Get yourself some Sinful Pleasures today. You deserve them.
You should get to know the work of Sonni de Soto.
No no, you really should get to know the work of Sonni de Soto. Read on, read more, read everything you can with her name attached to it – including the brand new anthology of erotic short stories from Sinful Press, Sinful Pleasures. In her story in that collection, Sonni reminds us all that life is full of potential if we only dare to sense it, and that sometimes, words can build worlds, can build mindsets and mindscapes and bond us and bind us and make us new.
Kinksters one and all, I am delighted and honoured to share space in an anthology with Sonni de Soto, so here she is, in her own words.
Not About the Whips and Chains
Often, when we talk about kink, it’s always in context of certain acts and toys and roles. Images like whips and chains and spanking and bondage come to mind. We think of leather-clad Doms and collar-wearing subs.
And, while there’s nothing wrong with those images, that’s not what kink is.
Or at least not all it is.
While all those things are wonderful parts of the kink and fetish world, they are not what defines it. BDSM, for me, is a mindset, an approach to sex, love, relationships, and the wider world as a whole. It’s about looking at the world and seeing possibilities not everyone else does. We didn’t create power structures or bondage or crops; we simply see them as more than they are. We look at the everyday and glimpse the possibility of play within it. And that possibility of play can extend far beyond just the usual accoutrements; it can encompass just about anything. While we kinksters love our toys and games, no specific act or implement is necessary to do kink. All you really need is an open mind and a partner who’s just as eager to play.
In my new story, “On the Line,” in Sinful Press’s new anthology Sinful Pleasures, I wanted to explore that idea by making traditional play, as we’re used to seeing it, impossible. Hard to wield a whip or tie a rope when your characters are miles apart. But kink, even from other sides of a city, is always possible. When you think of BDSM as a mindset and not a set of materials, even when touch isn’t on the table, play still can be.
Dirty talk and phone sex often get a bad rep, seen as awkward or forced or corny, but they’re great ways to explore a partner’s fantasies, as well as your own, in a safe space with very few consequences. By constructing imaginary scenes with each other, you can learn how your partner likes to touch and be touched. You can learn what their favorite sex acts are or what they’ve always longed to try. You can discover limits or new possibilities that you never knew were there. And, particularly for those with less experience, it can be a way to foster intimacy and boost confidence, not to mention build anticipation.
And, of course, for kinksters, it’s always one helluva fun game to play!
For more from Sonni de Soto, check out her stories in the upcoming Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 Vol. 2, coming out later in July, Sexy Little Pages’ Goodbye Moderation: Gluttony, and Cleis Press’s Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink, available for pre-sale now.
“Imagine us,” her voice whispered in his ear. “Imagine us in your room. On your bed.”
Chris let out a sigh and tried. His mind focused, picturing her painted and so-mobile mouth forming her words. He imagined the familiar flush that always swept over her cheeks right before he took her mouth, that visible sign of her excitement that never failed to fuel his own.
And then there, in his room, on his bed, in his mind, like magic, she was laid seductive and stretched-out before him. His hands itched to grab the curves of her body. The swell of her sweeping hips. The pointed tips of her delectable breasts. The length of her long legs. The soft spread of sun-ripened skin, that always held the sweet scent of citrus, over the generous lushness of her body.
He could hear his own breath rasp as his mind transported her from her dorm room to the foot of his bed.
“Good,” he heard her coo in his ear. “Now that you have me there, whatever will you do with me?” Her mockingly naïve tone left him feeling provoked and promised.
“I want you naked.”
Sinful Press welcomes you to lose yourself in Sinful Pleasures.
Join us as we weave our way from mainstream erotic romance to surreal sex-filled dreamscapes and everything in between, created by some of the best new and established voices in the erotica genre.
Janine Ashbless, Ella Scandal, Sonni de Soto, Jo Henny Wolf, Lily Harlem, Lady Divine, Gail Williams, Samantha MacLeod, Tony Fyler, Ellie Barker, Lisa McCarthy
Sonni de Soto is a kinkster of color who is also an English major and graduated from the University of Minnesota. She also won the third place 2008 International Aeon Award story winner (Published in Albedo One Issue 38). Sonni has two BDSM erotica novels published, The Taming School with Sizzler Editions and Show Me, Sir with Sinful Press. She also has BDSM erotica short stories inRiverdale Ave Books’s First Annual Geeky Kink Anthology, The Sexy Librarian’s anthology For the Men (and the Women who Love Them), and Sexy Little Pages’ Sacred & Profane and soon Rule #34 anthologies,as well and several others.
Get yourself some Sinful Pleasures today. You deserve them.
Tony’s delighted, not to say amazed, to join a host of excellent erotica-writers in the new anthology of short stories from Sinful Press – Sinful Pleasures. As of today, you can download this hot anthology from Amazon, or go the old-fasioned route and buy the paperback, either from Amazon or direct from Sinful Press.
