The Funeral Pyre of My Reading Habits

by Cari Silverwood

This is my first post on OGG and I’m thinking they may boot me out. You see I haven’t read a full book in quite some time. The best I could say I’d completed would be beta reads on stories by Leia Shaw, Candace Blevins, and Cherise Sinclair.

The rot set in when I first became a published author, about two years ago. I went from someone who read perhaps two books a week to someone who opens a book, begins to read, and then finds herself dissecting the writer’s style, plot and words. Or sometimes I simply become bored for no apparent reason.

I shut the book. Horror of horrors.

Now that’s not to say I’m not in-the-middle-of reading many wonderful books. I’m in the middle of the entire Game of Thrones series – the box set takes pride of place on my book shelf, and on a smaller shelf is another amazing book, Blind God’s Bluff by Richard Byers, and there’s a PNR ( I’m rarely in-the-middle-of reading PNR) by Carrie Vaughan. In my eReader, Alice in Zombieland by Gena Showalter is waiting for me, along with My Liege of Darkhaven and several other whimpering volumes.

They torture me daily.

I hear my neglected books whining at me. I know I should have read them by now.

I’ve been told quite severely that an author needs to read books to feed her/ his muse. Otherwise the muse starves to death. It’s a bit like cannibalism without the crunch of bones and leak of blood. You instead get crushed nouns and eviscerated verbs to swallow. Though the adverbs and adjectives I tend to squish under my heel before they scurry away into my brain. I’m cruel, I know.

Well, I was.

Now I ignore my books as best I can. I think I do feel the lack of new words. When you write a lot of erotic stories certain words seem to become too easy to grab – pussy, cock, and clit, and moans, gasps, and whimpers. I have a feeling that if I don’t cram some non-erotic fantasy or scifi into my brain soon, I’ll be left with nothing but a pile of naked people having an orgy in my head. And I’m sure that isn’t good for me.

Soon I will have another go at girding my loins and reading a whole big fat book.

I marked a stack on my Goodreads profile recently – Beyond Shame and a YA called Partials, and some time back in history, I marked another called The Windup Girl by an author with a name I have to copy and paste, Paolo Bacigalupi. These all look scrumptious. And they might remind me that there are other words in the English tongue apart from penis and writhe, lips, and well, tongue.

There is hope for me yet, as some books do still make me salivate. Just being able to remember the word salivate is a good sign…I think? If the day ever arrives when all that drips from my pen is drool, it will be too late. Well, strictly speaking it will drip from my keyboard but that’s too gross an image even for me. *shudder*

So I’m mixing up a new batch of metaphors, strapping on my caving helmet, getting out a hammer, and a bunch of pitons, and I’m going way down deep into a book. Wish me luck.

To welcome readers back to the new and improved Grip, we're having a contest. Everyone who leaves a comment during the next two weeks (other than Grip members, of course) will be eligible for an ebook prize pack of titles from a bunch of the Grip participants. Comment on multiple days and you'll have more of a chance to win.

So come on by and tell us what you're reading – or comment on what we're reading. (Don't forget to include your email address in your comment.) You might just get some free additions to your TBR list.

If you like, tell me your own sob stories about books you've read. I love tragedy. Dropping a book on your toe doesn't count. Something with blood will do nicely. 

A Valentine's Origin Myth

By Lisabet Sarai


To kick off the topic for this week (which is, of course, Valentine’s Day), I thought that I’d discuss the history of this beloved holiday. When I did some research, however, I discovered a great deal of confusion. In fact, the history of Valentine’s Day is one big muddle.

First, there was not one, but three Saint Valentines, all martyrs during the first few centuries after Christ, when Rome was working to suppress the subversive new religion. Second, there appears to be no relationship whatsoever between any of these saintly figures (who were celibate priests) and the topics of romantic love or sex. Yet by Chaucer’s time, such an association existed, at least tentatively, and the notion was well-established by Shakespeare’s period, as indicated by an extended passage from Hamlet:

To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

The holiday was commercialized in the mid-nineteenth century, when the sending of cards, flowers and gifts became popular. I’m more curious, though, about the original inspiration. How did Saint Valentine become the patron of lovers? There must be something missing from the historical record. Given the lack of any clues, I decided to offer my own Valentine’s origin myth based (extremely loosely) on what we do know about the mysterious martyr.

