She was a Jezebel

…but I loved her. She was whore, but I needed her; wanted her more than anything else in the world. She possessed me; owned my body and fucking soul….

That’s a little taste of something I’m tossing around right now in my head; working on creating another story. I have two stories into my editor (shhh...she’s a jezebel wanna be), and two stories out for publication. I just keep writing. Every writer, good or bad; does that, we just keep writing. It’s as if aliens take over our bodies, no wait that’s too reaching.

Hmmm…okay, here’s a better analogy: When I write, my body is possessed, possessed by the writing, she-devil and she's relentless in her pursuit. She-devil keeps taunting me at all hours of the night and day, “write you wench!” Crack, goes the whip against my bare, slightly bruised upper thigh. Oooooh… how can I write under these extreme conditions; the pain, the pleasure, the pleasure, the pain?

What’s your possession? What’s your pleasure? What’s your pain?


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