Porn for Women - January

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Rushing into darkness

It dawned on me that I've only been writing a little bit before jumping straight into my thoughts and concerns. When I went to write my next post, it struck me that I’m headed forward on an avalanche of posts. I’m eager to engage in my craft, eager to write and produce works that someone will enjoy.

The magnitude of stories in my head are tremendous, running through me like tornadoes, buffeting me in a virtual world of storytelling tsunami.

Once I gain a breath, sitting in the eye of the storm, I’m thoroughly sated from experiencing the story in my head, resting until the hurricane spins over my story chakra again.

This blog isn't my attempt to temper the storms and stop the twisters. Writing the stories are the attempt to get out of my head and rain the storms down on paper, golf-ball sized hail of words. This blog is to help me keep on track and try to keep me from tumbling back into my mind's eye, waiting for the next typhoon, the next hungry twister of engulfing story, and willingly sinking into the black whole of my creativity.

When I describe it as a black whole, I don’t mean an empty vapid space, I mean an event horizon which captures you so strongly that couldn't escape if you tried…if you wanted to.

I can feel the words pulsing, in heat, a wildfire raging to burn the page, but I want to do this right. In their insistence to be released, I don’t want to create a disaster of their manifestation in this dimension (their home dimension being my head of course, the giant movie theater that runs twenty-four seven), by letting them run amuck as if its an emergency for them to flood the page.

I want my execution, my output to not just be enriched, but to enrich the reader until we all glow with arousal. Hence this blog—to work through my experience, to release the pent up forces of thought, to analyze, to learn.

I hope through writing it all down, it will enhance my journey and make me better at my target: writing great erotica and amazing stories. I figure, why not bring the reader through my journey, maybe they can learn something too, and hopefully, you’ll come to trust my writing style, my ability to entertain you, that one day you will take a chance on my future, erotic, porn filled literary fire.

Here is where the panic sets in…I’m running full tilt at the bridge between my head and the paper, and I don’t have a plan. As I write, or plot, or daydream, or study, or read blogs, or do whatever else it is that I am doing to create a super soldier of erotica, it is entirely by the seat of my pants. Is that smart?

What if I hit a moment, a day a week in which I’m not inspired to blog? Will I slip off the dock to drown in the deep murky seas of my own head? If I write in bursts and fits will the delays make my blog lose life? I feel I need to keep the momentum going on the blog to keep the momentum going from head to paper.

I would hate to see a service disruption, not just for this blog, and you the reader, but for my main purpose, breathing the souls of my creations into the clay of this earth so I can bring them to life in this world.

Could this blog die in a mudslide of posts, a flurry of words, a blizzard of ideas, slowly eroded as that energy comes to rest at the base of time passing?

I think I can avoid that erosion, because I’m dedicated to my cause, if I plan, if I have an idea of exactly my purpose. I think I fear that this whole endeavor will die in infancy falling prey to the usual suspects, and I fear it even more precisely because I am running with it, manic and determined. I think that if I take this post as a warning to myself, and watch carefully that I pace, that I focus, I can avoid becoming stuck or stranded on those challenges that so often take down other people. No, the only closure I plan to have this blog see is achieving the goal of writing at least one erotic novel, and building a site where you can truly follow how I got there from a non-writer writer to Alaska Daneel, Sex writing goddess extraordinaire.

Blind Desire

All I can think about right at this moment, when I should be blogging, is how badly I want a cock. I don't want a penis attached to an asshat, I want a cock, smooth and clean, waiting to glisten as it glides into nirvana. I wonder if I should be blogging this.

Will it get my blog banned?

Isn't the whole point to be writing about erotic writing, not about the hot steam rising inside of my wet folds, and the lust that makes me think of sweet lubricated friction for hours?

Then again, every erotic story in my head is based in my own lust. If that's the foundation, shouldn't I engage in it? Shouldn't I explore it and share it, turning it over and over while I plunge my hands into the nature of it and mold it as I would clay while learning my craft?