Although very much the rookie in the pack, Tony’s story, Lazy Sunday, appears alongside the work of established authors in the field, including Janine Ashbless. Needless to say, it’s a very different kind of fantasy to usual. Check it out.
There’ll also be a blog tour to support the launch of the anthology, so watch this space for details of one of the other stories in this incredible new collection of hot romance and breathtaking sex.
The fear is strong in this one, says Tony-wan Kenobi.
Shakespeare knew a thing or two about the human condition. Most of his tragedies are still popular today because they show the lives of individuals who have everything they could possibly need for happiness, but are undone by one central and eventually all-consuming flaw. Othello is undone by jealousy, Macbeth by ambition, Romeo and Juliet by the rashness of young love, Hamlet by indecision.
But for the ultimate popular tragedy of fear, we have to look not to Shakespeare but to Lucas, and the story of Anakin and Padme.
Anakin is a child of unparalleled destiny, the Star Wars equivalent of a ‘great man’ in Shakespeare, but in the three Star Wars prequels, we get to see the growth of the emotional cancer that will undo his life, the lives of everyone he loves, and the lives of half the galaxy to boot. A child of slavery, he has preternatural skills that see him rise from obscurity to become the favourite of first Qui-Gon Jinn, then Obi-Wan Kenobi in turn (and there are tragedies in turn to be written of the hubris of both men), but Anakin’s path is ultimately guided not by the two would-be father figures in his life, but by the exotic and the stabilising forces of its women. Apparently ‘begotten, not created,’ he has never had a father figure in his life until Qui-Gon takes him under his wing, but his mother, Shmi, has been all the stability and wisdom he knows. Then he meets Padme Amidala, and a whole other mystery of women is if not unlocked to him, then at least released, set free in his mind and body – an admiration of her beauty and her kindness, her cleverness in setting up doubles to fool potential assassins, and her strength of character. Like him, she’s come from almost nowhere to a position of greatness, and is determined to use it while she has it for the betterment of her people. Like him, she may well be out of her depth, but she tries. Every day, she makes the effort to engage in the politics her people need, in an attempt to outflank the forces of the Trade Federation and its encroachment on her planet. For her part, Padme sees a simplicity, a quiet honesty in the young Anakin that allows her to simply be Padme the girl, not Amidala the queen.
Anakin goes away from everything he’s known in life for two reasons. Firstly, the thrill of the wider universe, as most distinctly embodied by the glamour that is Padme. But secondly, to become a great man who can return and free his mother from her bondage. When that great hope is turned to ashes, we see the beginnings of the dark side that will eventually overwhelm these doomed lovers. No victory against others, no mastery of his emotions will ever bring his mother back, and something that is brittle inside Anakin begins to crack with the death of his mother. When a man holds great power in his hands, beware the influence of the mundane tragedies of life. The pain of his mother’s death in spite of his power and greatness, that equalising mortality that touches even him, becomes a flame, a cold flame of fear in the man destined to bring balance to the Force.
As time moves on and Anakin grows up, while Padme, to be fair, appears not to age at anything like the same rate, the two become close on a whole new level, the padawan learner who sees the quick way to do everything, who knows he has more power in him than those who try to teach him things, finding calm and quietness in the former queen, now an ambassador. When they reconnect, Padme still finds Anakin to have that simplicity that comes from easy prowess, and that and his increasing power call to her, despite the dangers of their love in a galaxy still sleepwalking into darkness. Love is forbidden to a Jedi for purely practical reasons – strong emotional attachments unbalance the judgment, and make us do the wrong things for the right reasons, and vice versa. But as love grows between Anakin and Padme, so too does the fear in his heart, fanned by the whispers of his friend, Chancellor Palpatine. As strong as his love is, one day, it will all be turned to excoriating pain by the death of Padme, and more than anything in the cosmos, Anakin fears that pain, that galaxy-consuming pain and loneliness that comes when those we love die and leave us behind.
The rest of the relationship between Padme and Anakin is almost a philosophical play, she telling him that yes, one day she’ll die, and so might he, but that’s how life works for every ordinary person – the point is to live and love each other while they’re here and, as it turns out, pass a legacy of love on to their children. But Anakin can’t be soothed by the platitudes that apply to ‘ordinary people’ because for over a decade, people have been telling him that he isn’t one of them, that he’s special, and especially powerful. There must be something he can do, there must be. Like Coriolanus, or Julius Caesar, or even Doctor Faustus, he becomes more and more obsessed with one goal – in his case defeating death, not (and here’s the irony of immature fear) especially for the sake of Padme, but to save himself from the wailing, soul-ripping pain and loneliness of the loss of her. He lost one woman who was his whole world when he was just a child. He will not lose another now he is a powerful man.
