MISANTHROPIC INTERLUDE...

I walk down the streets of this city and increasingly I see people who remind me of Wells's Morlocks and Eloi, except that the two types are combined in one: a person who has all the ugliness and lowliness of the Morlock, but at the same time the pathetic helplessness of the Eloi. These are people you can see buying things but you can't imagine them making anything or engaging in any kind of humanly challenging labour. Look at the physical manifestations of the civilization around us -- giant buildings, computers, automobiles -- and ask yourself this: did such a race of schlemihls design and run all this? How is it possible? It's like discovering a sophisticated space station built, inhabited, and maintained by absent-minded chimpanzees. We seem to be too small for the world we have made.

WHENEVER I GET BITTER

about not being able to grab the attention of any publishers or agents for my literary fiction I troll the net for bitchy comments about the Canlit establishment. I find this quite comforting.

I know the correct response for the rejected writer is supposed to be "gee, that's the way it goes," or "I'll just have to try harder next time" or "time to become best friends with Margaret Atwood, because God knows, if you don't know a great writer personally you couldn't possibly be one." But the simple fact of the matter is that the finest fiction and the best crafted query packages must come to nothing if they are sent to some unimaginative bourgeois twerp who spends most of his waking hours hunting down the latest celebrity to publish. No, I am a complete failure at glad-handling and networking and all that shit. As the saying goes, "I don't dance, I just sing." I spend my time writing, and yes, I DO look down at writers who spend more time studying self-promotion than literature. If it comes to that, I've written query letters that could not possibly have been better unless I could literally read the minds of those I was sending them to.

Let me recommend, therefor, an article by Darryl Whetter called "Canada's an Urban Nation. Why is Our Literature Still Down on the Farm?" No, it's not about query letters, it just shows disrespect towards the Canlit establishment, and that's all to the good.

You really have to wonder whether the grand panjandrums who decide what gets published in this country have a clue.

RE THE SPANK! ANTHOLOGY: JUST FOR YOUR INFO...

The photographer who did the cover art is Stacie Joy. Cassandra Park wrote the intro. The editor is D.L. King.

Also, don't forget my earlier post here which will tell you what writers in the anthology will be doing their part in the SPANK! blog tour next. There will be six more in the next six days, so be sure to check them out.

WHY DO I LIKE SPANKING?

Simply put, because it is humiliating. And I identify with the spankee more than the spanker, frankly. If you check out my story in the SPANK! anthology, you will find I have added my own characteristic twist to the situation: getting stuck in something. This may be a more unusual fetish than spanking, but it's a big part of what turns me on.

And for your viewing pleasure, here is a very attractive woman who is not in the anthology, but who does look like she might be about to get stuck. And if she does, who's to say she won't get a spanking?

I JUST FOUND OUT SPANK! IS NOW ON AMAZON

So you can check it out here!

HOW DID I GET STARTED WRITING EROTICA?

Well, I guess just plain horniness! Actually, I probably started out drawing odd little pictures before I wrote much, but my drawing has never been very good. I think when I originally started writing erotica I had no intention of publishing it. Then I tried to get it published on the net. I found this harder than I had thought at first, but then I made a breakthrough or two and have been finding it much easier since.

AND WELCOME TO MY PORTION OF THE SPANK! BLOG TOUR...

My contribution to Logical Lust's latest anthology (to be released tomorrow) is called "The Trumpet of Destiny." Thought I'd just post a wee excerpt here:

Take her ass, for example:

Still walking behind her, I noticed her magnificent skirt-stretching derriere was actually a little large for the rest of her skinny frame. Not fat, but well rounded and very wide-boned -- and very firm. This was not surprising, given that Hank, I knew, could never go for a woman not built to receive a thorough spanking.

It had been a long time since he had given one to me. Yes, doubtless this leather-lapped backside before me was the one that had been reddening under his masterful mitt while my own bottom had been languishing in neglect. I remembered when I used to wear pleated cheerleader skirts -- knowing how much an older woman in a pleated cheerleader skirt provoked him to madness -- and then feigned astonishment when, in some public place but at a moment when nobody was looking, he would hoist the back of it and give me a terrific smack right on the heinie. I would go cross-eyed trying to stifle my yelp of delight and pain, stand there knock-kneed rubbing my ass, while he nonchalantly pretended that absolutely nothing whatsoever had happened.

God, it had been fun. And now he was a bastard. An absolute, fucking bastard. And she, the one the bastard was fucking, she was hot; no doubt about it. I didn't know whether this should make me feel better or worse. And she had good taste, I thought, glancing about the house, no doubt about that either.

In Godfather II Frank Pentangele says this to Michael Corleone:

"Your father did business with Hyman Roth,

your father respected Hyman Roth,
but your father never trusted Hyman Roth."

It occurred to me one might say the same thing with regard to John Calvin's attitude to God:



John Calvin did business with God,

John Calvin respected God,

but John Calvin never trusted God.

THOUGHT I'D REMIND YOU ALL

today is D.L. King's day for the blog tour (see schedule in my previous post) for the Spank! anthology.