I want to sculpt erotica until you can't look away from it, until you can't keep yourself from reaching out to stroke its curves even though its museum taboo.

I suppose one way to do that is to immerse myself inside of my creative origins. There goes my firmness that this blog is only about the path to learning how to write. It turns out it might be periodically naughty after all.

A Mexican army walks into a sex shop

I was working on my story about the sexy Mexican Army, crouching in the mountains across the border, fighting narcs and drug runners while pumping their guns with erotic force. One of the reasons I want to work on this story first is because I don’t mind screwing it up. I have some stories in my head, my precious babies, and I don’t want to blow them up in a destructive rain of fleshy chunks and rubble. I want to be careful with these stories and craft them with love and talent. Thus, the first five or so stories will have to be test runs—guinea pigs that I don’t mind becoming cannor fodder for the masses of people who will (hopefully) read, and possibly excoriate my work.

I felt the need to justify that because this orgy of sexy naked men in the foothills of traffikers and danger does seem a little romance novel-esque, a bit silly and over board— one might say campy perhaps—and, well, to repeat, it makes me feel the need to justify working on such a story that I have a slight lack of respect for.

That said, I was trying to find a place for my armed muscled men, and I noticed that every time I looked at foreign city names, I read something into the name. For example: Sinaloa. I don’t know where this is (except I think its in Mexico or South America), but it sounds seductively dirty on the tongue, the kinds of dirt that taste like dark organic sugar. Sinaloa: Sing it lower, Sin a bit lower, Moan low.

Next was Nogales and my mind went slightly to the side of silly: No gals, or No gal is here.

Then was Michoacana which had no translation in my head, but makes my head swim with visions of sexy lady hips, swirling slowly in sparkling rose colored skirts. My mind almost wants to translate it into Mi Juana, or my sexy lady, but when I write it or say it, it doesn’t flow out loud — only in my head.

Matamoros has the dangerous feel of sex, lust and blood. Kill the morals is what my mind comes up with, a slender rapier thrust straight through the belly of prudence, skewering puritanism.

Tamaulipas makes me think of a dark latin lady dressed in a deep purple bikini top with a fringed skirt revealing one thigh. She lays on a hammock, framed by a tropical background and bathed in steamy tropical sounds. Tucked above one ear is an exotic purple flower with white streaks, cast against her black, shining flowing locks. Her eyes are soft and relaxed. I imagine Tamaulipas a relaxed, exotic, tropical place, holding Tama’s lips…both sets waiting for caress.

Calderon is abrupt. It pulls me out of the dark green foliage into a cauldron. It says to me from the mist rising from its edge: Call her home, call her home, and I feel a story there, of loss and longing along a hard iron edge.

I move down my list to Nuevo Leon and I mark it. It is the first name I come upon that makes me feel not of a lady but of the musky testosterone of men. New lion, proud, strong, large lions. Proud, strong, loins. Then I realize Matamoros might also be such a place, and I mark it as well.

Fort Hancock pops up unexpectedly. I think its in the US, but the name is explicit. A fort full of men, hand on cock. I mark it, but feel unsure.

Sonora is out for my story, but it draws me like a siren song. In fact it’s letters and flow feel as if siren and song has merged. She is sonorous, a slightly uglier word in English than Sonora. It is a she, because Sonora sounds like senora. Sonora is shaded, waiting for your hand to glide down her shoulder. When you touch her she will emerge softly from the shadows, embracing you with her song, and you will never know that her strong firm hand (it seems so delicate and hesitant), guided you to this magical hypnosis.

I move to Torreon. Tor-re- own, I sound out in my head. It sounds like a slow burning anger. Tore one on. Alcohol? Letting go in a simmering wild burning madness. Tearing on the condom, I must, my lust pushes me forward. I mark it as a possible location.

