Two days ago the guy I love said to me
"When I first saw you I fell in love with you, but now we're such good friends I don't really fancy you anymore."
We've had a relationship that has passed through seduction (he's 2 years older than I am and I was naieve), love, living together, living apart, and throughout it all we've had a solid friendship that just got better and better until yesterday.
My heart is in so many pieces it feels unrepairable.
I just don't know what to do.
During rehears
Cubby, one of Luc's kittens has died. Now I'm not going to start a diatribe on the cruelty of nature, and I'm sorry about Cubby, but are we, and by we I mean 'pet owners', out to lunch?
I live with four cats I love much too much. They are wonderful distinct personalities, they bring me joy beyond any rational explanation, and I spend a fortune on feeding them ... when there are sentient human beings starving to death, being tortured by inhumane dictators, being bombed by arrogant western lea
The news of Green and David's accident followed by Green's death and Chaz's suffering has me devastated, and I'm trying to work out why. I don't know them in real life, I hardly know them here. It's not as if we talked in live chat. I've only been here a short while and only know of them through blog and stories.
I think it's because this is a site for fiction, and this is not the way the story was supposed to go. I'm very angry at how unfair life is, and very, very sad.
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Lo! some
10am I was dragged from what I vaguely recollect being quite a nice dream by the damn telephone. I'd got to bed around 4am after being suckered into clicking on a pop up ad that took me to a site for laser eye surgery - facinating, but sleep would have been healthier. So I shamble to the phone and it's M my 'soul mate', you know, the one I want to shag senseless but am too frightened to ask.
We were supposed to be at a car boot sale (English 'boot' = US 'trunk') at midday. This basically inv
I am frankly amazed at how some authors produce huge quantities of quality writing week after week, so I googled and thought I'd post some facts from Lee Masterton's article: 'How long should should your story be'
Short Story
1,000 - 7,500 words
The 'regular' short story, usually found in periodicals or anthology collections. Most 'genre' zines will features works at this length.
Novellette
7,500 - 20,000 words
Often a novellette-length work is difficult to sell to a publisher. It is co
I've spent a good portion of the last couple of days thinking about the form of the human body and why it is that I'm attracted to guys rather than women? I love women, and to use a cliche a lot of my best friends are women, but...
I work with a bunch of people I really have nothing in common with, which is annoying. In the UK we have a paper called 'The Sun' and on page three everyday is the naked breasted babe with coyly arranged knickers hiding nothing. The paper is left (I get in late so
Since it seems to be de rigueur to have a track of the day, which btw I think is wonderful, I thought I'd waffle on about my album of the week. And definitely in my list of all time favourites.
I'm obsessed with Pink Floyd. Always have been I guess, though this week I'm hugely into 'The Division Bell'
Two songs in particular both fit the me of now, and the lifestate I'm in.
'What do you want from me?' is the first, especially the lines:
Do you want my blood, do you want my tears
What
Yesterday.
Half way through a boring day at work my other half phoned. She was in floods of tears. We live in the country and one of the four cats, Percy (Sir Perseus Plumb-Puss, a big black bruiser of a softy) had brought in a baby Bunny. Alive.
I arrived home in trepidation. I'm the man (chortle) and as such, and if required, I'm the bastard who has to put poor defenceless beasties out of their misery. Spiders I don't have a problem with: Glass on top, magazine beneath and then a swift
I've been sitting here looking at a blank screen for nearly twenty minutes, and it suddenly struck me why? why do I feel the need to blog - as neat a euphemism for cathartic soul cleansing as one could hope for. Now the Church is in decline, perhaps blogging is the only true confessional left to us. Not that I've ever been to confession...
I blog because I think I have something to add to the day to day 'diary' of my life. But why here? Well... I feel safe here, in that I can say things abou
It's raining. It's miserable, and yet I'm ok, when to all intents and purposes I should be as miserable as the day.
I've got so much to do, and I can't get my head around any of it. So here I sit loitering, reading blogs, and trying desperately to find something to take my mind off reality.
I work, amongst other things, building websites. I have updates to three of them, yet it's Sunday, and I'm playing the 'Lords day of rest' card. Come tomorrow I know I'll probably regret the wasted ho
Birthdays are very peculiar things. When you're a small they're wonderful. You get STUFF, often a party, and mostly people are nice to you... You can get away with an awful lot of mischief too!
Then you get to a point where the Birthday becomes... a weency bit of a drag. You celebrate because you feel you should rather than wanting too, and you often find you're celebrating to make other people happy; and honestly, that's just perverse.
That's where I was: 'Jaded' would encapsulate the f
The local Birthday season starts in just under five minutes. All my friends appear to be either Pisces or Aries... Is this odd? I must start reading horoscopes. Possibly.
Anyway Tomorrow/Today it's me. According to my stats here I shall be 100. That's old! Gosh.
