Poetry by Jade – My New Secondary Site!

Posted on July 9, 2015July 9, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

Poetry, poetry, poetry—no matter what I do, I never stop writing it. This isn’t a bad thing, but it’s definitely a thing. On the side of the road, on the move, on the phone, in a bar…poetry pours from my head on a fairly regular basis, and has since my early teens.

I am primarily an erotica writer, and I’ve tried to keep the bulk of my poetry here on the erotic side—but the truth is that I write some things that don’t necessarily fit into that description. So, since I wanted to be able to post pieces as they flow for those interested in that aspect of my writing, I decided it was high time to create a secondary site. I’ve been prepping it behind the scenes for a little while, and I’m excited to announce today that Poetry by Jade is officially up and running!

If you are a lover of verse, please come by and visit. You can follow that site specifically if you’d like, and while I’ll post mostly erotic poetry there (with occasional pieces guest appearing here), that site will definitely carry the non-erotic work when it happens. In the meantime, this will remain my main site, hosting my full focus and majority of postings—from short fiction and musings to confessions and news.

All that said, I will be posting a brand new erotic poem over at the new site a teeny bit later today—so I hope you’ll please come join me for the adventure. 🙂

XX,
Jade

Mojo Lost, Mojo Found

Posted on June 30, 2015June 30, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

It has been an insane seven months. I’ve had more stress happening in my life than is reasonable, most it fueled by big drama that I don’t care to get into and that I’d say is only half resolved, but that—I will finally admit—did, in no uncertain terms, zap the shit out of my writing mojo.

Now, for those of you following along, you may have picked up I’m a bit hard on myself. I am part masochist, part perfectionist, part over analyst, part wannabe superhero, and part head-in-the-sand ostrich, so when you mash all this together, sometimes it takes a bad turn. I’m freakishly good at putting on a big smile to cover whatever the hell is going on, ignoring when things are bad, and pushing through insane amounts of pain. On top of that, I am so optimistic (I’m of the “fuck half-full, I have a glass!” ilk), I can convince myself things aren’t as bad as they seem, all while crying about it at the same time.

Gif of muppet freaking out from Gifs for the Masses

Take a chill pill already!

Awesome!

Not.

So here’s the deal…I was working on this book for the last, oh, ten or so months. I was excited about it and the vision I had for it—except I kept ignoring how stressed out I was. Well, okay, that’s not entirely true. I was admitting how stressed out I was, but ignoring how much it was affecting me. Insomnia? Whatever. Excessive oversleeping when given the chance? No biggie. Hours spent watching TV to try and soothe my head, chiding myself the entire time because I should be writing? Whatever. Dragging myself into my desk chair and trying to figure out why the hell I couldn’t focus on the words in front of me, not because I needed a muse, but because day after day I had a bizarrely “fuzzy head” that was, honestly, starting to make me feel physically ill? P-shaw. I mean, the list of symptoms went on and on—but despite all these warning signs, good friends telling me to give myself a break, and me telling me to give myself a break (ha ha), I just kept going. And perhaps as no surprise, the book suffered massively because of this.

There’s good news, though, I promise! First, I had a huge meltdown (no, I swear, this is good). Malin James and I often talk about how some people run like sports cars—we run really hot, crazy fast, and super flashy…and then one part flies off on the track and shit hits the fan and our machine needs major repair. This is complicated and expensive, but damn, does that baby run better once it’s fixed. That said, I am certain I was a BMW in a past life, because, holy shit, did this little car have a break down. In the middle of it, my amazing beta babes kindly (and firmly) took the book out of my hands and suggested a break.

Break? Me?

I circled the track a few more times. Was I really going to break? Would I come back on the track speedier and flashier than ever if I did?

I won’t lie—this part was scary and fucking hard. I have an ingrained fear of doing what I did long ago, something I talked about in my interview with Molly Moore about my adventures between writing as a teen and not coming back to it seriously until about five years ago (and only because I was grounded after a major injury): wandering away from my passion for way too long of a time. I consider myself a Jill of all trades—not amazing at anything but pretty good at a lot of things—and sometimes these side things consume me. (Did I mention earlier I’m also part obsessive? Yeah, that too.) Working Renaissance Faire, becoming a seamstress, becoming an aerial acrobat—these things were passions of mine that I dove into with everything I had, forgetting all the while how deep my true passion, writing, ran in me. When I found that drive again a few years ago, it was so hot, so amazing, so why-the-fuck-have-I-been-away-from-you-for-so-long?, I guess whenever I do cut myself some slack, there’s this tick of worry that I’ll be seduced away in some schmaltzy love affair that might distract me, again, from the real deal.

But that’s not what happened. I’m older, and I understand now how much I love writing…so I went ahead and did it.

I gave myself permission to break.