I move to Tijuana and instantly mark it off. Not only does it rhyme with marijuana, which I think I have decided I will not have my horny army get high on toking pot, it makes me think of Tequila. None of those things make me think of rough hard edged men in the mountains. I do wonder if it would be a great metaphor for slipping from women to men, if they were sucking maryjane while fucking each other.

Yuma just sounds like yummy, and for some reason my brain tells me it means mountain in some language, or sounds like a word that means mountain in a language.

Reynose is next and my mind goes silly, so I mark it off. Ray no say! Ray no say! Reindeer nose. No, no good for this story.

I’m on a roll and I look abroad at Yemen, Al-shabaab and Hezbollah next. Yemen (visually) rhymes with semen which I like for this story, but it would mean I have to change the backdrop to guerillas fighting in the harsh cracked lands of the Middle East. Would they be Jihadi’s or would they be freedom fighters?

I don’t even know if Al-shabaab is a place, and I wonder if simply writing this will get someone angry enough to call for decapitation for insulting Islam, especially if I write that this name makes me think of a barbed penis wrapped in a velvet tongue.

And Hezbollah, in my current state of mind, sounds to me like an orgasmic gasp, a word you cry out when winded by intense passion, writhing through your whole body, as cock slips deep into vagina. I hope this raises no one’s ire, but I realize that writing about sex and ethnicity can stoke some fires. My best defense is that I am small and unknown, and these meandering thoughts are unlikely to go viral. It will be the challenge that I climb, like every other writer and blogger, to keep up my presence, share my thoughts, write my books, and build and keep my readership.

What did I decide? I took the four places that I marked, and next I will Google them just to be sure I can find an isolated enough setting to let the Mexicles** mix.

*I would like to write a romance novel one day, but now my goal is to practice and learn from stepping on literary landmines.

** Mexican Testicles.

1, 2, 3, 4, My way is better than yours

I was thinking about my last post. It was written after a week-long onslaught of reading many, many sources. One of the things I was thinking in the back of my head, but hadn’t quite percolated to the forefront of my consciousness, finally burst through today.

Not all of these articles are talking about the same genre or desired outcome when they judge what is a good final product.

Some articles are talking about straight fiction literature. Within this genre exists a specific spectrum of opinions:

1. Sex doesn’t belong in fiction
2. Sex only belongs in fiction if it moves along the plot
3. Sex to titillate or arouse cheapens fiction and this is bad
4. Sex when written shouldn’t be perfunctory or mechanical but
5. Sex when written shouldn’t be gloriously described and transcendental
6. Sex when written should be straightforward, described as is, while somehow avoiding number 4

I’m not writing straight literary fiction, I’m writing in part to arouse the reader. I’ve masturbated over most (but not all) of the sex scenes in my head, long before I ever wrote them. When I look at the mash of perspectives, I see a puritan take that doesn’t mesh with what I am trying to achieve with my stories. This is likely not my audience and catering to their ideas of what are good descriptions of sex will probably undo me. I am writing erotica to arouse, but I’m also writing a good story  (I hope) exploring themes and messages that both relate and don’t relate to sex, both through and not through sex. So if I don't belong in narrative fiction, where do I belong?

Some articles talk about erotica. I thought about mixing this with the discussion of pornography because their complaints over lap, but some perspectives on pornographic writing are simply unique to themselves. The same goes for romance writing, which I consider a sub-genre of erotica, but I found was a view rejected by many (but not all) self-labeled erotica writers.

The spectrum of opinions on sex and erotica/romance/pornography that I found, flow as follows:

Erotica

1. The point of erotica is to arouse the reader.
2. The point of erotica is to explore the concepts related to our sexual and emotional beings through erotic settings and relationships.
3. The point of erotica is to explore themes related to sex, through sex but not directly sex, like themes of control, connection trust and release.
4. Erotica can explore violent and taboo topics but shouldn't do so for the sake of doing so, but to connect and explore these themes. If this is in place, its okay to also aim for arousal, but not okay if these aren't in place.
5. Good erotica uses transcendental (this is a word I use because I saw it several time on blogs that discuss a certain type of description of sex)....transcendental...uhm...pick a word: metaphorical, floral, indirect, elaborate, euphemistic language.
6. Good erotica depicts sex with a real, literal description and avoids metaphorical, floral, indirect, elaborate, euphemistic language to describe sex.