The irony bites through their lives, but in seeking to do whatever is necessary to keep her by his side, he becomes more and more a stranger to her, and the simplicity and honesty for which she loves him is snuffed out by secrecy and darkness and an increasing willingness to do unthinkable things. In his quest to keep her, he changes into a man she wouldn’t want to keep, and he loses her while she’s still alive, a fact which pushes him over the edge into the depths of the Dark Side, and, like any lover spurned, he rages at the cosmos for the wrongness of things. Far from getting roaringly drunk and falling into bed with the first warm body he finds though, Anakin goes the intense route, embarking on a killing spree that seals his fate, and ultimately seals his broken, burning body in the bio-suit that gives the galaxy the face of Darth Vader.
Padme gives birth to her two babies and then – in true Shakespearean style – dies immediately, her heart broken by the enormity of her love betrayed, and never mind the raising of the children.
Ultimately, Padme and Anakin are a couple destroyed by fear and insecurity, and by an unwillingness to live in the moment of their happiness by one partner. They’re an object lesson in enjoying the now, and in making the most of every moment of shared happiness, rather than dwelling on the pain that some potential ending down the line might bring. The ending will take care of itself, as and when and how it will. But if you’re lucky enough to find someone who loves you, love them back today in any way you can.
NB – avoid the killing spree if you can. Just a tip.
That’s the story of Wall-E and EVE, the story of a love between a good-‘hearted’ regular Joe, and the hottest, coolest, most ass-kicking environmentalist on the planet. Love, it tells us, is a matter of who you are, how you feel, what you share, and what you do when the chips are down, rather than what you look like or how high-falutin’ your job may be. It doesn’t matter if you’re rusty, with lappy caterpillar tracks and a squeak and a sense of purpose which others might see as pathetic and hopeless. Be you, live your truth, and love can find you.
Wall-E, for those who’ve never seen the movie, is a plucky, resilient trash-compacting robot, left alone on the planet that once was Earth, to tidy up the garbage heap it’s become by the time human beings leave it and head out to the stars. He’s the least considered, most forgotten janitor in the history of the world, but he doesn’t whinge, doesn’t wail about his lot in life – he does what he was built to do – searching the garbage, compacting what he can, making use of what’s around, playing with his buddy, a cockroach, and more or less filling his days with work and what could be described as a positive mental attitude. He’s been doing his job, uncomplaining, for 700 years by the time we meet him.
It’s only when Wall-E allows himself some chillaxing time at the end of a day that we see what’s really missing in his life – observing a view, or a movie, he’s come to understand the need for someone to share it with. Seven hundred years of thankless, relentless slog on a mostly barren planet has taught him loneliness.
But loneliness is just another part of the job, and Wall-E powers up the next day and gets on with his work. In fact the movie takes great pains to show us that loneliness is by no means all that seven hundred years of cleaning up the crud left behind by an absentee humanity has taught him – in the great traditions of both Disney heroes like Dumbo, Pinocchio, Bambi and Baymax from Big Hero 6, and other unconventional film heroes like Number 5 in Short Circuit, ET and Chappie, we’re shown early on that he’s developed an insatiable curiosity, a taste for music, an understanding of kindness to other creatures, and a sense of stewardship that goes beyond emulation, both in terms of the giant skyscrapers he builds and of the world in general. When he finds what looks to be something entirely new – a living plant on the dead garbage-world – he doesn’t pluck it, doesn’t allow harm to come to it, but takes it and the soil in which it’s grown home in an old boot.
We’re also shown early on that Wall-E in himself and his curiosity is special, unique, the last of his kind – other Wall-E units are shown dotted about the cityscape, having stopped in their tracks one day. Wall-E, our Wall-E keeps on going, getting a daily solar recharge and going out to do his job, with the kind of chirpy (but not too chirpy) sticktoitiveness which the initial American audience, and then the audience around the world would be proud to think was an emulation of some of the best characteristics in humanity, contrasting sharply against many of the worst traits we have as a species, personified by the actual humans in the movie. This one little robot has kept on keeping on, powered by sunlight and that curiosity for new things, doing the jobs we never cared quite enough to do. That, in essence, is the ‘heart’ of Wall-E, the thing that deserves to find a companion to watch his love stories with.
None of that would matter of course if there wasn’t someone around to see the beauty of his heart. Enter EVE, a super-duper slick search and rescue droid, being sent out by ‘humanity’ to find signs of sustainable growth in Earth’s planetary soil.
