Hey friends,

            For weeks I’ve been thinking about myself as a writer, and I find that I’m unsatisfied with what I’ve found. Maybe I’m a bit more than unsatisfied but because I don’t speak badly about other writers I refuse to speak too badly about me. I will say only that I have  a lack of focus and my dedication to my craft is or has been very spotty.  

            So, in an effort to try and break through to the other side, where a dedicated, professional writer resides, I once did a month of art, which included writing a in the midst of drawing and painting. And while it was good it wasn’t quite enough to help me achieve the desired goal, making the creative an almost compulsive part of my life. I’ve come to the realization that I need to make a larger commitment for it to do someone as hard headed as myself any good. 

            To that end, of becoming the kind of writer and artist I want to be when I grow up, (Yes, it’s going to happen. Eventually.) I am choosing to do a writing year. That means that every day I have to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard for no less than one hour every, single day. This feels huge to me. Other than reading, there has never been anything that I have been willing to do for myself, every day. But I want to be that writer who is always working on something, the one who becomes twitchy because there isn’t a story percolating in their brain. I want and need to have the voices of my characters waking me up in the middle of the night demanding to have their stories told. I want to write so much that a break is painting or doing crochet.

            This is so big that I’m having a hard time even imagining myself doing it, but the compulsion is too great to be ignored. To work past my own inertia, to light a fire inside myself that will take me where I want to go.  Which is everywhere!

            So on the 13th of July I began my writing year. Yes, it’s odd to start in the middle of the month, but I procrastinated through the first and had to get started before I could again talk/sleep myself out of it.  I have begun and am pleased with the outcome so far. I will be continuing to write daily  and will be posting to facebook, tumblr  and my website (under my pen name, which I will happily give to anyone who messages me and are at least 18 and not related to me).  I’ll try and keep y’all in the loop, I think it’ll keep me honest.

 

            Wish me luck

 

            Love Ya

            Daisy Mae

Hey Friends,

I've been thinking on the draw of the romance genre. You know, the why of it? At first I tried to pinpoint what the draw would be for all women, but quickly realised that is just a ridiculous thing to attempt. And really wasn't what was fascinating me in the first place. The real question is why romance has always done it for me? And I think I have the answer.

I found it, of course, while re-reading one of my favorite titles. I finished it and realized that the stories that draw me back are the ones that have instant awareness. That moment of instant electrifying passion that sets you on fire. And I do mean you/me. Yes the characters are the ones expressing it, but we as the reader, get it too. It spills off the page and for the time that we are reading, they share with the rest of us.

That's my drug of choice. The moment when eyes meet across a crowded room (is that familiar?), and without thinking, almost against your will your drawn to another person in a frenzy of passion.

Hu.. It get's me going just thinking about it. A romance novel is the only place something like that can happen without it ending up being some sort of horrible news bulletin or an I.D.Deadly Attracition special. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you have a story that features an instant attraction that has lasted for years and doesn't end horribly. If you do I'd love to hear it. Till then, I'll go back to my book. I'm going to re-read the good part. ;)


Love Ya, 

DaisyMae

Hey Friends,

I’ve been trying to find new authors, but nothing I’ve purchased recently has satisfied me. Don’t get me wrong, most everybody can get me hot and bothered by placing the right words in the correct order. But I find myself skipping the sex scenes. (pause for the gasps of disbelief from all of you who know me) What I’ve been craving is story.

You remember story don’t you? And a character that you root for instead of wanting to slap the taste out of their mouths. Something with a decent plot and challenges that make your heart race. Or make you cry. Lately folks seem to think that sticking socket “a” into hole “b” is all that a woman needs in her erotic romance. I’m here to tell you that sometimes a girl just needs more. And not just “more, more, harder, harder!”

So, in search of that “more” I’ve been zooming through all the books on my Nook and re-doing my shelves and re-reading my favorites. Now, we’re friends so I can admit to you that some of this stuff really is trash. And if I were a different person I’d be ashamed to admit I’d read it, let alone bought it. But I’m me, so it is what it is. I acknowledge my weakness for trash and just put it all on the “barely passable” shelf, so I know how to find it next time.

Now there aren’t too many on the “bp” list, and I don’t expect one author in particular to ever make it there. Because she hasn’t failed to deliver what I need, (does that sound bad?) and that’s Angela Verdenius.

Angela (we’ve never met but I’ve re-read her so much I feel like it’s okay to drop the formalities), is an Australian author who writes primarily BBW romance, and some very entertaining fantasy. I own most of what’s available via BN and if you’ve never read anything of her’s please give her a try.