The Origin of Valentine’s Day (according to Lisabet Sarai!)

The priest Valentinus lay on the straw pallet in his cell. Final rays from the setting sun pierced the slits in the stone walls and made gold streaks on the floor. Valentinus sighed at the thought that this would be the last he would see of the glorious orb. Soon, though, I’ll will be with Christ, in the heart of glory, he reminded himself. Still, his heart was as heavy as the granite enclosing him.

Claudius had just left in a fit of pique, after failing again to make him recant. Despite the emperor’s epithet, “The Cruel”, Valentinus understood that the august ruler respected him, and did not want him to lose his head. It was all political for Claudius; he hadn’t a spiritual bone in his body. The new religion offered too much of a challenge to the state to be tolerated. If the priest would renounce his faith and publicly bow to Jupiter, Claudius would free him in an instant, an example to the self-righteous ramble who followed the new prophet.

Valentinus was a different sort of man. He believed in divine love and ultimate resurrection. His faith had kept him strong and pure for more than fifteen years, since the trip to Ephesus when he had first encountered the True Church. For his faith, he would lose his life. But he would save his soul.

Dusk deepened to full night. The pitch torch smoked and sputtered. Valentinus prayed, there on his back. He knew that his Lord did not require the discomfort of bony knees on a hard floor.

The iron door squealed. Valentine sat up. It was too early for his last supper. A slight feminine figure swathed in white linen slipped into the cell and pushed the recalcitrant door shut behind her. She approached the pallet and removed her outer wrap.

Golden curls tumbled down over her shoulders, brilliant as the vanished sun. A chaplet of myrtle bound her brow. Youth shone in her eyes, but the body he glimpsed under her finely-woven robe was the ripe form of a woman. Ancient desire stirred in him. He suppressed it with the ease of long practice.

“Who are you, lady? Why have you come to disturb my final meditations?”

“Lord Valentinus, I am Lydia, priestess of Juno. The Holy Mother is affronted by your stubborn refusal to pay her homage. Tonight is the festival of Lupercalia. Tonight, maids and youths throughout Rome will be celebrating the marriage of Juno and Jupiter, the rulers of heaven. Yet you languish here, refusing to accept the gift of love, scorning the generosity of the gods.”

“Your gods are not mine, lady. I neither honor nor scorn them. They are irrelevant to me.”

“Relevant enough to take your head,” Lydia commented.

“My body is unimportant. Soon enough, my soul will be with God.” Despite his brave words, though, her beauty was working her spell on him. The rod of flesh between his legs grew stiffer by the minute.

Lydia untied the sash that fastened her robe. The diaphanous garment floated to the floor, revealing her lush, perfect body. “I’ve come to offer you Juno’s gifts, nevertheless.” She approached the pallet and took his face in her hands. “I know I cannot change your mind, Valentinus, or make you renounce your faith. But allow me to provide one last taste of the pleasures of earth, before you leave it.”

“No, wait. I am sworn to celibacy...” Valentinus began. Yet he did not resist when she gathered him to her sweet breasts, when she parted the ragged cotton robe that covered him and laved his aching nipples with her tongue. He cried out, but did not push her away, when she swallowed the stubborn pillar jutting from his groin. He grabbed her hips and arched into her when she straddled him and settled his shaft in the liquid depths between her thighs.

They moved together, not speaking aloud, but joined in spirit. She is not like the other Romans, realized Valentinus, even as pleasure surged through him in ecstatic waves. She does not care about material things. She is a creature of faith, a true daughter of her gods. I can touch her soul as well as her body.

Moonlight crept through the window-slits, painting their skin silver. Their passion rose and fell, smooth and silent as the Tiber rolling toward the sea. Their pleasure crested and ebbed and then climbed again. They never broke the connection. Through the night he remained within her, their limbs entwined, their minds and hearts united.

At last they slept. At dawn came the squeal of the rusty hinges and the guards, unexpectedly gentle when they saw Valentinus and Lydia together. Without shame, ignoring the lustful gaze of the centurions, Lydia rose and donned her robe. “Remember me,” she told the priest, with a last kiss. “It will ease the last pain.”

