Writing

I write with my left hand now, and I wonder what that does to my brain.

What you read here and when I wrote it may have little to do with each other.

Not writing about not wanting to write about not wanting to write.

I don’t love the words, but I sure love the act. A meditation on the inadequacy of language.

My grammar, you’ll have noticed, is perfect. My experience with a recent editor, not so much.

I’ll take it — #30 out of 100 sex blogging superheroes, and one of the few on the list who’s actually, you know, a sex blogger.

A refreshed look at what you all are reading — and what that says about you, and me.

Two brief fictions about blindfolds, trust, and the senses we use to know one another.

Two years in, hundreds of posts deep, and I’m nowhere near done — but I want to know what keeps you coming back.

I’ve written about this before, but I keep coming back to it from different angles — exhibitionism, pride, shame, sunlight, and the intellectual hard-on I get when something I write actually lands.