain was hammering down. As I waited for my second of three buses, it started coming through my umbrella and dripping on my clothes. A lane blocked off for construction had flooded entirely. Rain water washed over the sidewalk.

My mother had phoned me before I left the house. She wanted to make sure I was out of bed. I don’t usually wake up in the morning. I work late, sometimes until 5 AM, and then sleep until noon. But I was up and dressed and ready to go. She said, “Bring an umbrella,” and I said, “I’m wearing my galoshes—the fancy European ones we found at that outlet store.” We’re bargain shoppers. It runs in the family. But she called me back the second she’d hung up and said, “Bring a change of shoes. It’s more… proper.”

When I arrived at the cemetery, there was a huge puddle blocking the entrance. I couldn’t tell how deep it was, and, anyway, I was lost in thought. The third of my bus drivers looked strikingly like my cousin. And he was nice to me. He was very sweet and kind. That’s what I was thinking about as I began wading through the lake that came up almost to my knees. Some Australian guy was astonished that I would put my boots through such trauma. But they’re galoshes. You can put them through anything. They only look fancy. They’re deceptive that way.

Indoors, staff at the funeral home was going nuts with the wet-dry vac. The building had flooded overnight. Of course it had. Of course.

The first mourner I saw was a woman I didn’t recognize. She was sobbing so hard two men were holding her upright. I’d never seen someone cry like that in public. I wasn’t even sure, at first, if we were there for the same funeral. It turns out we were, and that she’s my cousin’s cousin on his father’s side (so, my uncle’s niece). This was the woman who’d lost her own mother (my uncle’s sister) to pancreatic cancer a couple months ago. She’d taken her family on vacation to try to give her kids a sense of normalcy, and so my aunt and uncle decided not to call her to tell her about their son’s untimely death.

This sobbing woman only found out our cousin had died when she arrived back home—the night before the funeral.

No wonder she was such a mess. She just lost her mother. She just found out she’d lost a cousin.

Usually, I know in advance how a funeral’s going to feel: I’ll sit there, listening to happy stories from the life of the deceased, feeling strangled by tears and yet struggling not to cry.

From the moment I walked into our lovely funeral room, I knew this one would be different. My cousin was laid out in the steel casket his sister had chosen for him, but that isn’t what set me off. It was the picture boards, the photographs of my cousin as a little boy. When I knew him well. When he and my brother were like brothers. When they egged each other on into mischief. When my cousin shoved a slice of birthday cake down our heating vent and it took us weeks to figure out what smelled funny.

I used to be one of those people who never cried in public. My Grade 9 French teacher told my mother, “There’s steel in that girl,” and there was, back then. It’s liquid now. I’m more fluid than I used to be, in many respects. I didn’t feel awkward crying.

My brother hadn’t told me he was asked to be a pall-bearer. If you want someone who feels emotions very deeply, it’s my brother. I cried for him, because I can’t even begin to imagine how hard that was, for someone who already lives inside a well of sadness.

The funeral was family-only. My cousin’s parents and sister, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandmother. Nobody else. When I first arrived, my cousin’s sister hugged me and said, “I’m so glad you’ve come. I was afraid no one would be here. I thought we’d have a funeral for nobody.” There was no death notice in the paper. The service wasn’t even listed on the funeral home’s online roster.

But it led to the most honest funeral I’ve ever been to. The minister didn’t go on and on about my cousin’s good works. Part of me hoped he would. Something good. Something to latch on to. Instead, he focused on us, the grieving. The service wasn’t for my cousin. It was for us. The minister assured us there was nothing more we could have done. Perhaps his death was accidental. Perhaps it was suicide, the culmination of years spent struggling with depression. We’ll never know for sure.

Whatever the root cause, the minister said we should not blame ourselves, but rather turn to each other for support. Sure the funeral was family-only, but when you looked around that room, you realized this is a big family. We’re a lot of people. We can lean on each other and not fall down, like the lady I saw sobbing before the service. She had two family members by her side to hold her up.

Last night, I dreamed about the neighbourhood I lived in 15 years ago, down by the lake. In my dreams, the landscape is always different from reality, but I recognize it from other dreams. Last night, my dreamscape was flooded. In my dream, I was taking my cats for a walk, goodness knows why, and I didn’t have them on a leash. I kept having to pull them out of the deep water and hold them in my arms. It wasn’t easy. You know what cats are like. They squirm and try to escape.