“And remember me,” said Valentinus, unfazed by his apparent fall from grace. “Here, take this.” He handed her a scroll, his copy of the Scriptures. “I know I will not woo you from your gods to my God, but let this be my keepsake.”

“Sign it,” she said, and he did, before the guards led him to the execution ground.

Lydia returned to the temple, rejoicing in the trickle of Valentinus’ seed down the insides of her thighs. She did not wish to see his final moments. She knew that she would be in his thoughts as the sword came down. She made her obeisance to the majestic gilded image of the Mother before returning to her modest room. There, she unfurled the scroll and read her lover’s dedication.

“To my beloved Lydia whom I look forward to meeting in heaven,
For I know that no God or gods would be cruel enough to separate us.
From your devoted Valentine.”

Tears fell on the parchment, smearing the charcoal-based ink.

They were tears of joy.

---

Happy Valentine’s Day to all of our readers!

Grand Re-Opening Contest Winner

Thanks to all who contributed to our grand re-opening week by reading and commenting. We received 133 distinct, non-anonymous comments (not including comments by Grip authors). All I can say is WOW.

Our randomly chosen winner is blessedheart. Please email me at the email address you will find on my website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/links.html) and tell me your preferred email address, so that we can send you your gift certificate.

Once again, thanks to everyone who visited. We do hope that you'll continue to drop by the Grip and offer your thoughts.

And so it begins...

by Lisabet Sarai

Initiation by Eric Maslowski

Initiation. The word evokes images of secret rituals, trials designed to test the mettle of novices who seek knowledge or power or membership in some elite association. Rites of passage. Transitions from innocence to experience. Of course “initiation” also simply means “beginning”, but its deeper meaning has more emotional resonance, especially for a writer.

We’ve all lived through initiations. The first nasty rejection. The first scathing review. The first public reading of our work. The first tattoo or piercing. For some of us, the first time we were bound or sodomized, or the first time we made love to someone of our own gender.

Initiations are challenging and often uncomfortable. Looking back, we might forget the discomfort, but the reality is that it’s never easy. However, these experiences usually make us wiser or stronger -- more skilled, more sensitive or more loving. That’s the whole point.

So, what does this have to do with “Oh Get A Grip”? For the last two years, I’ve been resisting the universal recommendation that every author should blog regularly. I wasn’t willing to make the commitment. I don’t have anything to say, I rationalized – though whenever I was invited to guest blog, I always managed to fill the page. I don’t have the time, I complained to anyone who would listen. (Not too many people did, of course. They were too busy blogging!) I knew in my heart that I should bite the bullet and join the blogosphere, but I was reluctant. I resisted making the next transition in my developing career as an author.

Then, out of the blue, one of the former members of “Oh Get A Grip” contacted me, asking if I’d like to take over her slot, as she was planning to move on. I figured this was a sign. I swallowed hard and agreed. The next thing I knew, the whole original Grip crew wanted to retire. I thought long and hard. Did I want to find another group and take over responsibility for the whole shebang? I loved the topic-based organization and the lively discussions – could my group and I do as well, keep the energy flowing?

I – we – have decided to try. This week you’ll meet a whole new collection of authors, most of them friends and colleagues whom I’ve known (on the ‘Net, at least) for years. We all write erotic romance, erotica, or some combination. We’re all rather opinionated. (That’s meant to be a compliment, guys...!) I’m hoping that, in collaboration with our readers, we can create an enlightening, exciting and entertaining space here in the cyberworld.

We can’t do this without you. We want you to participate! Don’t just read, comment! In fact, to get you into the habit, all this week we’re running a “Grand Re-Opening” contest. Every time you leave a comment, you’re entered to win. The prize is a $30 Amazon gift certificate – bound to be useful in today’s lean times. I’ll announce the winner next Sunday right here. Stay tuned!

I’m about to hit the “Post” button, sending this inaugural message into public view. I am definitely nervous. Once you cross the threshold, there’s no going back. Once you’ve survived the trial by fire, you can only look ahead to the next challenge.

I’m looking forward to new tests and new opportunities to grow.

Welcome to the next generation of the Grip!

Image used with permission. Visit Eric's website for more compelling digital art.