Some of this I'm down with, but some of this I'm not. Maybe I'm an explicit romance writer then?

Romance

1. The point of romance is to create an experience for women to feel certain emotions, such as emotional connections, feeling desired, putting themselves in a fantasy land and escaping reality. Different bloggers and commenters don’t necessarily agree with all of these; they may agree with some, but vehemently reject others.
2. The point of romance is to engage and fulfill women sexually and emotionally and connect that sexual desire to the emotional desire and vice versa.
3. The point of romance is to allow women to get aroused, feel desire, and probably masturbate, without feeling like they are slipping into erotica or pornography.
4. Romance novels that have a lot of sex--implicit or explicit--are erotica.
5. Romance novels are almost never erotica.
6. Romance novels are low level pornography.
7. Romance novels are not pornography.
8. The point of romance novels are to allow women to live inside taboo or exaggerated romance, love, lust structures, such as being thrown over the shoulder of a pirate, or mount an emotionally unavailable cowboy.
9. The point of romance novels are to do 8. but with an emotionally satisfying happy ending.
10. Good romance novels use flowery intense, euphemistic, elaborate language.

The romance community has too many conflicting restrictions for me to plop my curvacious bottom there.

Pornography

1. Pornography is about getting aroused and often contributing to an orgasm.
2. Pornography should be explicit.
3. Pornography should use metaphorical words and taboos if it heightens arousal
4. Pornography is about sex, sex, sex and has no other literary, erotic, or romance purpose.

I absolutely plan on getting aroused and making beautiful orgasms all over the world. I'd like to be explicit. But sadly, I have many other maniacal purposes, so I can't simply follow the rules of porn.

As you can see, there is a lot of spillover and a lot of dissent. If I listen to the cacophony of voices, I’ll become dizzy and fall down before I finish a paragraph.

Maybe I'll be porna: my own mixture of erotic, pornographic, romantic, literary fiction.

Yes, I still have to crack the secret code of the carnivore that is meat eating pornography and how it mixes with literature to create good erotica, but understanding where I want to take the reader will help me understand how I fit in to this collage of sexual culture, and what voices I feel best guide me.

You gotta read to write an orgasm

One of the things I am doing in my quest to write phenomenal erotica is read, read, read. I’m not reading erotica at this moment because I have this fear that I will subconsciously repeat material. There are only so many ways you can describe a cock—only so many methods, permutations and mutations for how to describe orgasmic explosions, and voluptuous breasts, tsunami like waves of pleasure, toxic love, sensual human to human contact that ends in exhausted collapse and blackout of the players.

No, the articles I’m reading, though from diverse sources, are on the topic of writing and writing erotica and/or sex scenes.

What I’m discovering, at least from the range of articles and blogs, is that no one can seem to agree on what is the best way to write about sex, but, while the majority of authors have an opinion about what a poorly written scene is like, most seem to believe they can identify well written scenes without articulating in their articles what that means.

For me this is confusing. I want to write something worth reading, something that the reader engages in, start to finish, and ends the story quite satisfied. Of course, in writing erotica, I also want the reader to be aroused and feel completely free to fall into their fantasy, perhaps engaging in an aroused, sweaty rub or tug.

I sat here asking myself, whose advice do I follow? The blogs that say explicit explanations of sex are better than flowery, transcendental experiences? Or the articles that say that explicit sex is banal, robotic and boring, and the poetic descriptions, full of metaphor that connect you to your emotions and senses rather than smacks you with pornography, are a great improvement.