As I walked along, I passed through a café, and my family was there. My aunt and uncle, the ones who just lost their son, were pushing a baby carriage. They were smiling and healthy, the way they looked thirty years ago. I was about to walk on by when my aunt stopped me. They had a little girl with them, a toddler, and my aunt asked me if the girl could pet my cats.

“This one’ll swat at you,” I said to the child, “but don’t worry—she has no claws. She can’t hurt you, even if she tries.”

Lhasa De Sela -- "I'm Going In"

Race, Gender, BDSM, and Office Politics

by Annabeth Leong

As usual, what I’m reading is an odd hodgepodge of things that have struck my recent fancy. Like Giselle, I’ve read some books that weren’t good but pulled me in for mysterious reasons. I don’t like to post publicly about stuff I don’t like, though, so I’ll give you a selection of stuff I’d recommend.

Delusions of Gender: the Real Science Behind Sex Differences
By Cordelia Fine

This is the sort of book that makes me want to buy extra copies and carry them around in my purse so that the next time I run into someone who wants to talk to me about how evolutionary psychology explains why women prefer to be “traditionally feminine” and do all the housework, I can just shove the book into their hands and make a quick escape. It is the sort of book that makes you irritate all your family and friends because you’re constantly trying to read things from it out loud to them. It is the sort of book that puts the world into shocking, clear perspective.

This book methodically, meticulously debunks junk science around supposedly inborn gender differences, but it also offers no easy answers for what gender is. Think of this more as a deconstruction, as an expose of how pervasively we are steered toward “proper” gendered behavior.

Lately, I’ve been exploding my brain by thinking a lot about gender, and this book was a valuable addition to that process. My only complaint is that it doesn’t go much into trans and genderqueer experience, which I think could really shed light on questions about what gender is, what it is to be “masculine” or “feminine,” and so on.

Like Twin Stars: Bisexual Erotic Stories
Edited by Cecilia Tan and Kelly Clark

This is really short, but it’s a real treat. It has an early story by N.K. Jemisin, who’s one of the most interesting speculative fiction writers working today. It also has a story by our own Giselle! I didn’t recognize the name of the third writer, Neil Hudson, but his story, which poignantly portrays the agony of a bisexual person who is asked to “choose” is quite moving as well.

I was impressed by how well Circlet’s commitment to speculative erotic fiction served the book’s theme. In Jemisin’s story, for example, the invented fantasy culture provides a positive, supportive space for the main character’s bisexuality that I have never experienced for myself in this world.

I was a bit sad that this book didn’t include any female viewpoint characters. I would have liked reading about some bisexual women. Maybe that’s an excuse for a sequel.

The Room
By Jonas Karlsson

I feel like I am always looking for this sort of book, but rarely find it. It is weird and fascinating, a fast read that stay with you, deceptively simple, strange but still satisfying at the end. The narrator of this book is an unlikeable jerk, and yet I want to know what he has to say.

The plot hinges around a mysterious room that the narrator finds in the office where he works. The room represents beauty, order, and tradition. It’s the only place he can concentrate, and he produces incredible work when he goes in there. The room also seems like it doesn’t exist.

I read this with urgency, though I don’t directly relate to it. I love its spare, clean style. I love the way the reader’s perception of the narrator shifts as the book progresses. I want to know who Jonas Karlsson is (a famous Swedish actor, apparently) and how he came up with this.

The Marketplace
By Laura Antoniou

I’ve met Laura Antoniou at a number of events, and have heard her read (she is hilarious!). The Killer Wore Leather is one of my favorite books ever. So I’ve felt weird for a while that I’d never read The Marketplace, which is definitely the work she’s best known for.

I had reasons for not reading it. Over the years, I’ve started to get weird feelings about power exchange. I like SM, but a lot of dominance and submission makes me uncomfortable. Master/slave relationships particularly bring up a lot of issues. The idea of a series all about BDSM all in the context of consensual slavery did not really appeal to me.

Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve now read The Marketplace, and I thought it was just as incredible as I’d always heard. Reading it was a delightful experience, and it was interesting to think about exactly how Antoniou managed that.

First and foremost, in my mind, is that her story is compelling and fascinating. I’ve been thinking a lot about what erotica would look like if we could get it back from always being coupled with romance. The Marketplace offers one very cool possibility. I would describe it as a classic school story, along the lines of Harry Potter. People have to make it through a training process, and the narrative is compelling because the reader is wondering who will succeed and who will fail, and how.