For a few weeks after the breakdown, I tinkered—and then I just threw up my hands and walked away. Other than a few poems and some blog posts, I barely wrote. Then I took it a step further and took an entire week off to do absolutely no writing or editing or thinking about writing at all. I picked up my niece for a couple days and took her Great America (so fun!), I read some books, I cooked, I slept, I watched a lot of movies, and then I woke up one day and…

BOOM.

There it was, cuddling up beside me—this great big urge to sit in front of the computer and write again.

I took it real easy at first, deciding there was no need to work on a large project, but rather, to write a bunch of small things. I needed to practice starting and stopping again, rather than [over]futzing with something too big to chew on just yet. I needed to simply have a good time writing whatever I felt like, no matter if it was good or bad or for any purpose other than to make me smile again. This was the deal I made with myself for the first two weeks I’ve come back—and, holy fuck, I’m a bit shocked at how much has poured out of me! In the first week I wrote six flash pieces, five shorts, a couple blog posts, and opened up documents or scribbled down notes for upwards of a dozen starter ideas or first lines for new things. I even revisited a character I wrote about prior to switching to erotica, and decided she may one day make it into an erotic series, who knows…but I wrote a flash piece about her to enter a contest.

Then came the best part: my amazing beta babes, Malin and Tamsin, sent me feedback for that book I mangled. The evidence that it was in need of work was clear, but guess what? It turned out there was hope in the thing. And instead of worrying about it, I read their feedback and smiled. Yes, there’s work to be done—but it no longer feels so foreboding and terrifying. It actually feels like it’s going to be pretty fun!

So, here I am in my second week of “play time,” and I’m starting to toy with ideas on what I’d like to do next. Fix the book? Likely. Work on other big things? For sure. But either way, I think it’s finally safe to say it.

I may have lost my mojo for a bit there, but, hot damn—that baby is found!

XX,
Jade

The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 (Part Two) – “The Doll”!

Posted on June 11, 2015June 17, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

Yesterday, I told you a bit about “The Bells”—the first of my two stories in Rose Caraway’s freshly released The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30. As promised, today I’m back to talk about “The Doll,” a piece that is dear to my heart in a far different way than my fascination with famous queens and historical torture methods.

The alternate (and possibly temporary) Dirty 30 ebook cover

This one is much more personal.

I’ve had many relationships in my life, and I’m sure I’m not alone in saying some have definitely left me more wobbly than expected once they ended. “The Doll” is a play off something I said after one such relationship—a fairly complicated affair that, in truth, both opened my mind and turned me completely inside out. It’s a love I’ve come back to a lot in my head, one that’s inspired several things and that will undoubtedly continue to do so for a long time to come.

While I’ve since healed from this relationship, the period after it ended required a ton of strength to wash it all out of my system. Over and over, I told those close to me I felt broken afterwards. I likened the experience to having finally come alive, but said that afterward I felt like a crumpled up, abandoned marionette that was no longer able to dance.

And it was from that analogy that “The Doll” was born.

I scribbled a few notes after I said all this to a friend one day, and I guess it turned out that—devastated or not—my writer brain was still working, turned on in ways I couldn’t even begin to comprehend as hurt as I was. Somewhere in my subconscious, I was crafting an image of what the experience really felt like to me.

It took a long while for me to sit down and write this story because it was so close to me, but once I did, it morphed into something I hadn’t expected. It was no longer just a story about a doll coming to life, and somehow it went from literary erotic spec fic to allegory in a matter of pages. Like “The Bells,” it came to me in a single sitting—but when it was over, I exhaled a different kind of sigh than I had for the other piece. This story was more personal, more tender, and in so many ways, incredibly healing for me to put to page.

So…there you have it: my story behind “The Doll,” one of my most favorite pieces written to date.

To celebrate its release into the world, I’d love to share an excerpt with you.

From “The Doll”:

When Asif’s ex-wife swung by to drop off his alimony check, she’d pointed at the marionette with a frown.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Another doll to add to this crap?” She’d waved her hands about the apartment lined with shelf upon shelf of handmade dolls. “You’re obsessed with fixing the fucking dolls, and you don’t make any money with them. Plus, this one’s broken.” She’d lifted the doll’s leg, quick to point out the broken strings that barely kept her right foot hinged to her ankle. “You’re ridiculous, Asif,” she’d said, and then the door had snapped shut behind her.

But Asif knew she was wrong with this one, and when he turned his focus back to the doll, he spoke to her in hushed tones.

“You’re beautiful. These breaks are what give you character.”

She seemed to nod at him, confirming what Asif already knew in his many days of watching her—she was his darling to tend to, to cherish, and to love.

In the coming weeks, Asif discovered more of Henrietta: the chips of two fingernails, ruined beyond repair, and the space above her ear where a lock of hair had been violently removed, leaving the wood beneath ragged and raw. Asif tried to heal these wounds, and when he couldn’t, he’d prop her beside him at the table and speak to her with tender words meant to coax her from inside her wooden casing. Because—despite the nails and the missing strand of hair, and the broken string that left her right foot flailing when he tried to dance her around his flat—he loved her.