Their relationship is built on a realistic, humanistic pathway – he first falls for her when he sees her free of the responsibilities of work, flying and effectively dancing like there’s nobody watching, and the beauty and expressive creativity of it enflames his curiosity about her. Slowly, they grow to accept each other’s presence on the planet, and some similarities emerge between them despite their technological differences – she, like him, giggles at the tickling presence of his cockroach friend in her systems. And when he saves her from a smogstorm and takes her home to his place, she gets to see everything he’s done, and he, like many guys trying to impress a girl throughout history, shows her his best treasures – the movie that he watches, the lighter that she instantly ignites, bringing a new flame to their relationship, the simple joy of popping bubble wrap and of dancing. His ingenuity impresses and his klutziness makes her laugh. But when he presents her with his ultimate prize, his plant in its boot, it rocks her world on a whole new level, and she shuts down. Then we see Wall-E the carer, keeping her dry and getting wet (and electrocuted) himself, taking her with him when he has to go somewhere, protecting her from future storms. All he knows is that she’s something absolutely special, and that he’d really like to hold her hand. That inspires him to keep her safe, and when she gets ‘EVEnapped’ by a spaceship, Wall-E the ultimate homebody doesn’t think twice before leaving his home and cockroach buddy behind, and clinging to the outside of a spaceship to be near her.
When they get to her home, the spaceship Axiom, their relationship goes through its mid-phase difficulty, but there’s a balance to it – she didn’t understand his world, but he kept her safe on it. He doesn’t understand hers either, and gets them both into monstrous amounts of trouble, but some robotic sense of loyalty, plus the mystery of what has happened to the ‘missing’ plant, leads her to keep him safe too, and his continuing sense of devotion, both to her and to the things that are important to her, breed in her a growing robotic ‘affection’ that sees them face down the threats of a system rigged to keep the status quo…quoing, and makes them fight, both side by side and separately, to expose the truth that Earth is once more capable of sustaining life, challenging and hard work though the revelation will be for the human crew of the Axiom, seven centuries into their ‘five year mission.’
They may be from different ends of the technological spectrum, but Wall-E’s curiosity, his sense of humour, his dedication to EVE and everything that matters tso her, extends a bridge between them, and Eve, to her credit as the ‘senior’ partner in their romance, appreciates the quirkiness of him. Sure, he’s dirty and from the wrong side of the tracks, but who else brings her bubble wrap and Christmas lights, who sings her silly songs and wants to hold her hand, and most of all, who will absolutely have her back against a system that tells her she’s defective just because she’s inconvenient? This story of robotic romance hits many very human beats, because stripped of its ecological theme (which incidentally is superbly delivered), and its metallic shells (and even really its notion of gender – we only really identify Wall-E as male and EVE as female because the names carry male and female connotations in our understanding), this is a story with which we can all fundamentally identify. Perhaps geeks identify with it more than most, feeling that we’ve all been in Wall-E’s caterpillar tracks, smitten from afar by the most amazing creature in creation, but really speaking, it’s the Prince and the Showgirl, or Aladdin, or Notting Hill, re-framed and delivered in a way that strips away the importance of wealth and takes that relationship back to what it really is – first love, playground love, love so pure and all-consuming that you’d follow the loved one through fire if they needed you to. The kind of love that childhood sweethearts are made of, if they ever find each other, and can appreciate each other for their individual strengths and quirks and oddness and love and loyalty, even when they drive each other crazy or…y’know…accidentally electrocute each other. Wall-E and EVE are a couple that probably grow old together, each doing their thing in their own way, and coming back together a little before shutdown each day, for a movie, and to share the new things they’ve experienced that day, and maybe even for a cockroach tickle, before powering down hand in hand, ready to reboot the next morning and do it all again. And that, when you get right down to it, is the stuff that Happily Ever Afters are made of.
Ahh, the Simpsons. America’s first family, they were teaching the world how to laugh at itself long before the Kardashians were a glint in a plastic surgeon’s eye, and despite being yellow, having a finger missing and being stuck with creepily Dorian Gray-style unaging children, they’re still more real than all the Real Housewives of wherever-the-hell-and-why-do-we-care.
The Simpsons are successful for a three-fingered handful of reasons. They’re relentlessly inventive, with a townfull of characters to keep the plotting fresh and suggest plenty of real-world and pop culture pastiche. They’re rarely afraid to be funny, even at the expense of sacred cows, and perhaps most particularly, the emotions almost always feel real. They’re frequently undercut with comedy, but not where they need to stand. Bart and Lisa annoy the young bejesus out of each other, and aren’t afraid to fight like normal siblings do, but they’re also, ultimately, realistic as brother and sister, able to see their connection as sometimes more important than their differences. The relationships rarely descend into schmaltz except for the purposes of undercutting, but The Simpsons are not afraid to let emotion have its moments.
If that’s true of Bart and Lisa, it’s so much more the case with Marge and Homer, the mother and father of the brood. They are, if anything, the best televisual representation in generations of the difference between love and romance, the difference between being in love, all hearts and flowers and grand romantic gestures, and loving someone, patiently, through the ups and downs of life.
