When we fall down

What do we do, when we fall down? When we’re knocked back, knocked up, beaten up, shamed, dismissed, hurt…

One step forward, two steps back. Such is the way of life. And clichés are the nuts and bolts of language, for all that they’re overused.

I’m made out of pretty tough stuff. I have to be. I haven’t had an easy life. I’m only glad that it’s made me compassionate, instead of unfeeling. It lets me understand pain.

Times like these, when I have to carry a hell of a lot around inside me, it makes me resilient. What do we do, when we fall down? We stand up, and sometimes it makes us that much harder to trip again.

I’ve been knocked down enough that it takes nothing short of a major bombshell to faze me. After this… I think it’ll take a nuclear blast or more, right to the frontal lobes. Because I will get through this. Every word I type brings me closer to being whole again, to living and breathing in stories again.

I will get through this, dear friend. And when I do, we shall celebrate with beer and cookies and cocktails full of suspiciously sticky liqueurs.



Bah, I’m tired.

I’ve been writing like a fiend, but the writing produced has been fanfiction rather than original stuff. Such is the way of things when I get an idea or I find the need to roll with it.

I’m partway through the new story too, which will hopefully be equal parts hot and somewhat cute. But my tastes vary with the tides, sometimes, and it’s likely I’ll not be able to tolerate cuteness for any length of time. Then it’s back to deviation, kink, weirdness, and all the usual nonsensical crap you’re probably used to by now.

You’re such a good friend for putting up with my rambling. Next time we hit the bar, I’ll buy you a drink, I promise.

I’m still mulling over that vampire story. Dare I make it little more then porn, or will I save it for a longer, more epic adventure? I have no particular attachment to it, which is odd for me. Usually I live in the story. This one, however, doesn’t hold my attention.

I’m distracted. Without a hook, a concept, a trope or theme for me to explore, I lose focus and begin to bounce from one story to the next. Do you know how many things I have in the works, right now? Go on, guess.

Three novels – one fantasy adventure, one slightly urban fantasy, one utterly bizarre paranormal romance.

Two different original short stories – the new one, and Vigilant.

One long-running serialized fanfiction story.

Three different fanfiction shorts.

I still don’t know how I can hold all of these in my head at the same time, but it’s all there. I flip between them as needed. One bores me and I move to the next. The novels are such enormous problems; I finish the stories far sooner than them. I should really just finish one.

Then, of course, there’s all the usual procrastination that every writer is so familiar with, with the added bonus of my intense love of computer games that involve shooting things with guns.

I’ll get through it all somehow… I just wish I had more time in the day.


I hurt myself

No, it’s nothing serious, relatively speaking. I’m just laid up for a while with nothing to do except write and take painkillers. But the accident has put something of a damper on my writing schedule…

I’m taking down my deadline timer for now. I have a few days to make up for. Other than that, I’m sore and tired and not really in the mood to do much, but I know I’ll go insane with boredom soon.

Assuming I can stay away from Angry Birds long enough, I’ll finish up on the vampire story this weekend and publish early next week.


I hate it when

…the other life intrudes into this.

It does, sometimes. (And I mean the life that the me who isn’t Shay Lassa lives, not ghosts or something.) Happens to all of us, doesn’t it? We want to write. We breathe in stories. Then something happens, and all the stories are crowded out by other thoughts, and we need to spend hours just clearing out our heads to get them back.

All I think is that I never wanted this. I only ever want to write. Everything else should be secondary, and it isn’t, because stories don’t earn me a living. It upsets me, and today, I am more upset than usual.

I keep thinking that I honestly have no idea what I’m doing. I wonder if I could walk away from the other life, or at least cut it down to a minimum, and just pour all of myself into being Shay Kassa and writing erotica. I think that might make me happier than I am now.

That’s the weird knowledge of it. I could walk away from this name any time I wanted to. I can’t walk away from the other name. But this identity, the one I created for myself, is the one I want more, no matter how much of it might not be real.

I can’t decide if this makes me crazy or just a writer.


I can’t write fast enough

Gaaah, I can’t do it! I can’t write fast enough! The sun is already coming up!

Damn life, getting in the way of my porn!

Okay, okay, just breathe. You can still do this. Just relax, go get some sleep, and get to work tomorrow. All you have to do is push the next story out before Friday. You can make up the time. It’ll be fine.