I thought, I wish I could write this down, and talk to someone about this, or at least put it out the world to express my thoughts. I didn’t feel comfortable using my personal accounts. Then, huzzah, it dawned on me! I have a blog I started for just this thing.

So while I can (and will) ask your opinion on the best decision between two unclear choices, it dawned on me that I also have another voice, an expert who can tell me how to forge forward to construct a blueprint that will guide me on my journey. (Narcissistic spoiler alert: That expert on how to get me writing is me).

My hope is that I will blow the readers socks off, but not blow myself up. Unfortunately, I feel like I can’t judge what is correct or incorrect in erotica writing (I didn't say I was an expert in writing, just an expert in figuring out how to get myself to write). What I can judge is when my writing feels right as it pours from my fingertips. I should let it flow onto the paper just as easily and clearly as the visions that stream through my head.

After the story is out, I can always solicit beta readers and ask them - what did this story do for you? Were you lost in it, swept by pages from beginning to end? Did it make you want to touch yourself? Or was it banal and robotic? Did the descriptions border on ridiculous? What worked and what didn’t?

This is what I need—not to limit myself to timid, soulless writing because I’m trying to please a field that is widely diverse in its opinions. Restricting myself neurotically would be more ruinous to my writing than allowing for the potential that it could be naturally banal and boring, or flowery and richly stupid.

Evading and avoiding these rookie mistakes preemptively will more likely be my undoing than writing from that synergy that arises between heart, mind and pussy.

So, unless I can resolve the collective advice of a divided, possibly fragmented, literary community, the best plan will be to follow the muse that’s guiding me, and then refine based on real reader reactions.

May inspiration be with me.  

Faster than a silver bullet

This is my first real blog, beyond my introduction, and I am jittery and nervous. I’m hepped up on a bit too much caffeine and I’m putting myself out there to the world on the first leg of this journey.

I want to warn you first that I may get my foot and mouth mixed up, inserting one in the other, and possibly not in the traditional way, as I type this blog. If you remember from my first post, I’m using this blog to help me get through the writer’s process. So while I might use the occasional forbidden word, banned idea, or strain of pornographic content, for the most part this blog is about the process, not about exposure of my final writing. That might change over time, but today I just need help controlling the rebels in my thoughts.

I’m trying to write and my ideas are all over the place. Should I write a plot first? Or do I just write explosive descriptions of sex? I’m a smart, sexy woman, if a bit homegrown, so it should be no trouble to come up with a great story, sizzling electric, filled with power, coating a grid of captivating players. I want to create exotic brain food. Poisoning the well with inane ideas has me a bit anxious. 

Do I want to blow myself up before I ever get started?, I think to myself, even as my brain is trying to start a story involving a sexy platoon of muscled men from the southwest or maybe the border, arguing with itself whether to place the tale in Juarez, Reyosa or San Diego.

Before I can stop myself to say, ‘Hey, this might be a terrible mistake’, another part of my creativity asks ‘Do they have mountains in Mexico? If so, we can have a love scene in the snow!” “Between the entire Mexican Army?” the first part of my brain sneers sarcastically.

“No! Thats supposed to be a metaphor for hunky models!” The second part shouts, annoyed.

“If they're from Mexico, would their testicles be Mexicles instead of icicles?” The third part muses.

I’m trying to tell the different parts of my brain, busy fighting a creative war, to hush before the argument becomes national. Guard your thoughts, I think to myself.

But the minute I think this, my thoughts quiet down, horrified. They can’t imagine that I would stifle creativity. Before I can relax into the relief of the silence in my mind, sinking into the space to open up the one true religion of creativity, one of those thoughts tentatively whispers.

“Have you learned nothing from NaNoWriMo?”

“Yes,” another one, slightly louder “You’re supposed to let the creativity flow, and then go back and edit the ideas contaminated with stupidity. The third, trying to be helpful, switches topic.

