Writing a Novel is Really Hard

…why didn’t anyone tell me?

I haven’t blogged for a while, and I wanted to point that I have not just been sitting on my arse, browsing porn, eating puddings, swilling whiskey, inviting strange men up into my room and yelling profanities at small children.

Not to say I haven’t been doing any of these things, but as well as all that, I’ve been finishing My Novel. (Crazy AND organised!)

Whenever I mention this to people, I am invariably presented with this perplexing question:

What’s it about?

Simple, right?

Um, no. It’s actually very difficult. Particularly since I don’t express myself terribly well in conversation (without the aid of a backspace key and a thesaurus), and most people are only really looking for a one-sentence answer.

Here’s a tip for anyone who is not used to talking to writers: don’t ask them about their novel/thesis/dissertation/collected works of poetry unless you want to be subjected to three hours of them explaining, with a sufficient amount of self-effacing humour, (which is only really there to cover up the fact that they secretly consider themselves to be undiscovered prodigies), the conception, development, grammatical intricacies, emotional hardships, existential crises, highs, lows, and disturbingly frequent moments of utter insanity brought about by their project.

See, I’m even doing it now. I couldn’t tell you how many well-meaning friends and relatives have been bombarded by this torrential outpouring whenever they’ve asked me about The Novel. I’ve watched their poor faces become frozen in the same expression of polite obligation as I’ve opened my mouth and breathed all over them like a neurotic and slightly flatulent dragon.

So, once and for all, at the risk of alienating everyone I’ve ever known, I’m writing down what my novel is about, so I can print off a bunch of cards with a link to this blog, and send these people away to read about it in their own time, if they’re so damn interested.

Kay?

Now. In order to properly answer this question, I must tell you that in order for you to properly understand what my novel is currently about, you must know what it used to be about.

Why?

BECAUSE I SAY SO. Now, shut up, and pay attention:

Way back in 2005, I went to Europe instead of sticking around for the fourth year of my wankerific communications degree. I knew that I would, at some point, have it in me to write a creative thesis, but back then, I was bored, tired, annoyed, and fed up with study. So I went on an overseas trip, (part of which included a Contiki tour of Russia – in which I did not manage to score with anyone – the shock of which nearly prompted me to ask for a refund); and I dedicated much of the time in which I was NOT having sex to thinking upon what my Big Glorious Great Idea for a Novel could be.

All I could think about was how horny I was.

“God damn, Catlady,” I said to myself. “Halfway around the world, standing on Moscow’s Red Square for Christ’s sake, and all you can think about is sex?”

Twenty-two years in the world, and the only thing I had to show for it were some sexy anecdotes. What use were they?

Another year later, I took myself off to a writer’s retreat for two weeks. I went up there with an idea to write a book about a teenage girl who dies… or something… (I’ve since erased this idea from my mind, due to it being shit).

It didn’t take long for me to realise that I hated being a teenager, and revisiting that entire hellish portion of my life in the form of a novel was not my idea of a good time.

So what did I want to write about?

Sex, of course. Sex, sex, sex.

“Okay, Catlady,” I says, pen poised above my blank notepad, “you can’t just write a novel comprised entirely of sex scenes. Think harder.”

Then, like a lightening bolt, like a herald from the heavens, like a thousand other ridiculous clichés, it struck me:

A novel comprised entirely of sex scenes.

Like, not porn. An actual, serious work of contemporary fiction, that just so happens to tell its story from the point of view of two lovers, using sex as their primary means of conversation. Letting everything that occurs outside their bedroom express itself through their fucking.

Sex as language.

It was at this same point that I gave up on feeling guilty about using my own life as inspiration for my writing. As Helen Garner puts it: “People talk as if a story is something found lying on the ground.”

I’d a had lot of unusual sexual experiences. Why not ditch the disclaimer and use them in my fiction?

So I did. And ‘Some Kind of Love Story’ was, uh, born.

I wrote twenty-seven chapters of this, during a period of intense misery in my actual life. I made all the rookie’s mistakes. The whole thing was self conscious, overwrought, indulgent, boring, infested with errors; basically absurd.

But it taught me a lot. By the time I’d made it to chapter 27, I could see exactly how far I’d come since chapter 1.

So I went back to uni, and began again.

My supervisor was an intimidating woman. ‘Ice Queen’, I believe she was unkindly dubbed. It wasn’t easy to walk into her office, located somewhere in the catacombs of the UTS Bon Marche building, and tell her that I intended to write a creative thesis entirely about sex.

