Email: rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com



 

Lusty Lady

BLOG OF RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Watch my first and favorite book trailer for Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica. Get Spanked in print and ebook

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Weekend links

Some very old and overdue, sorry:

Polly Frost's Erotica, Uncorked (Check her out as she goes on tour)

Is this what a rejection letter should look like?

Rachel Resnick's Writers on Fire in Hawaii retreat, which I would SO attend if I had found out about it a little sooner. She apparently has them throughout the year so maybe that'll be a good way to complete the novel, or later on, once it's done, more likely. I think for me it just might be another way of running away and hiding but still, Hawaii sounds so tempting so maybe that'll be a reward of some sort.

I am loving Barbara Rushkoff's A Girl Grows in Brooklyn blog at Babble:

I am a believer in sharing information. As a matter of fact, when my doctor told me that I couldn’t have kids because my eggs were rotten, I went around telling people I was infertile. I started using that word because when we decided to adopt, I’d always, and I mean always, be met with people saying “but you can have one of your own too.” After glaring hard at them for that insensitive remark, I’d just reply “No, I am infertile.” I have stopped at least 2 dinner parties with that remark.

But now I don’t say that. Now when I get asked I just say that I got pregnant by FUCKING. And when their jaws drop (because it’s usually strangers who ask me this) I continue on and say “Yes, fucking. Fucking two times a day. Penis. In. Vagina. No condom. You know, with the squirting.”

After that, they kinda walk away.


And her Dooce-like 2nd birthday letter to her daughter made me melt.

Tristan Taormino's latest Pucker Up column, "Urban Buttgirl Meets Rural Right," just might be my favorite one ever. And was I was telling someone after the KGB reading on Thursday, hers is probably the only column I've read every single time, as they go up, since it started. I think we all struggle, to some extent, with truth and how much of it to tell. I've read so many memoirs and personal blogs this year and through my own writing have realized that there is no singular "whole truth." There never is, even from ourselves. There's always some part that's private or just hidden, some things about ourselves that some people may know, but not all. I struggle with that all the time, where and how to let the words take over versus how much of myself I need to hold onto to feel okay when I look in the mirror. Often I have to write it out, it's the only way that makes sense, and other times, it's unclear.

The simplest questions ("What do you do for work?" or "Are you married?") plunge me into a state of anxiety. I can't say I'm a writer, because the next question is always, "What do you write?" Should I make something up, or should I offer up a few tips on fucking, sucking, and swatting? When people see me with my partner but sans wedding ring, they inevitably want to know when the question will be popped. Do I say I'm in solidarity with Angelina and Brad and won't get married until everyone can? I feel conflicted about being out in our tiny town—out as a sex educator, a pornographer, a queer, and the partner of a transgender person. It's not like I was out to all my neighbors in Brooklyn, but enough of them had read the Voice or seen me on Ricki Lake to get the general picture.

Fun photos with cotton candy by Anya Garrett

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home