“Would it make it better if we started every scene with a trojan condom to promote safe sex?”

Which instantly brings the image of a Roman in full military armor bearing down on my whole brain, straddling a muscled war horse, his pecs rippling,metal gleaming like fire, his cock wrapped in that famous plastic, gleaming of chemical lubricants. It really is quite swollen and throbbing.

For a second time, my whole brain shuts up for a moment to ponder this image, while crickets chirp in the mental background.

As it evaporates, I sigh in relief. I start again to to try to think of how I should start my first erotic story, when my mind erupts in a volcano of dissent, 2600 voices all shouting about absurdities, direction, and who’s in charge.

Now you can see why I paused to get a little (a lot of) coffee, and ask myself for a little help.

Ironically, though I thought it was a foolish idea, writing it out in this blog makes me wonder if an orgy on a deep night, among a border army, might not actually be a bad story. True, I’m a woman, and it would clearly be a tale written either for men who enjoyed reading about muscled soldiers making love in the hot desert heat and cold snowy mountains, (or women who like those sort of things as I do—my nipples are getting a little hard just thinking about it). But who says I can’t write something from a different gender’s perspective. It just might work. The question is, should I write in enough Trojan condoms to go around for the entire militia? Or is promoting safe sex in erotica just something that's not done because it kills the mood.

Who would have that much rubber and plastic in the mountains anyway?

So it begins

Today marks the first day of my blogging career. I’ve tried to blog before. I’ve been around just long enough that it's hard to remember a world without internet. Yet, I still haven’t mastered the art of maintaining a blog. Life is just too demanding, too full of things worth doing, too much undone living. The last blog I had, shriveled up and died on the vine, as have the two or three before that--the most I've a hand in...well...in my entire life.

What makes me think that this blog will work?

Nanowrimo

If you’re not familiar with nanowrimo, it stands for National Novel Writing Month, a program run by the non-profit ‘The Office of Letters and Light’. A fluffly kind of chaos, their sole purpose is to get people writing. They challenge you, the would be writer, to write 50,000 words in one month. You don’t have to have ever written anything in your life, or you could be a prolific writer looking for a challenge. It doesn’t matter. Their one task is to spur you to write and not look back.

I myself did not officially participate in Nanowrimo. Instead, I watched two of my friends burn the sweat from their brow, typing dizzily away to meet this word goal. Somewhere watching this race, I got sucked into it. Surely, I thought, I could write 1,667 words a day. That doesn’t seem too much. And if I can’t, most certainly I can write 500. My precise friend, whom we shall call Capricorn, and might be a tad anal, created a color coded excel worksheet to track her writing and spur her on, despite a tracker available online from the Office of Letters and Light. She shared it among the three of us. Capricorn struggled tremendously to get the words to flow. I learned from watching her how precious well written words were, and the cost of the struggle of many an author to get their ideas on paper. My creative friend, I dub her Aquarius, rolled her eyes, started typing, and only stopped when finished her story, sadly 3000 words shy of the NaNoWriMo goal. The story flowed out of her like astrology from a hippy, and she struggled the most trying to figure out how to add 3,000 words to her story to reach the 50,000 goal, that actually mattered in terms of the story.

I was a curious mix. Writing didn’t flow out of me, but I didn't struggle like a tortured mad woman. Unlike both of them, I didn’t meet the 50,000 word goal, but did meet the 500 a day goal. I got a story out and felt basically satisfied. It wasn’t the gut wrenching bloody birth that Capricorn experienced, leaving her weak and exhausted, but triumphantly holding her living baby, nor was is the Nirvana filled river of flowing peace pouring out of me, as it did Aquarius, leaving her with the satisfied glow of a rescuer listening to the suckling of baby pandas she is hand-feeding. 