“You’re real beneath that shell,” he said one night, his voice a lonely whisper as he dipped his paintbrush, and then in a painstakingly slow manner, drew the paint in delicate sweeps to fix the liner smudged beneath her eye. “I can see it, Henrietta. I can feel it. I just wish you’d know how safe you are with me.”

The marionette’s eyes struck Asif as brighter, two brown stars against her pale wooden face. He set down the brush and took her slim fingers into his, stroking them, smiling at them, and then bobbed his head with conviction.

“I believe you’re more, my love,” he said.

A rustling came through the open window then, stirring a lock of her hair, and Asif caught it in his fingers. He fondled the wisp from root to tip as though it was real. As though she was real. And when Henrietta gazed back at him, Asif heard her silent plea for more.

Quietly, he lifted his fingertips to her brow. He traced several strands of her hair, from the knots binding it into her wooden scalp and down through to the ends, and as he did her hair began to lighten and silken. Moved by this, Asif slid his entire hand into her hair. He twined his fingers with the strands and brushed them back from her face, and each ringlet followed the course of the first—the flaxen coarseness becoming shiny and free, like the satiny strands of a woman’s hair. Even the knots on her scalp loosened, the hair springing quite naturally from her head.

“You are, aren’t you?” he whispered.

The doll’s eyes sparkled.

Intrigued?

I hope so. And I also hope you’ll pick up a copy of The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30. It’s a collection I’m so thrilled to be a part of, and with the roster of exceptional authors in here, I’m absolutely positive you’re going to love it.

Please pick up your copy on either Amazon or Audible, and in the meantime, thank you so much for joining me on this two-post series!

Happy reading and listening!

XX,
Jade

The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 (Part One) – “The Bells”!

Posted on June 10, 2015June 11, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

Every once in a while, we as writers create something we’re extraordinarily excited about. It could be that the piece was a challenge to write, or that it reflected a personal moment that’s stuck with us a long time. It might be a new idea we never thought to brave before, or, it could simply be that something about the story tickled us to the core. Either way, baring the part of our souls that made it important to us is why it ends up being so much more exciting when other people finally see it, too.

That’s why today’s news feels super enthralling. Just a little bit ago, The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 came out, and now it’s officially available in audio, too. What makes this collection special (besides an all-star lineup) is not just that it includes one of those dear stories I described above—and I can’t even believe how lucky I am to say this—but it has two!

Since I have so much to say about both pieces in this fantastic new collection from the lovely Rose Caraway, I’ve decided to split this post into a two-part series. Today, I’ll talk about and give an excerpt for “The Bells,” which is a dark alternate history piece. Tomorrow, I’ll focus in on “The Doll,” a story that thrills me in a hugely different, more personal way. I hope you’ll join me for both posts, as I can honestly say these stories are two of my very favorites.

So, let’s see, before I say anything more about “The Bells,” let’s have a look-see at the ridiculously sexy audiobook cover:

Hot, right? I’m still dancing over here because I love it so! There’s been a slight (and possibly temporary) tweak to the ebook cover, but I’ll show you that one tomorrow.

For now, I’d like to tell you a bit about “The Bells”…

I have to start with a confession on this one: I am not a history buff, and it was my absolute worst subject in school. However, there are certain themes and topics that have surprised me along the way. For example, I’ve always been fascinated by powerful female leaders (or pseudo-leaders, anyway). My first glimpse of this was in reading The King’s Way by Françoise Chandernagor as a teen, and then a few years later, getting sucked into Philippa Gregory’s The Virgin Lover. It seemed to me these ladies were flexing a LOT of power despite being the historically underrated female, and so in the back of my mind I thought playing with that might be fun in a story one day.

Let’s cut to another historical topic that captivated me: Henry VIII and his herd of wives. I know it’s history and that was understandable for the time, but this one feisty man getting all the ladies and cutting off a third of their heads just because of a little adultery never quite sat right with me. It’s a crime against love and loins, dude, not a threat to your throne.

It’s this tidbit that actually leads to the third historical topic that revved my engines—the punishment methods of our past. I’ve always been bizarrely fascinated by this stuff, but in college, I stumbled upon a course called The History of Crime and Punishment. I promptly enrolled in it, obsessed over it, and aced it like a champ. I got so into this course, in fact, that my boyfriend at the time grew unnecessarily worried over how often I wanted to watch scary old late night documentaries depicting means of torture and really cruel things we did to one another in the name of justice. But, I mean—drawing and quartering? Wheel breaking? The Judas Cradle? Ducking stools? Loss of ears? What the hell is wrong with us that we came up with these things?!