You guys will forgive me, right? You won’t get mad if I miss the deadline by a day or two? You know how bad I would feel if I disappointed you. I’m trying so hard, really I am, but there’s stuff in real life that I can’t tell you about that just won’t leave me the hell alone to write my lovely erotica in peace.

I’ll figure out a way to make it up to you. Maybe I’ll let you decide what I write next? I’d totally let you do that – you’re such lovely readers. I’d be willing to write anything that has at least one sex scene and won’t get me sued, for characters between the ages of eighteen and forty. (Apologies to fans of older characters, but I have to set the limit somewhere. Sorry.)

I have plenty of imagination to go around.

Right. Sleep, then morning, then write and upload and pray Amazon gets it online in a timely fashion. Then I move on to the next story.


I’m too tired

…to write today. I expect this will have an effect on my release day tomorrow, unless I can somehow get my groove on and finish up the next story tonight.

Maybe I need to have sex or something. Or maybe watch some bad movies. I’ve been watching really old sitcoms lately, like from the 1960’s, and although they’re hella funny, they ain’t exactly chock full of sexytimes.

I’m also debating what to write next week. I wonder if I should try the lesbian cheerleaders idea? The problem, of course, is that it’s always about something other than the sex. If it were all about the sex, it’d just be porn without plot. As long as it’s not that, the sex needs to be a convenient plot device and nothing more.

Oh – oh no, I got a better idea!

In honor of the fact that crappy Twilight fanfiction can get publishing deals, I shall write a story loosely based on what I’ve read of Twilight.

But with the aaaaall the genders reversed.

*evil cackling*


In which I fail to shut up

What a crappy day… still, I think I’ve gotten through this indecision. I know what’s going to happen next in the short story I’m publishing this weekend.

Kathy’s World hasn’t sold a single copy yet, which does not in any way surprise me, though I really wish I could see the damn statistics on how many people viewed it at least. I’m tempted to make it free for a day, to see if I can get some feedback on it.

Such is the price of effectively leading a double life, I guess. I have to do this on my own merits, not on the back of my other work. I wonder if it’s worth it. I wonder if I should pay the price of being a known erotica author instead, and having my family and my friends know that I write about sex for a living.

I’m not really ashamed of it – okay, maybe I am, a little – but my bigger worry is that I have business contacts. I have professional circles that cannot be allowed to know. I can’t run the risk of losing all that just because I want to write about sexytimes for a living.

It sucks so much that I have to do this. It sucks that sex is still such a goddamn taboo that I can’t just be a writer of sex without it being an issue to some people. It means, dear friend, that you will never really know if I’m telling the truth or if I’m telling a convenient story to hide something that could identify me. It means you’ll probably always wonder which parts are lies, and which parts are real. It’s all a bit tragic, when you think about it.

But there is a positive side to all this.

We all wear masks. No, stop shaking your head, silly – we do. All of us. I’ve met one person in my whole life who lived without one, all the time, and they were a strange and rare individual. Everyone else makes do with masks, of various kinds, and they are never really themselves. That’s because being yourself is terrifying. It’s like walking naked into a room full of strangers. We fear that anyone should know who we really are, on the inside, as if that knowledge will be used against us.

It’s all just psychological games, though. Come here, and I’ll tell you the secret: nobody wants to admit that what exists behind the mask is different from the mask itself. The mask is the acceptable face we show, the one that lives up or down to expectations. No one wants to say that their inner self, composed of all the things they shouldn’t think about and all the thoughts they can never say out loud, is vastly more startling and interesting. Someone might judge them, then, for ‘being weird’, and we can’t have that.

But everyone only knows the mask. They don’t know the person behind it. So here I am, on the Internet, blogging under a name that didn’t exist two weeks ago… and I don’t need a mask any more. I have no identity, no history, no reputation to protect. I’m already writing about taboo subjects. What do I care if I’m judged for that? Me, someone without a face?

Alright, I think I’m boring you. Blame Harry Harrison’s death today, it’s hit me harder than I thought if I’m wandering off into ‘maudlin drunk’ territory. Let’s get back to the fun stuff.

The new story will have oral sex in it. I have decided that this will be so. No, not a blowjob – the other kind. Why? Because of reasons.