By Lisabet SaraiOkay, so I was supposed to post today, not a week ago as I did, stomping on poor Garce's post. These things happen. I was trying to get the post pre-scheduled, you know, getting on top of my To-Do List ... Anyway, if you haven't read that post, entitled Stories We Tell Ourselves, I invite you to do so.
Meanwhile, today's my official posting day and of course I can't keep quiet...!
I just want to remind all readers that if you enjoy the discussions on this blog, you might want to join the ERWA email discussion lists. On the Writers list, we share our thoughts and information about all sorts of writing-related topics. Recent threads have included: self-editing - when to stop; reality versus fantasy in the portrayal of BDSM; how to write convincing dialogue; first versus third person POV; how to motivate yourself to finish what you start.
The Storytime list is our on-line critique group. Members post works in progress as well as comments and suggestions on other authors' submissions. It's very civil and strongly moderated - even the tenderest ego will not be shattered, yet at the same time you can get some fabulous insights into how to improve your writing. As an added benefit, our esteemed editors select the best stories, flashers and poems each month and invite the authors to publish them in the ERWA Gallery.
The Parlor list is just for fun - chit-chat with other ERWA members about anything under the sun. (However, posts do tend to stray toward sexual topics pretty frequently!)
To join any or all of these lists, follow the instructions here.
Let me finish up by posting one of my own favorite flashers - from the old days when flashers were strictly 100 words. I especially like it because it's about writing.
By Lisabet Sarai
"I like your poems," she said, leaning closer across the cafe table, so that he could see the shadowed hollow between her breasts where the candlelight did not reach. "I like your images. I can taste them, roll them around on my tongue. They catch in my throat like unshed tears."
He sipped his chianti, adjusted his glasses, pretended to ignore her stealthy hand on his thigh. Her fingers crept over his chinos, aiming for the swelling at his root. He thought of rejection slips, the dirty laundry scattered round his flat, the bills waiting to be paid. Useless. None of these mundane devices could prevail against her blonde adoration.
He stood like iron. Her triumphant hand claimed him. "I like the way you can write 'fuck'," she said, "and make it into a poem."