So put all that background on simmer, and many years later, along comes Rose Caraway’s Dirty 30 call. She’d already bowled me over by putting Soundscapes on her tremendous Kiss Me Quick’s podcast, so I knew the plot could get way out there if I so wished it. I didn’t know what to write, but for some reason I kept having this persistent image of bells ringing. It was outdoors, in a dusty arena, and they just kept clang clang clanging.

As I was toying with what to do with this image, randomly, a certain unfortunate Queen I’d once learned about popped into my head.

I guess it was the perfect storm; the merging of all these ideas had me at the computer the next day in full trance-style—hyper-focused, phone off, fingers flying over the keyboard. The image grew darker and darker, because I kept wondering what if, what if, what if it had gone this way instead?

Annnnnddddd…that’s where I have to pull the brakes on my back story, because my intention is not to blow the plot for you—that wouldn’t be fun for any of us. Fortunately, I do have an excerpt to whet your appetite.

From “The Bells”:

Catherine remained still. The bells she wore about her ankles were permanent instruments, but it was the rest of the adornments that paled poor Helen’s face as she worked, her lips pursed tight when she drew the box from beneath Catherine’s bed and focused on the entirety of her lady’s body.

First, she circled her wrists with multiple strands of bells, creating bracelet upon bracelet of noise. The next strand she fastened around Catherine’s bare waist, the bells resting against her alabaster skin and jingling as Helen checked each one in turn. After came the clamps, which she held in the air with a wince before securing them to Catherine’s nipples. Immediately, Catherine felt the burn, the sting of teeth gripping her as Helen did what she’d been instructed to do every week prior—flicking them to ensure they made their respective and appropriate sounds.

Catherine closed her eyes. The clamps drove her mad, sending heat through her breasts and into her belly. Her heart pounded in ways neither Helen nor the King could possibly have anticipated—for they had all assumed after he walked in on her, catching her in her treachery, that this sort of ceremony would bring her the ultimate shame.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

Catherine opened her eyes with a nod.

“Continue.”

The first time Helen had adorned Catherine, she’d spoken her instructions aloud. Her voice had quavered in the bitter tears of youth as she affixed the many bells to Catherine’s naked form. But Catherine had found irony in soothing the girl, finally cupping her cheeks in her palms and silencing her with the same sentiment she’d boldly pronounced at her sentencing.

“This is the fate I have chosen for my crimes, because I would never choose to die.”

Catherine knew the girl had found some solace despite the sorrow wrinkling her brow. But even now, knowing Catherine’s choice, knowing her fate, Helen held her face in the stubborn conviction of a girl foolishly protecting her former Queen.

“Well? Hurry on, then,” Catherine said.

Helen scooped the last of the adornments from the box: a single bell on a chain that Catherine was to wear as a necklace. This lone bell would make the most noise throughout the ceremony, but at this moment it rested, quiet and benign, aligned with the rising throb of her clamped nipples.

Helen gave Catherine her final inspection, then nodded in the grave way she usually did before calling for the guard.

“She is ready.”

Catherine held her head high when he arrived. The man opened the cell with a leer behind his mask, and yet he made no comment, no move to take advantage of her state. Instead he merely stepped back, careful of her bare feet as Helen took her hand and escorted her down the winding hall. The bells on Catherine’s body chimed with every step, the reminder of her crime and the next round of punishment to come. Her cheeks burned, but the weight of the clamps and the sound of the bells sent her heart clattering in wild bursts.

When they arrived on the platform, Helen arranged Catherine behind the curtains as she’d been trained to do: her arms and legs splayed, fastened to the far corners of the proscenium by long cords of bells that attached to her bracelets. This was temporary—because beyond those thick, velvet sheets, loud shrieks beckoned for a show. Theirs was a kingdom of eager viewers, crazed with a hungry fervor that sent chills through Catherine’s arms as Helen shifted her about. Her body vibrated with the energy of the arena, and her legs shook beneath her when Helen nudged her torso forward. The pitch of her chest allowed the bells to dangle from her neck and nipples so they would trill with each movement she’d make.

“Good luck, my lady,” Helen said.

And then she was gone.

I have not yet had the opportunity to hear the amazing Rose Caraway read either of the stories I’ve got in this collection, but I have no doubt she’s going to completely rock my world, and hopefully yours too! The book is available on Audible right here, or if you prefer it, on Amazon right here.

Either way, I do hope you’ll please come back tomorrow, when I share some back story and an excerpt for my other story in this collection, “The Doll.”

Until then, thanks so much for reading!

XX,
Jade

N.B. You can now read about “The Doll” right here.

You Write Erotica

Posted on June 3, 2015June 3, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

I’m a proud writer of erotica.

It took me years to finally embrace this and say it out loud for a variety of reasons—you can read a little about that journey here—but as it stands I’m a huge supporter of the genre, and was such well before I officially started calling myself an “erotica writer.” I have always believed that feeling comfortable with your sexuality and speaking your mind about it is vital and valuable no matter what your experience, and eventually, I recognized my thoughts on writing sexual fiction and nonfiction were identical to those I had on the act in general. Finally, I found myself ready to bring it into the light, and have been excited to do so ever since.