Let’s make no bones about this – Marge Bouvier was going places. She had the brains and, compared to her two sisters at least, she had the beauty and the joie de vivre in the Bouvier clan, however much she was scarred by her mother’s socially conservative (and, more to the point, socially accepted at the time) instructions to take all her negativity and doubt and push it deep down inside herself. She had just begun to find her voice as a student when she discovered Homer J Simpson. To be fair, even then, it was hardly love at first sight – at least not on Marge’s part. Despite agreeing to go to the prom with Homer, she went off with the slicker, more handsome Artie Ziff on the night. Only when Ziff proved himself to be a creep did Marge really see Homer, and when she did, she was impressed by the simplicity of his adoration and his need of her.
Homer J Simpson is a not wholly inaccurate distillation of white male American confidence and self-belief. He embodies the shortcut, the get-rich-quick, the half-assed at the expense of real applied effort, and he succeeds in spite of himself, a point that’s been made in the show’s universe more than once. He’s not afraid to try anything, and expects to be good at it irrespective of not having any experience, and he never does anything as much of a downer as ‘learning from his past.’ In one sense of course this can make him a wrong-headed, self-aggrandising, entitled boor of a man, and in his marriage to Marge, we’ve winced at his actions many times – from forgetting anniversaries to dashing the hopes of young daughter Lisa, to stealing the thunder of his diligent, artistic wife by suddenly becoming the infant terrible of the fashionable art scene, to getting the Simpsons deported from a couple of handfuls of countries, events, and holiday destinations.
But, and this is the important thing, his dunderheaded refusal to learn that he’s not the be-all and end-all is endearing to Marge, and to us, because it represents something positive at the core – the have-a-go, grab-life-by-the-throat spirit that says to each of us, yes, just maybe, we too can tour with a rock band, jump a gorge on a bike, become a famous artist, go into space or win the love of our life. Maybe we can’t, maybe we’ll fall flat on our face or fall painfully into the gorge – but we can’t know that for certain until we try. Homer’s winning of Marge, and their subsequent life together, is proof that there are no ‘leagues’ in love and attraction except the ones we construct in our own heads. Anything is possible if you let your heart speak through you.
That said, it’s also important that Homer’s brash self-centred stride through the world depends on everything being all right with Marge and the kids. He assumes it is until they forcibly tell him it isn’t, but if and when that happens, Homer always, always means well, and wants to fix it. That sense of the importance of having a happy wife, and kids that at least aren’t heartbroken goes through the flabby yellow core of Homer J Simpson, perhaps stemming from his own upbringing of heartbreak when his mother left, and the brusque wisdom of his dad. He takes it as a point of principle to do his best for Marge and the kids. Even at the expense of his hopes and dreams, Homer does the right thing – as when he had finally achieved his pin-money dream job, and then Maggie was announced. Homer felt the wrench of pride, certainly, but he ate it, grovelled to get his family-supporting job at the power plant back, and sentenced himself to a life of drudgery again, because of that fierce commitment to his wife and family. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, he gets things wrong, he lets them down in his self-important, macho strides into the world, he makes Marge cringe sometimes in the execution of some hare-brained scheme or other. But that’s what she sees in him – that commitment to doing the right thing, and that absolute adoration of her.
Both the senior Simpsons in their time and their turn have felt the pull of temptation, the opportunity of another life, the hope for more with someone else than they have together. But both in their own way know that what they have together is strong, is special, and is worth sacrificing other dreams for. Homer’s goodness is simple, and in a complicated world, Marge responds to it. Marge’s kindness is pure, and Homer breathes it like he breathes oxygen. Ultimately, they’re in this world together for the long run, prepared to back each other even through their doubts, their dull patches, their fights and silences. Marge and Homer are a couple of genuine grown-ups, not afraid to still act like teenagers now and then. More than the laundry-white but other-judging Flanders and Lovejoys, and certainly more than the Van Houtens, who went the other way and found they didn’t have enough in common to weather the storms of mid-life opportunity, Marge and Homer are a functional, loving couple who will grow (at least in flash-forward) old together. They’re the epitome of long-term love in an uncertain TV world.
Most of us have been Ginny Weasley at some point in our lives. We’ve had that special person on the fringes of our world that makes us awestruck, about whom we bore the pants off everyone we know, but around whom we can’t speak a word, for fear they might actually…y’know…hear us or something.
Ginny, when we first meet her, is just ten, and is the shy girl who knows all about the wonder that is Harry Potter, so powerful even as a baby that he could defeat the greatest dark wizard of the age. When Harry becomes best friends with, of all people, her brother, Ginny is both delighted and mortified, in the way only the young can be. When the great Harry Potter talks to her like she’s a normal person, even an equal, Ginny runs away, unable to cope with the wow factor and the sudden pressure of having to speak to him. You wouldn’t, perhaps, think of them as a natural-born couple.
When Ginny starts her schooling at Hogwarts, Harry remains an object of amazement and wonder to her, and Ginny has a desperate journey – writing all her feelings down in the mysterious diary that answers back, which, in a cogent metaphor of false friendship, uses all her secrets against both her and Harry. When he and brother Ron rescue her from a basilisk, Ginny’s mortification actively increases – not only has her hero had to rescue her (way to go, Girl Power!), but she’s the one who actually put him in danger in the first place by telling the false friend diary all about him and his story.