Her women are regular people who don’t need to be saved from anything, not even themselves. The men run the gambit from big bruisers to compact regular jokester. Nobody’s perfect but somehow they end up being perfect for each other. (The sex is pretty good too) Every time I find she’s published something new I’m right there. I read it too fast and end up wishing she wrote faster. What I’m saying is that she gets it done. And it’s because of her and others like her that I have become spoiled. She’s forced me to have standards and expectations, thus the re-ordering of the shelves.

Hurry Angela, I’m starting to get twitchy.

Love You

Daisy Mae

I just watched a documentary called "Unhung Hero", and yes it is about just what you think it's about; with a twist. This young man is on a quest for a larger penis. Not a man with a larger penis (not that there is anything wrong with that) but to make his less than normal sized penis, larger.

     Now I know that your first instinct or reaction is to laugh, but I tell you it wasn't funny and I found I hurt for him. Not in that, poor sad bastard way, but because his hurt was so profound and he was so stressed over something that was imposed upon him by someone outside himself. He tortured himself both physically and emotionally. And I do mean tortured. Do the words, lifting weight with his penis mean anything to you? And that was the mildest thing that he tried or even thought about attempting. I watched him put himself through hell and I realized why I hurt.  I'd put myself in his shoes.

     Watching this program cast me back into my own life and struggles with weight and self-acceptance. It reminded me of everything I've done in pursuit of the single digit dress size. Things like, diet pills, starvation and exercising 5+ days a week for a minimum of 1hr every time. As well as thinking about surgeries to both remove fat and change the size of my stomach. The struggle to become some ideal; for most of us, an unrealistic ideal, that ultimately causes irreparable damage to our bodies.

I watched this very attractive and talented young man, go from place to place and ask person after person the same question: Does size matter? Most often than not the answer was more than just a no; it included both personal and scientific reasons to support their hell to the no. At the end he finds peace. Or at least he seems to. But the ending leaves me a little unsatisfied. It was happy, upbeat and positive. Turns out he's a much nicer person than I. (Surprise?)

     So to end his movie my way:

We open the scene with me in the distance standing in the center of a beautiful flower filled field. As the camera moves closer and I become more visible, you hear my voice saying:

     "On behalf of all the men who have found themselves on the receiving end of hurtful comments."

Camera jerks to a stop. Then comes in closer at greater speed, while I continue.

     "For the big girls of the world who have experienced similar situations."

Last jerky stop into a close up of my smiling face, as I sum it up very simply and gently, in a whisper.

     "Fuck That Bitch"    

I think most of the writers of erotica, that I read, use “how to sex books” to write their lovely, and I do mean lovely, sex scenes. I've had concerns that as a person with limited experience, it would be difficult for me to get down and dirty when it comes to the ultimate expression of passion. And I'm sorry to say this, but books and movies (of the adult variety) don't count.

     But after a couple of my choices for entertaining reading have gone wwaayy gynecological, I've come to believe that a good few of my peers are indeed using sex guides to help them get to the main event.

     That upsets me! Not because they’re using a guide, but because I couldn't help but imagine scores of plush middle aged women/men roaming the streets in bustiers and leather pants, thrusting and grinding into any and all orifices (or is that orifi?) that catches their fancy.

mmmm.....

     I mean somebodies got to be getting some, somewhere.. Right?

     Hell. Guess I'll go buy a book!

            “Why write romance novels?” I’ve been asked this question lately. The question is often paired with a look of pitying horror; as if to say, poor dear, unsuccessful at writing in the genre she wants so she’s given in to writing ROMANCE! I'm ashamed to say that I’ve let them think that. I’ve given no argument for or against what they’ve said; I’ve just smiled enigmatically.  And while I really enjoy finally having something I can be enigmatic about, I’ve decided to come clean, be perfectly honest and shoot from the hip. Anymore sayings that might fit here? Hmm… Anyway.

            Why do I write romance novels? Because I Love Them! I always have.

When they’re good they have it all. Strong and marvelous characters, moving storytelling and scenes so hot that it’s impossible to read anywhere but in the privacy of your own home.

            In romance there is action, adventure and fantasy (not always the sexy kind, get your mind out of the gutter.), and when they’re very good the story keeps pulling you back to relive them over and over again. But most important, for me, is that some woman will find the man she’s longed for and she gets to live her happy ever after.

            What’s better than that?

Love Always

Daisy Mae