Instead I felt like that pedestrian birth where I struggled for twelve-hours, only to realize I wasn’t pregnant, just constipated, and with a little ex-lax everything came out just fine. (Birth, adoption, and defecation metaphors aside, and totally unrelated, each of us adored Scrivener as a writing tool, and all of us complain voraciously about the terrible thesaurus inside of it.)

What I realized was, once I understood that I didn’t love what I was writing, it became easier and nearly painless to push it out, but I wasn’t left with a darling I wanted to nurture to maturity, nor did I feel triumphant. Instead, the gift I was left with was feeling capable that I could endure, and do the real thing, if only I were working on something I loved, not just something for the sake of doing it.

That's when I realized that I wanted to write erotica. I go to sleep every night crafting erotic dreams to lull me. If I had chosen to write those dreams, perhaps I would have had an experience closer to the process of Aquarius, and the product of Capricorn.

That is where this blog comes in. One of the most helpful things about NaNoWriMo for all of us was progress reporting, venting, talking about challenges, creating accountability to a world that is only semi-invested (they weren’t going to be checking our manuscripts, but they did care to some level, even if it was only for the camaraderie and support reflected back to them.)

I can’t NaNoWriMo every month, but I can blog.

Here is where the blog is critical.

I don’t know anything about writing erotica. I feel it in my body, my n*****s, my c**t. I’ve never written it, but I believe it can flow like the wet juices I’m experiencing right now. This is most certainly going to be a journey, and I feel that journey is best served by blogging—-a sort of self created NaNoWriMo cheering process.

At this writing of this blog, I haven’t actually found a blog platform where I’m sure I can blog on erotica (including the words I censored above), but as soon as I do, I’ll publish these journal entries, and keep on working on my journey.

I’m Alaska Daneel and I will be your host in this journey on how to learn to write erotica.

Genesis

When I decided to set up my own blog I pre-wrote my first post. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to ruminate and cogitate over the words. I did write that first post, likely not as honey glazed as I would prefer. I then searched to see which would be the best first blogging platform to start with. Eventually I plan to migrate this blog over to my very own domain, when my calling is years down the road and I have a many storied erotic author career.

I selected Blogger over WordPress because I had a personal Wordpress account once upon a time; I was dismayed with the fact that I could not opt out of Gravitar's service and was automatically migrated. If you wanted to be careful about your identity, Gravitar could out you to the world. I didn't feel that making it so you couldn't opt out of of an identifying service that reaches much farther around than Word Press, was a respectful decision.

When I went to sign up for the blogger account, getting it prepared to start on the first day of the new year (new beginnings!), it asked me to select a profile: Google + or limited blogger profile. I thought to myself, "Why yes, I think I'd like to create a wider social network, considering that I plan to be writing books for years to come. I'll click Google +." I typed in my name, hit submit--

--and was promptly rejected. Google says my name couldn't be a real name.

I paused and then tried again. I clicked on information to discover why they would reject my name. I didn't quite get clarity but instead was shunted to a page where I could appeal. "Of course my name is my name," I thought. How could you possibly confuse my name with a made up handle? Was it the fact that my first name is a location?" All of my family members have first names as locations. Its a family tradition I dare not break with my children when I have them. I'm considering the names Madagascar, Afghanistan and Australia. "Since other people have locations for names that can't be it, can it?" I thought. I wondered if any of my other family members had been denied Google +, and then realized it's highly likely none of them give a lover's fart for social networking.

For a brief moment I hovered over the appeal button ready to fill out my protest. My dignity stopped me. I don't need to prove to a giant conglomerate I am who I am. I don't have to use their service. I haven't before, despite the lovely book club Vaginal Fantasy being hosted on Google +. I'll simply be one demographic that rejects Google Plus. In fact, I probably would have dropped blogger altogether and returned, tail between my legs, to WordPress, had they not offered me at least a limited profile.

After such a flurry, I felt the need to blog this. Thus I christen my rejection from the human race my first blog. Maybe I'll write an erotic story about Google + making love to Facebook, just so I can humanize it more than it humanized me.