Because the story was so compelling, I never even cared whether the sex was arousing. (Though it often was.) Every sex scene was integral to the plot, entertaining on many axes, arousal being only one of them.

One of the main things I loved about this book was that it was so consistently funny. At other times, however, it brought me to tears.

Also, the characters! Each person is so distinct and well drawn that I think Antoniou could teach a master class in writing, for example, dialogue specific to individuals.

The book was long and took me a while, and I’m resistant to series. Still, I think I’ll eventually get through this one, even though Antoniou seems to be making each book longer as the series goes on. I’m taking a bit of a break, but I expect to dive into the next book, The Slave, within the next couple of months. If the books continue to be this good, I’ll even feel relief that there’s so much more to come.

Black Man in a White Coat: a Doctor’s Reflections on Race and Medicine
By Damon Tweedy

I picked this up expecting a straight memoir, but got something much more interesting. Dr. Tweedy does talk about his own life, but he is the sort of person who takes his experiences into larger philosophical and societal explorations. So a chapter about his experiences treating patients with HIV becomes a chapter that also investigates how stigma around HIV may be encouraging its spread, and a chapter that explores racial disparities in HIV detection and treatment at the societal level.

The voice of the book is so humane and ethical at all times that it gave me a new respect for the medical profession. I can only hope that lots of doctors are asking questions as deeply as Dr. Tweedy, and coming from a place of such genuine desire for self-examination and altruism. Whenever something happens that disturbs him, his instinct seems to be to ask, “Is it my responsibility to change this for the better?” It is heartening to spend time in the company of such a decent man, especially when there is so much ugliness in the world.

I found Dr. Tweedy’s meditations on race particularly valuable because they don’t come to neat conclusions. He embraces uncertainties, exposes complexities, and eschews easy answers. He often made me uncomfortable—for example, a story about his ability to find common ground with a family of white supremacists made me feel queasy on his behalf rather than inspired by the resolution, as I believe the narrative intended. I think, however, that if a discussion of race doesn’t feel uncomfortable, it probably hasn’t gone deep enough.

There was a lot of talk about weight loss, which concerned me because I’ve read a lot about the dubious health benefits of trying to force people to lose weight (interventions often do more harm than whatever good comes from weight loss, and there’s little evidence that any weight loss program is lasting for anything more than a tiny minority of people—for more on this, see, for example, Health at Every Size by Linda Bacon). The weight loss stuff seems endemic to the medical profession, though, so I don’t fault this book too much for focusing on it.

***

That’s it for now! I’m about to go out of town for a long trip, so I might be scarce in the comment section. See you all soon! :)

Anonymous. Obsession.

by Giselle Renarde

In 2010 or thereabouts, I wrote a book called Anonymous. It could just as easily be called Obsession.

It's about Hannah, a woman who lost her executive finance job when the market crashed. She's looking for work, but there's nothing available at her level. Being unemployed is getting to her, and it's having a definite impact on her marriage to Nathaniel.

The first thing we find out about this couple is that Nathaniel wants to get with another man and Hannah wants to watch. It's a fantasy they revisit again and again. The first scene takes place during a power outage. When they've got no TV to entertain themselves, they escape into their fantasy life together.

You get the sense that they've been replaying this scene for years: imagining what it would be like. Asking, "What would you do if we had a guy right here right now?" Getting ridiculously turned on by the answer.

You also get the sense that, if Hannah had a job to occupy her mind and her time, their fantasy life might never have spilled over into reality.

Hannah and Nathaniel have one caveat to their shared desire: they don't want to invite a guy they know into the bedroom. Could get really complicated if they brought in a friend or one of Nathaniel's coworkers and things went wrong. Hannah's convinced they're looking for a stranger.

In fact, she wants someone totally anonymous.

Anonymous is a "careful what you wish for" book, in a lot of ways. Hannah's got too much time on her hands, and she uses it to set up some no-strings-attached stranger sex.

One night only.

No names.

Total anonymity.

Except the big event doesn't go exactly as planned, which puts pressure on Nathaniel and Hannah's marriage. This is a book in three parts (not a trilogy, just a story that's divided into three sections). Everything I've mentioned so far takes place in Part One.

To me, it's what comes AFTER the "getting what you want" bit that's most interesting. Hannah can't handle not knowing. She becomes obsessed with finding out the true identity of Mr. Anonymous. The power of that obsession drives almost every decision she makes. Her obsession takes over. So much other stuff happens in the second two parts of this book, but Hannah's never the same after that one night.

