Hashtag Procrastination

Thoughts become things. I said I was going to put some smutty smut in my story, and voila! It just wrote itself. I was not prepared. Anyone who knows me will not be prepared. I'm thinking about using a pseudonym.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. Remember about two posts ago when I said I don't like to leave the house because it really makes me tired and I can't work? (I'm paraphrasing) well...I haven't done a lick of work all weekend and the problem with procrastination is once it overtakes you; its difficult to escape. Like, I'm just like, "Annemarie! get to work. Now!", using my sternest voice. So far it hasn't taken yet.

I did write a bit more on The Swamp and I'm very excited about where that story is taking me. It should be done by week's end. After that, well its up to you.

Smutty McSmuttington

I'm being paid to write Porn without Plot. Its funny to me because I read it all the time in the fanfictions...

 but I never expected that I would get a chance to write it; let alone get paid for it. I'm not really an expert at it; usually what I do is I let my hand get on with it and disengage my brain. Just let 'er rip. Usually when given free reign my fingers have really dirty minds.

Kind of mindless and passionate and going straight for the lizard brain inside of you...perhaps I'll give you a taste in my next post. We'll see.

Hi. My Name is...

I was supposed to give myself a day off today. I had a meeting to attend on the other side of town; might as well be the back of beyond it was so far. So I figured what with cramping and shit; I would be good for nothing for the rest of the night by the time I got home.

 Yet. Here I am, its 1am and I still haven't gone to sleep. Been 'updating my information' on the book sites, writing a post on facebook about it, and now, here I am on what is fast becoming my writing diary, updating you on what a writing addict looks like.

Addiction runs in my family; its usually the bad kind with alcohol and shit. I guess I missed that boat. I thought I'd escaped it entirely until I started writing. Now I write until my arm is aching so much I can't write anymore. I'm thinking about getting that technology in that movie starring Tom Cruise or Denzel Washington...some hollywood big wig playing paralysed; he had this microphone thing he used to type things into the computer by talking.

 I think that would be such a handy device to have no? Though my voice would sooner or later go hoarse too I suppose. So I'm thinking maybe I should write just two sentences before I sleep. I've told myself that before. Usually I end up writing until 6am and then forcing myself to sleep. Its a problem.

I've decided I'm definitely making The Swamp an R-rated feature. Some kinky supernatural sex and definitely some violence. 

Its only fitting. I'm an adult after all; my fave is Rihanna. I owe it to myself. Bitch Better Have My Money.

Writing...The Process, The Writer's Block, The Everything

So a few years ago a story came to me, and asked me to write it. It began with Mya, a black girl, high school age; a loner much like me, but a lot more sassy yet quiet with it. Wait a minute...that's also like me. Am I writing a story about myself? Except that I'm not seventeen and my name isn't Mya. I don't want to believe I have that level of 'M.Night douchieness' as one of my favourite fictional writer characters said, so I'm gonna go with no.

Anyway, Mya was having issues from being in the bulls eye of Small Louisiana Town's version of 'Mean Girls' to well, other more let's say universally relevant to humanity issues. So seeing as I need to come up with a publication date for this book and so you haven't read it; I'll stop there. What I wanted to say is that this book seemed to have grown, sprouted infants all over the place, taken directions I wasn't expecting but am helpless to follow...in other words, its slowly becoming its own alternate universe. A universe I hope to share with you and hopefully you'll get as lost in it as I have.

The challenge with getting everything out there like now, today, no waiting, is that the more I write, the more outside jobs I get to write. and sometimes, though not often, I have to eat. and sleep. People sometimes want to see me. It eats into that writing time that's so limited to begin with. We're getting there though. Stay with me.

We Changed the Cover

The New and Improved Between Death and Heaven

Excerpt From The Next Book

“I can’t believe you brought me here to be healed by some wild-haired crazy old lady!”, Roy Lestrange complained to his mother as she pulled him impatiently along.