So cut to this last weekend, when I started going through old poetry and unearthed a piece written five years ago, when I was just barely starting to test out the phrase I write erotica. The poem was based on a real encounter with a man with whom I’d had a very extended conversation—extended and detailed enough, anyway, that mentioning I write erotica felt like a natural part of the discussion. After rereading the piece, I got to thinking about the act of saying one writes erotica. Strangely, even five years later, it’s a statement that provokes a broad spread of responses, some so drastic that the simple act of saying it might need to be censored. In the best case scenario, we get a loud cheer or encouraging smile, or maybe even enthusiastic questions. In others, we might be greeted with a condescending frown, or a quiet shushing to acknowledge this topic isn’t the most appropriate for the venue. Occasionally (and sadly), we aren’t able to say anything at all.

And still sometimes, the below happens.

Peculiar, isn’t it?

XX,
Jade

YOU WRITE EROTICA

Jade A. Waters

I write erotica, she said
And you could see him practically
Come himself
Really?
Yes, yes I do
Perhaps she shouldn’t have shared this
But when he asked her what she wrote
It seemed the next logical phrase

It was true after all

So like, you write about sex
Yes, I do
Like porn
No, not like porn
Like eloquent porn
With some of the raunch
But more generous in the art department

I see, he said
Adjusting his pants
And trying to hide the subtle turn
Of his lips at the corner
So you write pretty, raunchy, and clever porn
When she smiled
He grabbed her hand

I wouldn’t normally do this
And you can say no if you want
He said, leaning back on his heel
But if I didn’t have a girlfriend, I have to say
I’d totally ask you out

She stepped back herself
A little put off
And wondering if maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned the erotica
But he continued
I could always use more friends, though
Would you like to be friends?

He squeezed her hand
Running a finger along the inside of her palm
And she glanced at it as his words grew quieter
Maybe I can help you
With some inspiration?

Talk Dirty (Captions) To Me

Posted on May 12, 2015May 12, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

After last week’s seriously nitty-gritty editing post—which, in all truth, resulted in me realizing it was time to take a break from the book and pass it on to betas…now…before I start going nuts—I’ve decided to lighten things up a bit over here.

Occasionally, I like to share a picture. I’m a pretty visual person—both in bed and out—but photos usually don’t do much for me. There’s a very large group of writers who use images as inspiration, and while I don’t seem to have the capacity to do that, I enjoy a good image purely for its own value. Take the image I previously posted of the beautiful built man searching the sand for who knows what or the fabulous ass of the gentleman about to get it on with the Lady of the Perfectly Arched Feet—I could look at these over and over, and while they won’t inspire any words beyond “DAMN” and “HOT,” they still look deliciously good to me.

So today, I’m turning the tables around. Let’s play a little game, shall we? I will post a picture, and I want YOU to tell me what comes to mind. Call it research. Or fun. Or just that I enjoy seeing how different people respond to images. I’m not even about to blast you with a super NSFW image, either; this one is really pretty tame. With images, I think it’s often about the hint of something to come, the promise of what could be. I still haven’t figured out exactly what in this one speaks to me (might be the lean?), but it’s what I’ve got my eye on today.

Does it grab you?

I do hope you’ll play with me—I’m totally inviting you to talk dirty to me! Caption away, or share your thoughts. What do you see here? What does this image inspire in you?

I dare you to share. 😉

XX,
Jade

It’s Time For…Editing Mayhem!

Posted on May 6, 2015June 29, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

After careful consideration, I’m 100% sure I am an over-editing fiend.

This isn’t to say that the editing I do is bad editing, or even that it’s unnecessary. It’s just potentially a little over the top.

“All things in moderation,” one of my parents used to say.

Yeah. Kind of missed that boat, guys.

In all fairness, we all have our methods. We’ve got to do what works for us. I felt as though I’d fine-tuned my novel editing process the last time around, but I’m coming to realize that whatever the process is that I think I have nailed down, it will be sabotaged when, say, I’m in times of great stress. (Perhaps uncoincidentally, this is when my weird urge to check the oven is off at least three times before I leave the house kicks in, too. So fun.)

The last book hit some road bumps before I called the edit done, but somehow it didn’t feel quite as disruptive as what happened this time. My awesome system was all screwed up due to too many “life issues,” and of course there was that whole bout with adding a subplot, removing the subplot, changing the subplot and re-adding it again. What all this basically amounted to was me convincing myself I’d fucked everything up, then laughing hysterically because I started re-editing things I’d already edited. Three times.

I like my plot lines how I like my love life: hot, heavy, and complicated. #amwriting

So about that plot line issue…

At least there was laughing, right? That’s good.