Obsession drives Hannah to take a job she normally wouldn't have. I wonder if it's detrimental to her life or not. I remember one reviewer saying she didn't feel that Hannah's obsession took away from her relationship with Nathaniel. She didn't find the obsession unhealthy.

I'm not so sure. But what do I know? The writer is the last person you should ask about a book. We have a very skewed perspective.

Anonymous was briefly off the market when its original publisher closed down, but it's BACK as of today and if you click real quick you might just find it at Amazon.

As an introductory price for the re-release, it's only $0.99 or free if you're a Kindle Unlimited subscriber. Here's the link: 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01G4GBSD6?tag=dondes-20 

Enjoy!

You don't really care for music, do you?

by Giselle Renarde

I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard my mother sing. Had I EVER heard her sing? Happy Birthday, I guess. Even then, she sings very softly. She's self-conscious about her teeth, so she tends to cover her mouth a lot.

When I was in Grade Twelve, I remember my mother bursting into my bedroom and demanding to know why I hadn't told her about parent/teacher interviews. Her best friend worked at my school.  I guess she found out after the fact.

I was surprised she even cared. I'm not exactly an only child, and my mom devoted much of her energy to the younger ones. I was doing fine on autopilot.  I didn't think she was interested in my education.

But that's not why I didn't tell her about parent/teacher interviews.

I can't remember how I answered her question, but she obviously didn't buy it because she burst into tears. My mother isn't exactly dramatic, or even overly emotive (I don't think we've ever told each other "I love you" even though we obviously do), so this was a strange occurrence.

After bursting into tears, my mother covered her mouth and said, "It's my teeth, isn't it? You're ashamed of me. You don't want anyone knowing your mother has such awful, ugly teeth!"

I've mentioned before that I was a pretty steely teen, but in that moment I felt so... so BAD for my mom. It had nothing to do with her teeth. That thought would never have crossed my mind. Not in a million years.

The truth is, I hadn't told her about parent/teacher interviews because I had a massive crush on one of my teachers--a married man who fell for me too, I guess, because I later became his mistress. Our relationship lasted ten years--ten too many, some might say, but I try not to punish myself for my past. (He still emails me once a year to commemorate the anniversary of the last time we had sex. Ummm... gross.)

My mom would have seen it coming. Even if nothing had "happened" yet, she'd have foreseen it when she met him. Moms are like that. I hear they have eyes in the back of their heads.

That's why I didn't want her meeting my teachers. I was a teenager in love. It was a BIG SECRET. If my mom found out, she'd ruin everything.

Nothing to do with teeth.

Have you ever heard of Orchestra Karaoke? It's karaoke where the singer is backed by a full symphonic orchestra. Cool, right? They staged an event this year at Luminato--an arts festival in Toronto that happens to be chaired by Rufus Wainwright's husband--and I went my mom and my sister.

Being a free outdoor event (and also being karaoke), etiquette was a little different than you might be used to. The audience wasn't silent during performances. People sang along. A lot. Not in a way that overshadowed the karaoke-ist, but in a way that supported the soloist--like a choir.

Yeah, like a choir. We're backing you up, good buddy. You sing your little heart out. We got your back.

My sister is a musician and I used to sing semi-professionally amateurishly, so we raised our voices. Nothing new there. My mom remained quiet. Nothing new there.

And then Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah came up and my mom jumped in her seat. She said, "I love this song."

Weird. I got into Leonard Cohen at university, as one does, but my mother didn't even go to university. Ergo, thus, therefore, I naturally assumed she'd never heard of Leonard Cohen.

I can't remember which audience member was selected to take the lead. I don't think I listened to her, or him (reaaaaally don't recall). The only voice I heard was my mother's.

At first, I almost felt... uncomfortable, maybe? It was strangely intimate. But my mom had a pretty voice. Reminded me of a bird, or of nature. It sounded like HER. I knew that voice, and I couldn't remember ever hearing it before that.

She sat beside me and sang Hallelujah the whole way through. The lyrics were posted on a screen, but she seemed to know them already. She didn't sing loudly, but she didn't need to. She wasn't singing for anyone else's ears.

And you know what?  I didn't see her cover her mouth once. Not ONCE.

The Way You Wear Your Face

by Giselle Renarde

A teacher once said to my mother, "There's steel in that girl."

At the time, she was right. Still, I fought back tears when my mother told me. I couldn't decide whether I should be proud. I knew it was true, but was it really so obvious?