“I told you, she’s not just some old lady; she’s a witch and she can make you better.”

“The fact that you believe in witchcraft ma…I mean this is 1989”, Roy complained even as he followed her through the trees to the ramshackle house he could see through it. It looked like it was standing strictly by the Grace of God or maybe some magic the witch was using to hold up her residence. Roy didn’t get it; if she had access to all this magic and shit, why didn’t she just magic herself a mansion and a fortune? Why live like an animal in the middle of the bayou with her equally crazy granddaughter?

His mother reached the door and knocked tentatively. They waited nervously for someone to come to the door. It was opened by a wizened old woman with a halo of grey hair; she smiled at them in welcome as if she’d been expecting them…

“Come in”, she said and led the way into her house. Roy was expecting to see the skulls of babies decorating the mantelpiece, maybe with snakeskin covering the walls. But no, the furniture was threadbare but neat. An aubusson rug, clearly old but well kept lay on the living room floor. The couch was covered with throw pillows and a crocheted cover. There were old school pictures on the wall of men and women dressed in old fashioned clothing. A tantalizing smell of freshly baked something emanated from behind the wooden kitchen counter. Roy’s mouth watered and he wondered if the witch would offer them something to eat before the day’s business began.

She led them past the living room however, toward some narrow stairs. The led up to an attic where all the good stuff was. Animal skulls, and chicken feathers, an altar with some sort of statue on it surrounded by offerings of rice and tobacco, black coffee and yams, a straw hat and a cane, pennies, palm oil and roses. This was more like Roy was expecting.

“What can I do for you?” the witch asked her voice surprisingly soft and compassionate.

“My Roy is sick Nannane. Could you heal him?” Roy’s mother asked diffidently.

The witch held out her hand to Roy and he understood that she wanted him to put his hand in hers. He was scared though; he didn’t want to do it. But his mother narrowed her eyes at him and he stretched out his hand and tentatively touched the witch’s with it. She closed her eyes, humming softly under her breath. A warmth suffused his hand where she touched it and then spread outwards towards the rest of him. He felt himself become languid, relaxed and at peace. His eyes closed of their own volition. It was like receiving the gentlest massage in human history.

“You have the wasting disease”, the witch intoned, “What are they calling it…AIDS?”

Roy jumped in shock. Nobody knew that; nobody said that. His mama didn’t know, she couldn’t have told. How had this witch guessed? He opened his eyes and pulled his hand out of hers, standing quickly to leave. His mother was watching him; a sad look in her eyes. The witch’s eyes were serene. She sat watching him, waiting for him to do what he would.

“How do you know that?” he whispered.

The witch just smiled slightly and held out her hands, “I don’t know if I can heal you; that is not in my hands. But I can make you feel better”, she said.

Roy just stared at her, “You can’t…tell anyone. You can’t…”, he stammered.

The witch shook her head, “My work is just as confidential as any priest…or doctor. You need not worry that anyone will know of your illness from me.”

“What can you do for me that the doctors can’t?” Roy demanded.

The witch shrugged, “The doctor gives you medicine for your body. You should continue to take those. I deal with a more holistic approach – your soul, your mind and your body – I call on the healing spirits to help you to feel better, and give you herbs to help your body and soul open up to that healing spirit.”

“I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo”, Roy said belligerently.

“Indeed”, the witch said, seemingly unperturbed.

“Roy, will you just sit and let the lady do what she can for you?” his mother cut in irritably.

Roy stared back at her with a frown but the habit of obedience was long ingrained and he sat back down, “Okay”, he said.

You Get a Book! You Get a Book! You Get a Book!

I don't hardly know what to do with this space. I heard that if you're an author, you need a website; and this is mine. This is my first post and I think I'll make it a giveaway post. I'm giving away a copy of my book to my first three commenters. Make it  good, make me laugh if you can; and the free book is yours.

Cheers.

Annemarie.