It’s not really until The Order of the Phoenix that Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter begin to seem like there might be something to them beyond her devastating girlish pre-and-early teen crush. After seeing something of the world, Ginny grows up a little, getting a non-Harry boyfriend, which allows her for the first time to talk to him as an equal. Where (to be fair, following her mother’s example) Ginny has always been one thing to her brothers – spirited and a devil with a bat-bogey charm, as is almost demanded of her by little sisters of brothers throughout the ages – and another thing entirely to Harry, in The Order of the Phoenix, while still too young to be allowed into the Order’s meetings, she’s able to be in a room with Harry without blushing and running away. In fact, it’s there that we get the first sense of Ginny having that most crucial of equalities, the equality of anger, when she tears the increasingly reclusive Harry a new one for having neither the balls nor the gumption to confide in her, given her history of being possessed by Voldemort and his fear that he too has been a vessel of the Dark Lord, used to attack her father. It’s in the quiet honesty of their shared emotions about that fear – the fear of being forced to do something against their will, of possibly hurting someone that they care about because they weren’t strong enough to fight off their attacker – that something new begins to form between Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, something not born of legends or objective adoration, but born of the bond of survivors. Make no mistake, the violation of them both by Voldemort has an analogue right there in the non-wizarding world, though it’s one that might spoil readers’ enjoyment of the books and movies. The idea of an adult using their bodies for his own ends, and of the inherent violation, the misplaced guilt, the sense of isolation, of believing no-one will want or need them around any more, is true, and real, and horrifying, and Harry and Ginny begin to bond over their ability to share those emotions, those feelings with each other, when they can’t make anyone who hasn’t been in that situation understand how it feels.
As Order of the Phoenix goes on, Ginny comes more and more out of her shell – giving Dumbledore’s Army its name, and showing a rare perspicacity in its choice: “It’s their greatest fear,” she remarks, cutting to the heart of the opposition’s weakness. She also surprises everyone, and impresses Harry, with some of her spellcasting prowess.
But none of this explains why Harry and Ginny end up as lovers, as partners, and as parents. That’s relatively simple, though. Apart from their bonding over what Voldemort has done to them, Ginny is removed enough from the strum und drang of Harry’s seven year fight against the Dark Lord that, when he needs a place of calm, of quiet, of simple understanding and acceptance, it’s not Hermione he turns to. Not Luna. Not anyone, but Ginny, who doesn’t demand explanations, who isn’t complicated by the fight, who knows the burden he carries, and only asks to share it for as long as she can, to lighten his life and bring his smile back to him. Peculiarly, by books six and seven, it’s Ginny Weasley who understands Harry Potter best of all, Ginny who sees beyond the hype he never asked for, and the name he makes for himself, beyond the aloof isolationism and the sense of responsibility, who sees Harry as just Harry, and knows what he needs. She never tries to push herself into the centre of the action, never becomes something else for Harry to feel he has to worry about, but she’s more than ready, come the Battle of Hogwarts, to do her last full measure of devotion in the fight. She has that simplicity of approach – some things must be fought, and she will fight them as she can. She’s invested in his battle, but separate from it too, the place in a crowded, complicated wizarding world where the would-be auror can find peace and an equal, a force of nature who’s always been there, but who stepped out of the crowd to change his world.
In him, she sees not Harry Potter the legend of her childhood, not the rock star wizard, but the man who does what he thinks is right, even when it’s so hard than any reasonable man would fail or buckle, would take the easy path. In a very real sense, it’s Ginny Weasley who shows us as readers or viewers the moral of the Harry Potter stories. She sees the boy become the man who does the right thing, not the easy thing, and loves him for it. And we love them both right back as a result.
I have come to one inevitable conclusion: I would be a useless baker.
All that kneading and proving and shaping and re-proving and waiting, and waiting, and waaaaaaaaaiiiiiting.
Were I, in some parallel universe, to end up on the Great British Bake-Off, I’d be pacing, and crouching, and pacing, and drumming my fingers on countertops, and hitting things with wooden spoons (probably including fellow competitors), and kicking the proving drawer, and reading three books and pondering the nature of spatulas and whistling tunelessly and driving everybody else as far up the wall as I was.
I know this to be true, because, for the first time in recent history, I am being made to wait.
Yes. I know. I’ve got one book out with one agent. I should be you, with your multiple books, multiple agents, Venn diagrams of rejection, lists of people against whom bloody revenge will be enacted when you’re rich and bestseller famous, short stories by the sackful with magazines around the globe, yadda yadda yadda. I’m also aware of the advice I recently gave a ghostwriting client, that if he was going to demand the universe bend to his timescales, he fundamentally wasn’t cut out for the traditional publishing route. I know. I know. I know!