The neighbourhood I grew up in was and is very different from the place I live now. Earlier today I was walking down the street and asking myself, "What would be the perfect soundtrack to give this area?" The first song that popped into my head was Pleasant Valley Sunday.

I'm trying to think of the perfect song to accompany the area I grew up in. It would be whatever music scares you shitless, really. Or just the sound of music through apartment walls and people screaming, and then a big crash and you sweating bullets and thinking, "Fuck, should I call the police?"

But of course you shouldn't because it's none of your damn business.

I can't pinpoint any event or moment that turned young Giselle into steel. It was home life coupled with where home was. My mom still lives in that same house, and when I tell people the intersection their eyes widen and they go, "Why?" or "Wow" or just "Yikes." Because why would anyone choose to live in such an unsavoury area?

That's a question I can't answer. I left as soon as I could. I left the steel there, too.

This came to mind the other week, when I was watching So You Think You Can Dance. There was a young woman on the show who had that same steel in her. She came from a rough neighbourhood, too. She faced addiction in her family.

I saw my old self in the way she wore her face: hard, inaccessible, a brick wall of a face. A face you don't want to mess with.

That was me, guys! That was me until I moved to a neighbourhood where I can walk around any time, day or night, and not be afraid. Sure it's weird, being poor and living in an incredibly affluent neighbourhood. I'm surrounded by ego and entitlement and it gets to me sometimes, but at the end of the day entitlement isn't going to steal your jewellery from around your neck or spray bullets from a car window.

Man, it feels good to not be afraid of the place you live. I'm practically Pollyanna when I'm out in the world. I talk to strangers! I smile at everybody! I love them all! Mwah-Mwah! Kisses all 'round!

And then I take the bus back to the neighbourhood where I grew up. Suddenly the smile in my eyes feels embarrassing. It makes me vulnerable. So I shut it down. I lock Pollyanna and her Pleasant Valley Sunday in the basement until I'm back at home base. Because I don't want to be targetted. I don't want to be picked out of the lineup. That one smiling face sticks out, on the bus to my mom's house.

But I feel odd about it. I love the compassionate me. She's my favourite kind of me! I want to share her with the people who live where I used to live. They're sort of like family, in a way.

I try, but I feel uneasy. The world I grew up in seems so predatory, so violent, so ready to take you down.

Out comes the steel, but I put it on like a mask now. It's not coming from the inside out. I'm wearing it so I'll blend in.

Sometimes I feel Pollyanna kicking and screaming, but I make her wear that mask. It's for her own good.

What, Me Guilty?

by Giselle Renarde

This week, an excerpt from my pretty much completely autobiographical book, Audrey and Lawrence:

“I’m sorry,” Lawrence said, so heartfelt it made me want to scream.

“Don’t,” I stopped him.  “Because the second you say you’re sorry, I’m supposed to say it’s okay.  It’s not okay.”

“I know…”     

“You had all this time to tell me!”

            “Oh,” he replied.  “Well, I knew not to tell you by e-mail.”

            “Right.” I percolated, calm before the storm.  “Because if you’d written an e-mail I would have told you to go fuck yourself.  When you give me bad news in person, my love and my hatred get conflated and that fusion turns into sex.  At least you get what came for.”

“I came to see you,” he argued. “This is more than just sex, to me.”

The worst part of was that I believed him.  But I shook my head and muttered, “Whatever,” so not to lose face.  The last thing I wanted in an argument was to seem uncertain.  “Some day you'll break your legs or get pneumonia or something horrible will happen to you and I will laugh my ass off because you deserve it.  And in case you think it's taking me too long to get over all your compounded lies and deceptions, let me tell you: I will never get over them.  And here I have to carry this burden of being the only person in the world who knows what a fucking liar you are.” 

He rolled his eyes.  “I’m not sure how this is a lie, but I’m certain you’ll let me know.”

“You are a liar is a general statement,” I enunciated, incensed by his reaction.  In my state of intense upset I was losing grasp of my English.  My words were drowning in my accent, to the point where I wasn’t sure if Lawrence could even understand me anymore.  “You tell lies.  That’s something I know about you that nobody else knows.  Not even you know it, because you delude yourself into believing lies of omission are not really lies when they truly, truly are.  So here I hold this knowledge about your nature and constantly I have to make the decision, do I keep this secret?  Do I tell?  And every day I make the same choice:  I detain this knowledge.  I imprison it, though it’s a burden to me, though it’s the wrong thing to do.”