So, anyway. Clearly I’m going tangential today. There will be no fiction, no confessions, no poetry, no pictures of hot men. I have decided to share the editing process that is by no means “in moderation,” but that I used with both my currently shelved comedic memoir and that first erotica novel I finished writing last January. It’s a method I think I like (because I honestly love editing), and that I’ve attempted to use again—I just stress attempted because, well, see the last full paragraph. And yes, it might well be a little nuts. Or, maybe it’s normal. Or maybe it’s indicative of a woman who spent three years of her teens wanting to be a neurosurgeon so there remains a residual urge to meticulously fix things…who knows. Either way, perhaps you will find something of use (or at least a good laugh) from my editing insanity!

Here goes!

Jade’s 10 Steps to Editing Mayhem

Step 1: Mull It Over. Do not touch your first draft for at least three weeks after you type “The End.” Then, and only then, print it out. Read it cover to cover (best in a short, consistent time frame) with all pens and pencils locked somewhere you cannot find them. Once you finish, mull for 2-4 days. Make mental notes of any plot issues that strike you as seriously fucked up, but do not write anything down. Not yet. This is thinking time.

Step 2: Grab the Pen of Destruction. After you’ve sufficiently mulled it over, find your favorite pen (I’m a big fan of blue or green—red makes me crazy). Then, in batches of three or so chapters, edit like a maniac. At the end of the third chapter, enter the changes on the computer. When you finish, go back and read these chapters on the screen, making changes as you see them. Then repeat your chapter bunches to the end of the book.

Step 3: Throw It All Off. Bear in mind, you will need to stop to add scenes where appropriate. This will of course throw off the “[three] chapter bundle” plan, so after typing a new scene, edit it on screen, print and edit it on paper, enter the changes, then continue on with the rest of the chapter bundle.

Picture of woman lying on floor looking reading

Is this step 4? Step 10? A cat nap? I don’t know. You pick.

Step 4: Assess Your Mental Health (Take 1). Recognize this has taken a bizarrely long time already, and that, according to writer friends, this is where many people stop and send the damn thing off to beta readers. Laugh a good laugh and keep going, special snowflake. It’s time to let that freak flag fly.

Step 5: Begin Your Word List Madness. When I read, I’m hypersensitive to echoes—repeated words and phrases—so when I’m on Step 2 I keep a notepad handy, jotting down every word or phrase I swear I’ve repeated too many times. This list can get disturbingly long, and it will turn out that some of the words are not actually echoes but phantom echoes. That’s okay, though; write them down anyway, because you’ll take great pleasure in finding out you’re wrong when you do a “find and replace” for each and every word on this notepad. When you find a true culprit, though, set some random upper limit in your head for the number of times you think it should appear. Proceed to slash and hack to fit that number. This process, while tedious, will allow you whole phrase changes that will make the book read better—you probably didn’t need to say cock that much, even though the word rolls around so well on the tongue. (Heh.) Also check excessive adverbs and your Naughty Words List (the list of words that you tend to overdo).

Step 6 (Optional): Create Post-It Confetti. When feeling particularly Word List sensitive (this happened for me last time), write down the really bothersome word on a Post-It, and make note of what pages it happens. Then make another Post-It with synonyms and their page numbers. Sometimes, you can find an eerie pattern that makes you feel your use of certain words is logically connected to the Universe—but don’t spend too long pondering this. Your next goal is to disperse your abundance of synonyms so that the first half of the book doesn’t have all the cock and the second half get the shaft. (Ha ha. Who said editing isn’t fun?!)

Step 7: Assess Your Mental Health (Take 2). Realize you have synonym lists on Post-Its all over your desk and that this alone may be far more concerning than your browser history. Laugh another good laugh. Is it a math brain that makes one so obsessed with patterns? The OCD? Will you ever know the true answer? Does this have something to do with the meaning of life? Why do you care? This is not the time for an existential musing. Whatever the cause for this madness, regain your focus and set some rewards: a night out when you’re finished and a damn good book to read. I promised myself Alison Tyler’s Wrapped Around Your Finger when this current edit was finished, and while it’s been sitting on my nightstand for almost six months, I am going to get to it soon, goddammit!

Step 8: Sigh and Run Your Spellcheck. Breathe a sigh of relief. The hard work is over. Now, give the whole document a spellcheck. Take this opportunity to spot and change more boring words. You’ll find them. I promise.

Step 9 (Best for post-beta read, but whatever): Go Aural. Read the entire story aloud. No, really. This is the best piece of editing advice I ever got, and I still do it, every time, no matter what the length of the story is. It catches almost every error, swear.

Step 10: Get Your Ass and That Book Out. Send the doc to your beta readers before you find ways to make another pass through. Then, take yourself out to celebrate.

BOOM. You’re done. Easy as pie. Yes?