But still, the evil little thought-worms burrow through your brain, don’t they? Wonder if he’s read it it yet.
Haven’t heard a peep – and he asked for it.Surely it was at least peepworthy?
Maybe he’s just not that into me…
Read me, damn you! I worked hard on this thing. Validate me!
At which point, all the rational, logical people (which is to say non-writers), give you good, honest, utterly unhelpful advice.
He’s got a life, you know?
How would you feel if someone was pressurising you to validate them?
Have you any idea how much he has to read?
You remember at the conference, agents said they only read new writers in their own time, right? Between breakfast and the office, between the office and dinner. Give the man a break.
Sure, right…Write the next one…
Write the next one while you’re waiting.
All of which, as I say, is perfectly reasonable, logical advice, and all of which makes you want to scream “But I’m DIFFERENT!” The illusion of one’s own difference, of one’s own secret, hidden away literary genius burns, however much you try to tell the world and yourself that it doesn’t, deep down inside you. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have put up with all the nonsense that writing a book entails. You’d have had…well, a life of your own! Your family would remember what you looked like, and wouldn’t have that slightly glazed look on their faces when you emerge periodically from your self-induced isolation to grab a coffee or some toast. Personally speaking, I’d have hair. A working liver. Probably wouldn’t have had to switch to the pointlessness of decaff as the ideas and characters prodded me with sticks to write all through the night. Goddammit, man, validate my existence and answer me!
There comes a point when even a “This is nonsense, go away and live under a stone” answer feels like it would be better that the nothing. The hopeful, hopeful nothing.
That’s the point when you can collapse the waveform of this particular hope and move on to the next one on the list, opening yourself up to the next set of critical boots. But that’s just the masochism of the writer talking. My wife calls it my “Fifty Shades of Writing” instinct.
So what the hell should we do, while the dough of our hope rises, or doesn’t, in someone else’s hands?
Probably, this. Probably getting it out once in a while among a community that doesn’t think we’re stark raving bonkers is the healthy thing to do. It’s probably the thing that saves us going up somewhere high with an automatic weapon.
Write. Any damn thing you can. I know from personal experience that there’s a sense of living in the shadow of one book until you know what, if anything, is happening to it, so I understand it can be hard to “Start the next one” while your mind is still entangled with your current progeny. But don’t let yourself get rusty, or you’ll have a longer journey back to the kind of form of which you’re capable when you do start. Articles, short stories, blog entries, diaries, write any damn thing you can, but write it as if it’s for public consumption, even if it isn’t. Polish it if you can. You never know, it might turn out to have a market down the line.
Resist. Oh my WritingBrothers and ScribeSisters, resist at all costs the urge to tinker. The minute you tinker in a feedback-vacuum, the version that gets accepted or rejected is not the ‘right’ version in your head. When the answer comes, one way or another, tinker your ever-loving hearts out if you need to, if the answer to why a scene never quite worked has come to you. But resist the urge to change what’s on your machine without the feedback of the people you’ve sent it to. That way lie multiple literary dimensions, and it’s the easiest way to get lost in Version-Hell. What’s perhaps more, it’s the easiest way to dodge the pain of rejection, falling back on ‘Ah, but they haven’t seen the tweaked version.’ Take your licks when they come, for everything they’re actually worth.
Plan. You can be a pantser all you like, and absolutely, sometimes, the best, funniest, most dramatic or emotionally intense scenes comes from a blank screen or a blank sheet of paper and absolutely no fixed idea of what the next scene should be. But your next book will be aboutsomething. Answer the question of what. Answer the question of why. Let the characters wander into your mind, look at your answers and kick them around a bit, and see what they look like then. Once you’ve answered the what and why questions, let the spiderwebs begin to form, the connections between one thing and another. Let the world begin to build itself inside your head – ultimately, the only thing that’ll stop you obsessing over your current book is the dynamic force of the next one needing to be written.
Read. Read and read and read. Listen, the world’s a big place, and it’s been around a while. You’re not going to live long enough even to read everything you want to read, but chain-reading’s the only way to get even close. Read widely within your genre, so you know its heartbeat, its must-haves, its already-dones. Read widely outside your genre to bring your difference. Read sideways, read random, read books you’re not even sure you want to read. You never know what might end up feeding in to your worlds, your books in the future. I got what turned out to be a major underpinning factor of my current book from a marked-down, torn-cover book of quantum biology I bought in a post-Christmas sale the year before last. Always allow yourself to be surprised by things you read – after all, it’s not like you’ve got anything else to do while the inbox stays silent and the phone doesn’t ring.
Live. You know you’re probably going to turn into a grumpy, fizzing but strangely uncommunicative hermit once you start your next book. So take time out to reconnect with the people who still love you. Take time out to catch up with people who probably used to love you before you locked yourself away and started shouting at the walls.