The best thing about ‘ol Icy Pole, was that she did not mince words:

“All your characters seem to do is have sex and fight. Where’s the plot?”

Ah, plot. That slippery sucker. It would seem that somewhere in between my character’s second threesome and umpteenth hardcore bondage session, I’d neglected to write anything of, ah, substance.

With two weeks to go before my thesis was due, Disney-on-Ice suggested that I rewrite the whole thing from first person to third person, and write about ‘things happening’. (Crazy concept, I know).

Now, as part of this whole ‘being at university’ thing, I was forced to go a little out of my comfort zone and do some ‘research’ by way of reading some ‘theorists who had lots of fancy things to say about shit’. And what I ended up reading were a lot of feminists, all banging on about the representation of female desire in fiction.

Which led me to thinking: is it anti-feminist to write about female characters who desire to be sexually submissive?

(The short version of my conclusion to this essay was, ‘no, it’s not’).

Anyway. Since all of my research-type-stuff revolved around the notion of desire, I thought: how can I include this as a central theme in my creative work?

Then, late one night, after a lot of teeth gnashing and tea making, I decided to write my story from the point of view of desire. So, ‘desire’ acted as a sort of third character, who even got its own speaking part. (Which was kinda lame, and I’ve since cut it, but hey, the academics just love that kind of crap).

The name of the thesis was ‘A Conversation With Desire’.

At this point, I was willing to part ways with the whole stupid idea. After I handed it in, I would have been happy to burn it and never speak of it again.

Unfortunately, academics are the biggest perves of them all – and they loved it.

Although, they did make it clear that if I wanted to develop the concept into a novel, it would need a lot more work.

Another six months passed while I decided whether I was ready to look at it again. In the meantime, I got myself a job as a retail copywriting whore, and watched morosely as my soul died a little more each day.

Still, the idea wouldn’t die. It pestered me constantly, until there was nothing left to do but sit down again and open a brand new Word document: Chapter 1.

This time, I wrote a plan. I created back-stories and subplots. I worked on my character development. I made it funnier – less oppressive.

Halfway through this process, I quit my job. Now I was free, free to write all the time! No more getting butt raped by The Man on a daily basis!

Which of course resulted in the most crippling writer’s block I’ve ever known.

I got lost in the murk of it, forgot what it was supposed to be about, became intensely frustrated by my writing style, hated my characters, became depressed by writing it, but even more depressed by not writing it.

Around chapter 34 it all turned to shit, and I wanted to throw it in. (And grow up, get a job, and suck it up, just like everyone else. How much easier that would be!)

Then, in all that darkness, I realised I didn’t care anymore.

Which cured the block.

And then I rose up like a mighty horseman, galloping towards the finish, shaking my sword at the dawn.

Ha HA, novel! Thought you could fucking beat me! Well, think again. For it is I, Amazing Novel Finishing Woman, here to vanquish you!

Yesterday, at chapter 47, I came up with a new and improved title, which I think brings it all together:

‘Of Love and Blood’

Now with 50% more blood!

(It’s OK. You can go now. I know that it’s getting late, and you’ve missed all the best bits of the party, and the punch bowl is empty, but gosh, wasn’t it worth asking me that simple little question! Wasn’t it? WASN’T IT??)

Canberra, It’s a Wonderful Place

Canberra is just like Las Vegas, except that it’s colder, more boring, has less casinos, zero Elvis-themed 24 hour wedding chapels, and no one likes going there. But apart from that, they’re like, totally the same.

But really, it’s unfair of me to bag Canberra, because I’ve only ever had awesome weekends there (disregarding all the lame school excursions and the times my parents might have taken us to Our Nation’s Capital under the pretence of ‘family fun’). It’s far enough from Sydney to create the illusion of being quasi-exotic (if your idea of ‘exotic’ is really wide roads and a lot of boxy apartment blocks), and for this reason it gives you an excuse to behave outrageously.

Not that I need an excuse.

I went down last weekend for a fetish party that was being organised by the Canberra Under 30s group. (Yes, kink is alive and kicking in Canberra – who knew?). Initially, just me and Whipslave were going to go, but in the end our group snowballed into a posse of six. Four of whom had never been to a kink event before, let alone fully considered this side of themselves. Apparently, I’ve become the ‘bad influence friend’. Ha.

A while back I blogged about how there’s not really such a thing as ‘vanilla’ – that perversion is best represented by a sliding scale. I believe that all human relationships contain elements of dominance and submission – after all, BDSM doesn’t come from nowhere. And as part of that particular rant, I asserted that people who only socialise within the kink community are cutting themselves off from the possibility of being surprised.