Camy (the old)
OCD. Hmm. Both Kevin and Patricky think they have it, and I just wrote a reply on Patricky's blog saying it was all twaddle. Then it crossed my mind that I have it too!
Whenever I go to the beach I have to find a stone with a hole in it. I mean it's not a total compulsion, but I do get annoyed if I have to leave without finding one. Luckily there are lots of stones with holes in them, otherwise I'd probably need a straight jacket.
This 'stone with hole' thing started a year or so ago. N
I was trying to think of another name for this blog: I ponder a lot, and really 'A bunch of Balls' wasn't doing it for me. So I googled, as you do, and damn me if the truth is worse than any of my putrid mental fictions.
Those who live in the good old US probably know already that Rocky Mountain Oysters are Bulls Bollocks cooked and apparently eaten with a side helping of Chips. I was, and still am frankly amazed, and feeling rather squeamish.
Yelch. Real Oysters are bad enough.
Cam
I need an editor. I thought I probably might need an Editor at some point but after reading some of the excellent prose on this site, and having read a lot of utter twaddle elsewhere it finally struck me that one of the main differences was Editor. With Editor good, without bad.
So now I want one, how to go about it? I know there is a thread about the subject, and having read it I'm no further forward. It seems to me that the relationship between Author and Editor is a bit like a marriage...
I'm rather like that parrot in the Monty Python sketch. I'm pining, but not for the fjords. I want... I want some defining person to enter my life and tell me that it's really all going to be OK.
I blog here (well duh) and elsewhere too. Here I am probably as whole as I can be, in that I'm reasonably happy to discuss my sexuality; or as happy as I'm going to be anywhere I guess. However, and here's the rub: I can't be completely 'me' without talking about what else I do, and that scares the
Albert's Day Chapter 4
This chapter contains my first real attempt at writing a sex scene. It was hard (pun definitely not intended) really hard, and I am amazed at how long it took.
I have a few notes I thought I'd share... Though please don't let them put you off reading the story.
1 - Never ever EVER write in the third person. It makes everything so much harder than it has to be.
2 - Here's an idea. Work out a plot before beginning
3 - Frequent shorter chapters are better than lo
Albert's Day Chapter 3 is up for its sins.
I was trying to work, and all I could think about was the story. I've come to the conclusion this is probably not good, but it is necessary. After all, characters, whether in real life or fiction, have lives; and those lives are important... Especially to the one writing them. Fail and they die; not on the page necessarily, but in the readers heart.
I've said that I hate serials because you never know 1) if the writer will bother to finish it, a
Chapter 2 of Albert's Day is up on the e-fiction section. Enjoy it or not, I care not a jot. Of course I do really, but we all need a cushion.
I must be addicted to writing.
Ok... So I'm Gay and addicted to writing. Neither of which I'd have dreamt of saying, even in an anonymous blog a couple of weeks ago. Possibly because then it wasn't true.
It's odd, damn odd; how this bit of me has leapt to the forefront of everything I'm thinking, and doing. It's even intruding into music, wh
The problem with writing, or for that matter performing, is that eventually, if you're not insanely shy, you want to know if what you do is any good. You want, and in order to grow, need feedback.
I'm a musician, and I love performing once I get over the hideous stage fright bit. I also write both poetry and fiction.
Now I'm told that what I write is good, but I'm told that by people who love me, people who know me, and people who would probably not want to hurt me. So, honestly I can't
I came to write a post about how miserable I was because I had to work all day; and I didn't get to see the last episode of 'Enterprise'; and I've lost the plot entirely with SGI... And I'm still laughing out loud over this entry in RHawes16's blog
Typos are wonderful things, especially as I'm sure a lot of them are intentional, put in by bored copy typists. Ah well (wipes away a tear) where was I?
Oh yes Miserable... Not. Thanks Rob.
I have to say I'm totally blown away by the warmth of the comments left on my first post. I was sort of expecting to drivel on for a while before anyone said anything. Thank you. I'm honoured.
erm.. I would also like to add that I wrote this last month and didn't realise that it was on 'draft' mode. Duh. I'm stupid not impolite... Most of the time.
I was somewhat... erm... depressed today. I wrote:
I'm sitting here silently screaming at myself. I'm surrounded by people who love me. So why do I feel so alone? Even though I want to talk, even though I'm asked and given every opportunity to talk I won't. I can't.
Bri, who is downstairs watching TV has no idea at the swirling cess pit of angst sitting over her head. Yet I can blog about it... No. I can't even truthfully do that either. I want to smash the screen and rip the head off that d
So that was Robert over and done with. I saw him once more when I was eighteen. He was sitting with a few friends in the garden of my local pub. We both spotted each other at the same time and made brief eye contact. I'd like to think he blushed. I walked by and he was gone when I got back.
I finished prep school as a 'senior' at the grand age of twelve. I left early as the teachers had told my parents that If I was going to pass the exams I'd need tutoring. Tutoring was awful. The days seem
