Hello, Zombie Ultra-Snail News now forecasting - ahem, broadcasting the latest news from the world of the Apocalypse. *clatter in the background indicating some canals being switched to normal frequency*
/Ahem/. Sorry you had to bear this, my brain was in a derp mode. What is a derp mode, you ask? Simlply the mode your brain is working when you are sleeping the sweetest and then some bastards just have to switch the torture contraption, called light on, thus making your life miserable as you are still derping some sweet dreams.
As for me, I admit I was prety much in *derp* mode - dark, fuzzy and warm, whem I was woken up rudely via the described procedure by my dear mum. Not so dear in the morning, apparently, but because I got my insomnia, and penchant for playing with stories until the wee morning lights - meaning until three at morning and then attempting to fuction as bright-eyed, bushy-tailed somebody who loves mornings and is hyped up on caffeine. Just shame I don't drink coffee, but maybe it's better for the world's existence I don't. I am crazy enough as it is, and adding in coffee addiction wouldn't be a brightest idea, because either I would have been crabby as hell or high as a kite, and both of the states are.... unadvisable. /cringes/. Just don't ask, okay?
Okay, So I got to trudge through the city, still pretty zombified from my insomnia marathon, which, by the way, my dear parents have no clue about - do you know whow tempting is, when mum or dad groan about not sleeping all night and then having to get up at unholy hours at morning, to happily chime in and announce you have the same problem? However, self-preservation insticts are still very much alive (tribute to Cruxshadows' Coming Home here,) so I am keeping quiet on that issue. What they don't know won't make them pissed off, and I will have my peace.
As for my zombified state? Why, Anatomy, of coruse. And the dreaded date is coming near, so I am stuffin' my brains with bones, muscles and whatnot to survive the onslaught of questions. Sadly, last time I did it barely, courtesy of my hobbies, and now I am attempting to be good - which is an oxymoron in it's own weird sense, but let's leave that for now. Long story short, my Sunday was chewing on the Anatomy, and having my own brand of fun till wee hours, and then, hello, zombie state. At least *derp* moments were sweet, which is a plus, although it's remarkably weird when I get back online, so to say. Love the *derp* state, hate to leave it, much to annoyance of my near and dear, but they still haven't learned I don't compute by their expectations, even though I am attempting (not very hard, but every bit of try counts, right?)
So. I got into library, got my haul and get the Anatomy Atlas - oh, joy - and then got to my usual shenanigans while waiting for bus. Still have no clue about what to buy my family for Christmas - was pissed becasue both brother and father were iffy on the gifts, and really contemplating to get some coal for both of them to share.
My brains got into some semblance of normalcy, and I began to winder about the books. Lately I am reding mostly historical romances and fanfiction along Anatomy, and I noticed that I am beginning to get unsatisfied with the romance novels. It's somewhat shame shit, different book, most noticeably when I read the same author's works, although I wonder if I am not guilty of the same sin, too. My latest works chewed through were the trilogy written by Kresley Cole about brothers McCormick and their feisty women, which is very similar to the stories from Stephanie Laurens about her Cynster dynasty - Linda Howard with her stories about Mackenzies' is good author, and Sandra Brown is exceptional because she can write about the people in different environments, but all that regency romances are making me sick, becasue if you read all of them long enough, they became, for the lack of better word, dull. It' s like eating a rich cakes of different flavors - sooner or later you will stop eating'em because all of them have the same overly sweet taste, no matter the ingredients. Yes, I know, there are different kinds cakes, but I used only sweet cakes as a comparison. I thought about writing something along those lines - the latest craze is E.L James' book named Fifty Shades Of Grey, and because I am curious kitten, I took upon myself to poke around the book of simiar genre from Sylvia Day and her trilogy Crossfire. It was only the first part of it, Bared to You, but... Uhm. Have we read about that author before? I dimly remebered her writing style, as I've read something of hers before - and bingo, it was Snaring The Huntress.
Snaring The Huntress was interesting read, becasue it had an interesting premise and aliens and of course, hot sex scenes, but otherwise...well, okay, it was good, but Bared To You was a step down in my opinion. The story has it's moments - both of the heroes are human, but the environment and it's description lack. Maybe I am just spoiled, becasue most of my years, I've read the books from Victoria Holt and Heinz G. Konsalik, along with Marija Jurić-Zagorka, and if I wanted something more adventurous, I went to Karl May and Alistair MacLean among the other authors. The mentioned authors ensnared me with their writing styles - they portrayed not only their heroes, but also the environment in which the said heroes interacted. Bared To You has only minimal descriptions of where the hero or heroine are, making it seem like badly-scripted play without appropriate background scenes to support the story. I know, it's hard to write in first person, because then all around you, where you are, is taken for granted, but it can also give the reader better picture of the place can make him more immersed in the story.
And frankly, I was surprised Bared To You was even published in such a... bare context. Minimalism is good, but I couldn't get into the story much - my passing impression at the end of the book was. "Oh, so they had some troubles. They fucked like rabbits. Let's see if I have any new emails. " Writing can be a tedious process, I know that, because I am writing some seven years now - mostly fanfiction, although I also tried (and failed) in some original genres in my earlier attempts. Maybe I am just a desensitized berk, as reading Marquis De Sade's works can have that kind of effect on you - he is raw, vulgar and immoral to the extreme, so next to him, all the erotic books I've read until now seem paltry in comparison. Except from the erotic autobiographies, but these are whole another story.
So why the hell is so hard to write good original erotic story? There are so many cliche pitfalls it seems more as a ravine sown with bear snares than a field of exotic flowers. if you don't make one mistake, then you do another. You are to vanilla. You apparently traumatized some innocent reader with the brutality of your descriptions. You know jack shit about BDSM scene. Did you even experience anal to wax poetic about it? Gah. /cringes/. At this rate it's easier to write a book on computer programming than smut novel!
Yes, I am whining. Since I discovered the fiction, I read the good, the bad and the horrifically ugly in that genre, and really, some fanfiction authors can overtake the original fiction authors by the miles. Case in point: The Red Dragons Order. The author's crossovers with Harry Potter made me interested in writing that kind of stories and the one which firmy hooked me on the dark side of the writing crossovers was indubitably Over The Hills And Far Away. Another prolific author that had influence on my writings was Pain au Chocolat, making me practically fall in love with Yours, In Murder, and let's not forget Rorschach's Blot and amazing story named Make A Wish. As for racy stories, there are many, but right now I can't be arsed to list them down, as I would have to hunt'em all over the net, and I am just cranky enough not to do that.
As for my writing? I am firmly on homoerotic side - tried hetero, was boring and switched over. Not that I won't write any hetero stories, in the future, but apparently right now, my plotdragons are interested in same-sex lovin'. Which is hilarious as when I first came in contact with homoerotic literature, I blushed like a ripe cherry and I firmly denied that such an heinous kind of writing could even exist. Just shows how far I've gotten, eh? /naughty smirk/
Oh, and another thing. Had a kerfuffle with the depillating wax. Apparently I got it into the microwave oven and then got the temparature or time wrong - the result was melted pot and sticky interior of microwave. Just hoping my brother won't kill me for desecrating his beloved instrument of fast food prepatation with the wax. At least I can guarantee there won't be any bacterias or anything after stripping the wax off. Gotta see the plus side, huh?
On that note, if you really have to heat the wax for depillation, get it into a pot that doesn't melt. And heat it for some thirty seconds max. .../Sweatdrops/ Lesson learned.
Off to derping my brain again,
Eirenei
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