That theory was proven when my presumably vanilla friends not only jumped at the opportunity of attending a fetish party, but came prepared with their own handcuffs and floggers.

It’s what Marauder describes as ‘kink-dar’. That sixth sense for pervy freaks – when you find yourself drawn to particular people, for seemingly unknown reasons. This is your subconscious at work, hinting to you that the friendly young man with the eyebrow piercing has it in him to one day pulverise your arse with a cane.

Still, as I was entering the party, I became flooded with anxiety – worried that I’d led my friends to a place that would be awkward and uncomfortable for them. Since ‘anxious’ is my default setting, I poured myself a glass of wine, and tried my best to ignore it.

The venue was really cool. It was at a property about thirty minutes outside Canberra – on a farm, pretty much. The owners of the house are a pair of doms who have lovingly converted the spare rooms of their home into dungeon spaces. Not only were the spaces fully equipped (with more floggers, canes, needles, hoods, and other assorted sexual implements than you can point a pointed stick at, boom tish), but they also had a great energy. The main dungeon area had a padded leather wall, a leather spanking bench, and a soft black mini-hammock-type-thing, which was suspended from the ceiling by chains, and which had soft little stirrups for feet. (No one got fucked in the chair that night, but it did serve as an excellent ‘spaced-out subbie seat’).

The other room was decorated to look like a medical space – with white walls, a bright overhanging lamp, and a gurney. This was of course my favourite, and it was in this room that most of our night unfolded.

When we first arrived, I couldn’t see myself playing that night. I was feeling shy because I wasn’t familiar with the crowd (who were all friendly and welcoming, but yeah I’m a freak), and I didn’t see myself initiating anything. Whipslave and I have been wanting to play for a while – we’re both subs who are curious about topping. But the idea of topping and actually topping are two very different things – and I was almost certain that I was going to lose my nerve.

(Funny, isn’t it, the way I get terrified at the idea of topping – that kind of psyched-out ‘no I just can’t do it!’ kind of fear, when logically that would be a normal reaction for someone about to get hit.)

Fortunately, it was Whipslave who took the initiative and got the ball rolling by offering to cane me. It really took a lot of convincing, but eventually, he twisted my arm. (For the more thorough, and probably more accurate version of this story, I suggest you read his version).

He was very good with the cane. In the same way that you’ll always get a better meal out of a cook who loves eating, receiving a caning from someone who also loves receiving a caning tends to make it extra good. Knowing how to build it up, how to bring you to the edge, when to push it further, when to pause.

I got lost so quickly. I was lying face down, and my hands were handcuffed behind me. This was an interesting caning, because I went to so many places. At first it was sensual, sleepy, dreamy. Then it was erotic – the sort of caning that makes me writhe and groan and smile and gasp. After that it got harder – heavier strokes from a heavier cane (my favourite sort. I adore the thick heavy canes – even though they look more intimidating, they are far easier to take than those little whippy ones, which sting like a mofo). This broke the dam of euphoria in me, and despite the pain, I hardly felt it. I became still, and went deep, deep inside myself, to a place of silence.

Only to be pushed out of it again, as I was hit quickly, relentlessly; many hands upon my body; all male. The spell was broken and I came out cranky, like a child woken from a nap. I was petulant then, shrieking, wriggling, trying to get away. I didn’t care about composure anymore, didn’t care about appearing to be brave – I ‘did not want’, and yet down it came, again, again.

Somewhere in it, a voice: “stop it”. I was defiant, non-compliant. I scrunched my face,  not allowing the welled up tears their release. Raging, growling, spitting curses through clenched teeth.

When freedom was granted, I emerged as if from battle, woozy with too-much relief.

Then came The Shakes. The Shakes is a physical reaction to trauma – the fight or flight response. I love The Shakes. It’s sort of like being possessed, speaking in tongues, as your body does one thing while your lips try to articulate what is intangible, inexpressible.

I was so fucking high.

After enough of an intermission to regain control of my hands, I was totally g’ed up to cane Whipslave. He lay on the gurney, shirtless, bum bared.

I started off by flogging his back. For the first time, I feel like I truly found my rhythm. I didn’t doubt, didn’t fret. Just let it whack, felt the music in the act, the art. The performer in me suddenly sparked, and I was on.