Now, you’ll have to excuse me – there’s a woman sitting across from me, raising one eyebrow. I’m fairly sure at some point I was married to her. I should probably try speaking to her in the ‘out-loud’ world.
Hammersmith, Bailey and Hark – Wonderful. Image from PSBrooks.com
That’s it, then. Draft Three, the polishing draft, of Wonderful is complete. After feedback from my editor, the only thing that really hurt was changing the ending, but as it turns out, she was so ridiculously right I’m a little gobsmacked I couldn’t see it myself. So, big thumbs-up to editor Sam on that one, and proof if proof were needed that you should always get a set of professional eyes on your work, even when your day-job is casting a set of professional eyes over other people’s. You’re simply too close to your own work to make solid editorial judgments 100% of the time.
The book’s gone out to a few friends for beta-reading as we speak, and I’m getting some feedback that’s making me think seriously about the beginning. To show the behind-the-scenes action, or to leave it mysterious in the first chapter? Hmm.
It’s possible this is a viable concern, and that the behind-the-scenes…erm…scenes in Chapter 1 are giving a false impression of the book as a whole. But it’s also entirely possible that I’m just finding ways to stall myself from sending the book out into the world, where it has to stand or fall to judgment by others. I might take just one more look at just that first chapter. Then off it goes – I’ve been through the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook today, selecting my first handful of agents to try it out on. After the advice I got at York though, and if I’m honest, the advice I’ve pretty much given myself having read through it for Draft Three, I need to alter the tone of my synopsis and covering letter. I’ve always thought that what I was writing was a comic fantasy. But I’m not sure you can still get away with calling it that when it covers the persecution of Galileo, when it goes to Ethiopia in 1985, and when one of its key scenes takes place in an Auschwitz gas chamber. Besides, if I came away from York with one message ringing in my ears it was that the writing was great – but comic fantasy is the hardest thing in the world to sell.
The synopsis and the letter need to change – but this is something I’m sure isn’t me stalling. This is me trying to give it the best chance of being understood, marketed and eventually sold. Knowing the difference between stalling and perfecting is probably important. Getting the hell on with it is even moreso.
Hammersmith, Bailey and Hark – Wonderful. Image from PSBrooks.com
I completed Draft Two of Wonderful the night before going to the Festival of Writing at York. The net result of York was that I spoke to three agents. One specializes in fantasy, but wondered if the opening wasn’t perhaps trying too hard to be jazz-hands funny. He also said I needed to figure out who the extra market for the book would be, given that comic fantasy was the hardest thing in the world to sell, even when, as he kindly put it, it was genuinely funny, as mine was, and the writing was damn good, as mine was.
The second was a substitute for the guy I was supposed to see from her agency. She loved everything about it – absolutely everything. But she doesn’t represent fantasy. She did give me the name of the guy at her agency who’s building a fantasy list though, and tell me to contact him.
And the third was a guy I’d met before. I can’t help liking the guy – he’ll happily tell you he’s going to bullshit a crowd, just before going to do it. And he enjoyed the sample I presented too, but said this: ‘Fantasy’s only about five per cent of my list. I’ve only sold one comic fantasy before in my life. But I’m a gambler – there’s no reason you shouldn’t send this to me, but I can’t promise anything.’
As the last bit of Draft Two went to my pal and fellow editor Sam just before York, I’m going to do Draft Three, the polishing draft, before I send the book anywhere. But the feedback feels generally encouraging about the quality of the work – if less so about the state of the market.
If you shut down the access to worlds of wonder, we’re probably not going to get on.
The closure of libraries is a crime against the intelligence of future generations and the pleasure of the present.
I just went – as a white male with a full-time job and a company of my own, meaning I can afford it – into Waterstones, and the price of a new hardback book was £25-£30.
I can spend that if I want to, but the point is, the closure of libraries means that same book, which would have been available to everyone, is now only available to people like me, who decide it’s worth paying £30 for quite a slim volume on, say, George, Duke of Clarence, or the latest scientific advances. Or it’s available to those who accept the monopoly of e-books and the companies that supply them.
That’s turning reading and learning into a fetishistic pleasure of the rich, rather than a pleasure or an escape route for the poor. Books are becoming the hand-rolled Cubans of knowledge, the caviar of understanding, the Bollinger of entertainment.
When you stop up or tear down the access routes for people of all ages and incomes to access information, enlightenment and the sheer pleasure of writing, you engage in a war. A class war, that claims only those who can pay can educate themselves.
This is of course not even to mention the range of social functions libraries perform, or the fact that they allow older people on limited budgets the chance to keep their minds active and to interact with their community if they want to. By closing libraries, the message you send is that you want older people, who’ve built the society you stand in, to hurry up and die and decrease the population, to stay alone, to spend their last years in isolation, without so much as the window to another world that books, and company, and a friendly word can give them.