So, a few notes: First drafts get better as you write more (thank god), so this list, while arduous, goes faster and gets simpler with each new story. The next edit (post-beta or otherwise) won’t require several of these steps, either—so far I’ve stuck with a single read-through, then 2, 3, 8 (sans sighs), 9, and 10 on that round, with 2 and 3 switched. Also, 10 is even more celebratory because it’s more done, which is always a good thing. And once this bad doggie is out the door, you can now move on to all the other projects you’ve avoided save for a random piece of flash or ten.

Until, of course, you get your edits back from your betas/editor/agent again.

🙂

XX,
Jade

“Open” — a Poem, in Audio

Posted on April 22, 2015April 25, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

I think it’s safe to say all writers love words. We love the shape of them, the feel of them, the way they play together on the page. But while most writing is meant to be read in quiet, there are occasions when it’s the sound of the words that really counts.

I make no secret in my bio that I once read synonyms to a lover as foreplay. In that moment I enjoyed not writing the words, but dancing them off my tongue, letting them resonate and seduce in just the right way. And though I’ve read a few stories aloud before, those pieces weren’t written with that intention in mind. Which is why today, I’m trying something different.

I wrote “Open” about seven years ago as a poem to be read aloud. On the page, it reads to me as a series of staccato lines and words—whereas in my head these phrases are better played with in tone, volume, and voice. So with that in mind, I’ve opted not to just post this old poem, but to read it to you, too. It’s quite short, but I’ve read it as I imagined it when I wrote it—not as a string of words, but instead as sounds meant for a lover’s ear.

I hope you enjoy it.

XX,
Jade

OPEN

Jade A. Waters

Come
Inside
Fill me
Take me
Your love
Within
Divine
I ache
I pine
The heat
Engulfs
And burns
Throughout
I feel
You throb
I move
On you
With you
To you
A beat
A pulse
That stirs
That moves
Us on
As one
Together
Push
And rub
We glide
You slide
Deep
In me
You are
You live
I breathe
To feel
This
You
In me
With me
Press on
Once more
And then…

…Come again.

You Got Turned Out

Posted on April 15, 2015April 15, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

Well over a year ago, a close friend used a term that struck me as profound—so much so it’s been simmering in the back of my head ever since. The truth is that it was said in reference to a relationship I’d experienced, but eventually, I realized how wide the scope of it was, and how very much I needed to write about it.

See, at the time of our conversation, I was wrapping up one of the most painful breakups of my life. I’ve had many relationships in two decades—some of them waking me in one way or another, others serious enough we nearly ended up engaged, and still others breaking me in ways that required many years of lightness to heal—but this was different. It was heavier somehow, more real, more intense. If I were to describe my past relationships as watercolor paintings, this one was made of oil—dense with color, small details, and texture, and labored over not just with brushes, but with rags and carving tools that molded the canvas of us. It started as a casual fling that should have meant practically nothing, but in the mere nine months we lasted—including four breakups, three standoffs, and two attempted months of silence—the impact still coursed through my blood and transformed me.

So on the night we chatted, this friend of mine listened while I cried to him for probably the third or fourth time, dragging myself in circles over this new kind of hurt, and this strange feeling of having had my heart and soul wrenched open in ways I couldn’t understand. And in the midst of it, he said, very sweetly, “Honey, don’t you see? You got turned out.”

This friend has long been special to me for a variety of reasons, but his frankness—paired with his somewhat uncanny understanding of women—has always captivated me. Having never heard the term, I sniffled a few times and asked what the hell he was talking about. I’ll take the liberty of paraphrasing his response, but the basic concept is this: getting “turned out” means someone has fully broken through to you—turned you upside down, cracked you open, and unraveled you completely. Sure, you may have had sex and love before—hell, you could have had endless sex and love, and believed you’d felt the magic—but this experience is not common, and when it happens, you know. It’s more powerful than any love or good fuck or orgasm you’ve had before; it’s like you’ve found that person who can sink right into your soul, delve into your pores, and bring you out into the world as an entirely altered, more phenomenal version of you.

When he said this, it clicked. I’d known love, lust, empathy, closeness, hurt, passion, and all of the feelings that connect us with one another—but this thing, even as short as it was, had me lost in an emotional and sexual haze all the way through and well after it ended. Truth be told, it’s one of the most complicated things I’ve ever experienced, so uplifting and murky and amazing and excruciatingly painful, charging me even beyond the time it took to heal. This is why I strongly believe the last part of what my friend said in that phone call, too—that this type of experience will inevitably end in one of two ways: ideally, you and the person seize the magic and end up together for life, exploring this brilliance discovered together; or, you and the person call it quits, she who got turned out is hurt for a long, long time, and then—once all the pain dissipates and she can see straight again—she’s essentially reborn with so much more sense, emotional power, and feeling than she’d ever dreamed of before.

A phoenix rising from the ash, if you will.