Now I get it. Finally, I get it. How fun it is, how freeing. I’ve always known this, that BDSM comes from elements of your own personality – you don’t need to put anything on. So, I could be the cute, bubbly, giggly person I so frequently am, but in a dominant role. It’s a matter of working with what you’ve got, and channelling it outwards, deliberately, unapologetically.

(A trick I learned on the night was to keep my left index finger pressed to my lips – which was an effective way of stopping me from trying to say “sorry” when I hit a bit hard).

After the flogging, I moved on to the cane. This too, was fun. There’s something completely mesmerising about it – for the all the time I was caning Whipslave, I wasn’t thinking about all the meaningless crud which usually cycles through my head. Which is exactly why I love submitting – it’s one of the only things that makes my head SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It was also really nice to play with someone I knew trusted me, and who can take a lot of pain. This gave me the freedom to stop worrying, and to just go with it. Instead of flicking my eyes to his face after every stroke, I relaxed and allowed myself to sense what he was feeling. This is far more enjoyable, and a far more accurate way of reading a person. You don’t need to look, and you don’t need to ask. You just need to trust.

It was a very sexy way to feel. I revelled in it, to the point where I ended up caning three more people before the night was out. Taking delight in the way they trembled and flinched.

Who would have thought?

(By the way, I still walked away with the most bruised arse out of everyone who was there. Amazingly bruised. The whole thing is purple, still).

As the night was winding down, Whipslave gave me a lovely foot massage as we lay on the couch, watching the football. (This was kind of like torture for me – football is a hard limit! Those Canberrans really are a bunch of twisted sickos, I tell you).

In recent years I’ve been slowly coming around the concept of accepting kindness. I’m still not very comfortable with it, but I’m getting better. Normally when someone gives me a massage, I lie there feeling guilty for making them work while I receive all the pleasure. But to know that it brings the other person pleasure to give me pleasure makes it possible for me to enjoy it.

Which is a good thing. I think I’m making progress.

Now that I’ve conquered Canberra, I’m plotting my next escapade. Brisbane, perhaps?

Kinky Night Out

I have the frenetic energy characteristic of a person terrified of inertia. The reason why my days are so full is because I’m terrified of what will happen if I ever actually allow myself to be lazy. Because secretly, I love being lazy – it’s in my nature. I’m afraid that if I ever did slip into a sustained period of lying dozily in bed, I might never get out.

The all or nothing approach is perhaps not healthy, but it mostly works. I propel myself through life, stringing together social appointments and other endless commitments and obligations, ticking things off enormous lists with relish.

But it’s hard sometimes to keep up a sustained fight. And when I’m not feeling well, or it’s cold outside, it can become excuse enough to take the lazy way out. Even though I know that if I go out I’ll have a great time, I still have a really tough time with it, particularly at the end of a long day.

Which is why I need people in my life, so I don’t always have to rely upon my own motivation.

Last Friday, that person was Dragongirl – who had come up from Melbourne for the weekend. Since I had a sore throat and it was cold AND rainy outside on Friday night, I literally wouldn’t have gone out had it not been for her.

So I’m super glad she came to Sydney, because it was magic.

Fet Nights (as I’ve succumbed to calling them) start long before you walk in the door of the party. There is a whole ritual surrounding getting ready, and I’ve always been a sucker for rituals.

Actually, the process of getting dolled up for these things reminds me strongly of getting ready for the ballet performances I had when I was a kid. I’m also fascinated by the way people (particularly women) dress and prepare themselves; the little details that you wouldn’t think would make a difference, but do.

Public fetish parties are performative, absolutely. Makeup and costumes give you confidence and provide a sort of armour that you can lurk behind. They enable you to be superhuman.

There is something fantastic about the lead up to entering a party. Nervous energy rising towards the ceiling, like heat.

Even though I’ve done this enough times now to be slightly less awed by it, I still love that I never quite know how the night’s going to pan out. This used to scare me, and I would try to establish some control over the situation by seeking people out and asking for them to tie me up/hit me on the bum/etc. Being the driving force behind what was about to happen, despite the fact it would require me to relinquish control, made me feel safer. (Submissives, for the record, are the biggest control freaks of them all). These days I don’t do that – instead I just put myself in the room, and let it happen. It’s more fun, more organic, and then I can walk away saying: “well, none of that was my idea…”

Now, before Dragongirl and I got to the party, we went to Peter Pan’s house (who I refer to from now on as Pan). This was Pan’s first Fet Night, and might I say he looked resplendent in his basic black. Due to the fact I was hopped up on cold medicine and red wine, I don’t quite remember quite everything that was discussed in front of his straight-laced but inquisitive flatmate, but I don’t think it matters, since he was clearly preoccupied by Dragongirl’s amazing rack.

