Back to your regularly scheduled kinky hotness soon. Today, though, I need to just type and see what appears on my screen.
I’m on a beach vacation with my best friend and her family. They love me; I love them; it’s been good. However, for most of my time spent here, my body has existed absent my mind. Too many thoughts have been rattling around inside my head, hence this post.
I. HATE. TYPOS!!! After re-reading a recent post (DOF 2011: Sunday Part 1) and finding a bunch of mistakes and clunky language, I went back and revised/rewrote quite a bit of the entry.
Encouraged by these fixes, I then found myself re-reading some of the very first posts I wrote for this blog. I made it through almost the entire first year before I saw it, plan as day. Where there should have been ‘piles’, I wrote ‘pills.’
That post was three years old. Three years of my mistake existing on the internet and me not doing a damn thing to fix it.
As a writer, for me, there is nothing so grating, so irritating, so downright blood-in-the-eyes inspiring as a spelling mistake, dropped punctuation, or stunted word flow.
I enjoy what I do. I love spinning tales. But it is the simple mistake that is currently haunting my creative thoughts.
For every post I create, I spend half my time writing and the other half revising. I read each post at least twice, beginning to end, looking for errors and breaks in flow. I try my damnedest to write a post worthy of reading. But, even with all my efforts, without fail, for every blog I write and read, and re-read, there will be at least one little mistake, one misspelling, a ‘their’ instead of ‘they’re,’ an ‘out’ instead of an ‘our,’ a fucking dropped coma or repetitive word that makes me want to throw my fucking laptop across the room.
But, I endeavor on, even though I know it will be highly ironic, and incredibly maddening, when I find the typo in this blog.
I live a fairly open life. I write about my adventures on the interwebs and talk about my extra-curricular life to family, friends, and folks at work.
Granted, I have it easy. People in my job either are very interested and amused or they genuinely don’t give a shit. I have yet, thankfully, to run into someone who is adamantly against whom I am and what I do. Of the friends and family who know, they’re either also in the scene or love me more than their objections to my life.
Still, when a friend made a suggestion recently, I found myself taken aback and almost ready to flee. Okay, maybe not literally run away from my then current location, but a jittery feeling crept up inside.
I have been writing for almost as long as I could read. I still remember being seven or eight and showing Ella my pink notebook (don’t ask me why it was that color; I am not a fan of pink). In it, I’d written maybe half a dozen to a dozen poems.
In elementary school, I wrote action adventures similar to the Indiana Jones movies and Stephen King’s The Stand. Middle school was journaling. High school was erotica. College, what else but plays. I have been a writer my entire life. I’ve just never been paid for it.
But, recently, a friend read my blog and told me, “You’re quite a talented blogger. You could easily turn that into a book.”
At the time, I didn’t know why this took me aback. I thought maybe because it was seemingly out of the blue. Maybe because I hadn’t been critiqued on my work for so long; I’d forgotten people actually had opinions. Maybe because I had hung my hope on finishing my thriller novel, which I haven’t touched in a year. Maybe because my friend has published work; I highly respect his opinions. I didn’t know why, but, in the same instance, I was both flattered and fearful.
In my head, their comment meant two things:
1- I really have been dragging my feet on getting published.
2- Why has my ass been dragging on finishing my works and getting published?
And just as soon as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer: FEAR. The little hater. The inner demon. Self doubt. Insecurity. It didn’t just pervade my thoughts while living my kinky life. I think it permeates all aspects of my life. And that shit needs to stop.
In my head, I’d been telling myself my writing wasn’t good enough. It was good, but who would publish it? Who would buy it? Who would read it? And if they did, wouldn’t I be judged on how I lived?
Yah know what, fuck ’em.
I could do it. I could be a published writer. Granted, this is not how I’d expected or anticipated it. If anything, it’s better. I love writing about my life, the little details, reliving the moments that touched me so and still leave impressions to this day. Why not share my life with the world and maybe somehow spin making a living out of it?
My kink life, my work life, my entire adult life has been about making myself be brave when all I want to do is run and hide under the table. Time to man up.
Currently there are three people in my life I would literally do anything for. I haven’t told them; they don’t need to know. I care for them deeply and am so ecstatic to have them in my life, whatever way they can be, that my feelings towards them need to stay in my head. I don’t need my mental shit ruining my friendships.
But, and there is always is a but, sometimes it really fucking sucks.
They never mean to, but the slightest indication this way or that from any of them holds an emotional sway over me I’m not always happy about.
For instance, one day recently I wasn’t feeling my best. One short text message from one of them and my mood turned on a fucking dime, plastering a smile on my face for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I was feeling okay one night this week and a phone call from another sent me over the moon. I was in a fairly good mood earlier, but a text from the last one rubbed me the wrong way. Now, I’m feeling less than myself.
I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t think there is anything I can do. I am certainly not extricating them from my life; they mean too much to me. Even with the emotional swings, to not have any of them would hurt more than any unintentional comment or gesture on their part.
And none of this is their fault; it’s just the way my mind works. I get attached and have to work my way through it.
Reminding myself others are not as perceptive as I am helps. Also, that people are not as sensitive and don’t remember every little detail or interaction like I do. And, reminding myself these people care about me deeply too, even when my little hater is shouting doubts.
Habete fidem; desine fatigo.
Have faith; stop worrying.
So yeah, my head’s a bit of a mess. It doesn’t help that I’ve barely worked this month. My money is fine; the recent move severely decreased my bills. It is the actual act of working that I’ve, almost, missed. There is just something about the physical nature of what I do that gets me out of my head. When I have to make sure lights aren’t going to fall on people and truss towers aren’t going to tip over, the worries of my life come into perspective.
It also doesn’t help that I haven’t rigged since I’ve been on this vacation. I didn’t realize how meditative, how calming and centering my rope time is until it was gone. Binding myself, lifting myself in the air, and settling into the feel of my body in that unnatural state is much more fulfilling than I ever imagined. I should have known when, during the ‘Hot Ball Of Crazy’ era, one of my stress reliefs was self-bondage. Rope holds a special place for me. I’m just now beginning to acknowledge and embrace this.
Fuck, what I would give for a good hard point and no threat of cops or creeps coming by. Or even three six foot bamboo sticks and a closet. I could make that shit work.
But no. I have to wait til Saturday.
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