“It isn’t wrong if it’s for the right...”

“It is wrong!” I cried.  “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. You taught me that!  And here your evil triumphs because I sit idly by.  Just keep breaking those promises, Lawrence.  Keep lying.  See where it gets you.”

His whole body straightened, stiffened.  “Is that a threat?” he asked, raising an eyebrow like he was the innocent.  “You’re going to tell Ruth?"

“I shouldn’t have to,” I said. “You’re the husband, and you did wrong.  It’s your job to set it right.  But of course you’ll never come clean.”

“That’s right.  I won’t.  And you want to know why?”

I couldn’t remember ever feeling such hatred for the man I’d wanted so badly.  “Because you’re a fucking coward is why!  You can’t face the consequences of your actions.  You’re just a little boy who wants everything for himself, but doesn’t want to pay the price.”

He didn’t move from the bed.  He rested with such languor I wanted to punch him in his stupid mouth.  It was like he didn’t give a fuck about what I was saying.   

“My only lies are omissions,” he said self-righteously.  “And those are to spare Ruth a pain she does not need to feel.”

“Who are you to decide what she needs to feel?” I cried.  That was such a patriarchal attitude.  “Just tell the truth for once.”

“Oh, I see.  So, you want me to hurt my family.”  He offered a simple shrug, like it was just that easy.

“I want them to know the truth, Lawrence.  When you respect a person, you tell her the truth.  Do you have so little respect for your own wife?” 

I could tell I’d struck a nerve, but only because he flinched.  His words still flowed out calm, cool, collected.  “Respect doesn’t enter into this conversation.  You know why I won’t tell her?  Because she has enough pain already.  I don’t want to cause her any more.”

“Bull-fucking-shit!” I spat.  I wouldn’t buy that excuse for a nickel.

“And because I love her.”  His expression was the dictionary definition of smug. 

            My throat was already so constricted that my gasp sounded like something struggling to stay alive.  I saw my brain in pixels, vibrating in a frenzy of particle motion until the energy of my whole body started to spin out of control.  A tornado whirled around my head, escaping with my words.  “No you don’t!  You love me!” The tears came pouring out, falling hot on the hands wringing in my lap.  My chest heaved.  “You love me!”  I cried. “You love me!”

Sobs like mocking laughter escaped my lips as they opened wide and contorted, the mask of tragedy.  

With my head hanging low, I bawled. “Why do you hurt me like this?” 

Wrapping distraught arms around my waist, I made a desperate attempt to comfort myself. I must have been mad, taking his shit year in, year out.  Who else would have?  

“Would she have stayed with you if she knew what a horrible, horrible man you are?  Calisse de crisse, I hate you so much!  I hate what you’ve turned me into: this maudit whining little child.  I hate who I am with you.” 

Lawrence knew better than to comfort me.  I would only have lashed out at him.  He got up from the bed and pulled his jeans up.  “I think I should leave now.”

“No! Lawrence, I love you,” I cried, confounded by my quick change in temperament.  

 I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you. 

“Don’t go yet.”   

Stay and share in my misery.  Stay and watch me cry.  Just stay.   

What was wrong with me?  Why did I abuse him and then panic when he chose to leave?

“Why would I stay?” he asked, retrieving his T-shirt from the floor.  “So you can hurl more insults my way? More threats maybe?”  

He was already at the front door when I wrapped my arms around him, like those children who hurl their entire bodies at their parents’ legs when they try to walk into the next room.   

Burying my face in his chest, I whimpered, “You don’t really love her.  You love me.” 

I grasped his core, trying to squeeze a response from him.  He held me, but said nothing, and for a long moment that was enough.  I started wondering why the hell he was with me at all when my behaviour was so wretchedly unpredictable.  Was it my fault, all this arguing?  Or was it his?  My energy was so zapped from the fight I couldn’t recall what it had been about.

“You love me more…?” I begged.  My hopes were high.   

When he didn’t say anything, the upset flooded my veins once again. 

“Fine!” I replied, sullen as a teenager.  Pushing him away, I cried, “Leave!  Go!  What do I care?”   

But I must have cared to some extent, because I picked up a thigh-high boot and hurled it at his head.  The heel made contact with his skull, issuing a knocking noise, and the boot fell back down to the floor.

“Audrey!” Lawrence cried, his jaw hanging open as he reached up to touch the gash across his bald head. 

“What are you going to tell her now?  My mistress threw a boot at my head?  Try to explain that with one of your lies of omission...”