Although, Pan still seemed happy to associate with us the next day, so it can’t have been that bad. Heh heh.

Anyway, when we got in, I gave Dragongirl and Pan the unofficial tour of the place, and then we did the standing-around-having-strange-conversations-over-the-top-of-loud-music thing with some other people. This is always my least favourite part of any evening – because it’s one thing to follow through with social conventions at parties, but it’s another to do it while dressed entirely in rubber. It lends the scene a certain aura of ludicrous. (People still managed to pussy foot around their reasons for being there – at any time we could have been surrounded by a mixture of leather/corset/rubber/or PVC-clad individuals, as well as the occasional naked person, and STILL be discussing the weather. I suppose, after all, that weather is crazy, but…)

One of the reasons I like going out with Dragongirl, is that she has no qualms about cutting to the chase and doing something sadistic to someone as soon as possible. Which she did – to the youngest person there! (There was this cute metal/goth/emo dude who’d been dragged along by someone else, who we thought was eighteen, although that remains a question mark. He was super sweet, and his eyes were so big it looked like they were going to fall out).

We went into one of the more private play areas (that had the beautiful medicinal smell of a tattoo parlour, ahh) and she stuck a bunch of needles in his arm. Which he reckons didn’t hurt at all, because he’s a Real Man, even though I totally saw his lips quiver as they went in.

After we finished wiping the blood from Emo Boy’s arm, it was time for my flogging. There was a brief moment where I got uncharacteristically shy about taking my top off (the concoction of Codral and alcohol was wearing off by this stage), but it was thankfully short-lived. I peeled the rubber off, allowed Dragongirl cuff my wrists to the St Andrew’s cross, and let it happen.

Gods, it was good.

How to describe a flogging?

First of all, by ‘flogging’, I mean she used one of those implements that was a bunch of leather strands attached to a handle. There were a few different sorts available for our use, and she alternated between them. (The longer the strands, the heavier the blow. Also, there was one with knots in the leather, which really hurt a buggery, haha).

The feeling is of being beaten, but in the kindest possible way. An expert flogger (as Dragongirl most certainly is) will flog with a steady rhythm, which sends me almost immediately into a trance. There’s a sort of jungle energy to it – of sacrificing a virgin to a volcano, or, erm, some shit. (I’m on fire with this metaphor thing right now).

It doesn’t benefit from intellectualising too much – which is another reason why I love it. It sends me to a place like sleep, it makes me feel safe, calm, beautiful; it relaxes me more deeply than anything I’ve ever experienced; it sends me into the headspace of an infant, it pushes the pain out of me, it makes things tranquil, spiritual, peaceful.

The force of it almost winds you, the pain flutters across the skin like ripples of colour. And always at the other side of it – the person who is flogging you. The connection is as intimate as sex, or more so. Purer.

We’ve been doing this for years now – Dragongirl can read me so well. She takes me right to the edge of where it becomes unbearable, and then backs it off just a little. Massaged my skull occasionally between stokes. Covered my mouth; her hand getting coated in my tears.

I’ve taken to crying a lot during scenes lately, which I think is just evidence of having recently ended the longest and most functional relationship of my life. There is no lying in kink – the truth gets forced to the surface.

There are more embarrassing fluids that can escape you in an evening, believe me.

Later in the night, just when I thought things were winding down, Dragongirl bent me over a chair, tied me to it, secured my hands behind my back, and put a lycra hood over my head (which is a little something I picked up while I was in Japan – but had not until then actually used). I sank back down into subspace in a matter of seconds. The hood intensified the experience on two levels – it gave me an opportunity to completely disappear, and it gave me a break from being ‘me’.

See, I get sick of myself. During a scene, I hate being pulled from my reverie to answer a question or assure someone that I’m ‘okay’. Because the submissive side of myself doesn’t care for talk, or for reassuring people, or for being congenial. It just wants to roam, unchecked, unscrutinised. Do you know what a relief it is, not to have to smile, not to have to be nice, switched on, polite, funny, erudite, responsible? To go fully, quickly, towards that welcoming black, to give someone my body, to leave it behind?

To not have to apologise.

I know Dragongirl loves to hit people, and she knows I love to be hit. It works.

Towards the end of the night, Pan had to go.

“You’re crazy!” he said, all grin and sparkle.

“No I’m not,” I said. “Oh wait. Yes I am.”