That’s a big concept to pin on a relationship, I know, but I’d venture to guess a few of you know exactly what I’m talking about. Maybe while you’re reading this, your hearts are thumping in your chests, your heads lifting and falling as you whistle to yourselves because you remember what this felt like. It’s that feeling of putting your heart, your love, your soul, your very essence in someone else’s grasp like you could never have fathomed before—and still being unbelievably okay with it.

Sometimes, it works out. Sometimes, it doesn’t. But no matter what, you will never be who you were before.

So, that’s what’s been churning in my head for a while now, seeping into my work, my stories. I don’t mean to do it, and then suddenly I do. The first time I saw it was in the last book I wrote—I’d drafted it early last year and then came back a month later to edit, following my character through her adventure in love and sex while I made my scribbles on the page…and then WHAM. I actually saw it in her character arc, and said it out loud:

“Oh, look at you. You got turned out, baby girl.”

I thought it was just a one-time thing. Then the feelings kept resurfacing in other stories I wrote, essays I penned, and poems I posted, without me ever intending it. It was like in finding myself, my characters had to, as well. Even in the book I’m editing now, I saw it happening all over again—the protagonist shedding her old skin, embracing this new life and awareness she finds with the one who broke through to who she honestly was. It wasn’t that she wasn’t whole or happy before—only that, in a way, she had to set fire to who she was to leap into this vivid new self. In doing so, she’s become richer, more powerful, and eager for every sensation and experience yet to be had.

She’s been turned out.

Sometimes, I wonder if the intersection of my own experience happening shortly after I sent my first erotica story into the world was a coincidence, or if it was the Universe trying to give me a message. That in embracing my writing, I’d opened up a personal door. Or that in releasing the erotica I’d kept quiet for years, I was finally able to bare my heart and soul, even if it was going to hurt like hell. Or that, since I was going to explore so many things in real life, I would need to feed it all into my stories over time.

Honestly, I don’t know the answer to the how or why—and like the phoenix, I don’t think the past matters anymore.

When you get turned out, the only thing you need to do is soar on.

XX,
Jade

Damn You, Grey’s Anatomy

Posted on March 30, 2015March 30, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

Okay guys, look—I need to veer way off course right now. Yes, I’m an erotica writer. Yes, I talk about sex often frequently all the freaking time. But after spending the last week sicker than ever and doing virtually nothing but camping in front of the TV, I did a lot of thinking about why the shows I watched were fascinating me. Um…all right, that’s a blatant lie. Other than discovering the Vikings opening theme song has turned into a sort of lullaby that actually soothes me to sleep, I didn’t honestly think about that at all.

That is, until Grey’s Anatomy came bursting out with a big enough disruption to my vegetative couch state I had to do some serious mulling. Unbelievably, that serious mulling has persisted all weekend long, into a few hysterical sentences I shared over lunch with Malin James, and now, oh my god, I can’t stop myself from saying something to all of you about it. I know Grey’s Anatomy and television shows are totally not my usual M.O., but since Charlie Powell of Sex blog (of sorts) just talked rather thoughtfully about not separating blogs into categories all the time, I’m breaking the rules and running with it today (thank you, Charlie!).

So let me start with some background: I watch a short list of shows, but goddammit, if I’m in, I’m in. Grey’s Anatomy is one such show, both because I spent my teens thinking I wanted to be a doctor (this included a brief internship in a trauma room, no less), and because I like quirky characters with real problems who also randomly hook up in on-call rooms while waiting to tackle the next bloody mess. I mean, hello. Curing people and sex and bizarre catastrophes? Works for me.

And despite the naysayers, I’ve stuck by this show since day one, no matter what. Even when Callie and George stupidly got married. Even after Meredith did crazy shit like jumping off a dock or sticking her hand into a bomb-laden body cavity. Even through Alex’s nutso wife. Even when Izzie had an entire affair with a fucking ghost (what the fuck, Shonda Rhimes? WTF). Hell, even when I was getting threatened with no sex in the good thing I had going with a favorite friend with benefits who watched with me during Seasons 5 and 6, because I kept rambling on and on about the DP I had planned with McSteamy and McDreamy. (You think I’m kidding? No. And apparently, the satisfactory response to “What are you thinking right now? You’re awfully quiet” is not “Whether stunning Dr. Sloan or gorgeous Dr. Shepherd is going be in front tonight.”)

But okay, I’m a loyal gal. And sticking it out has resulted in seeing some awesome recent plotlines and characters. Derek’s whippersnapper little sister, Amelia, formerly of Private Practice (another doctor show I watched religiously) was a great add, and so was sassy Dr. Herman (Geena Davis!) as a partner in surgery crime for Arizona Robbins. Oh and there was the grandson of the famous doctor who joined the Board but ended up shirtless one time, rendering me unable to ever remember his name again thanks to that bod and those ridiculously hot eyes—he’s been fun. And you know, sure, I don’t watch Grey’s live anymore—I’m sorry, nothing gets watched live except my beautiful college vamps on Vampire Diaries every Thursday night at 8 pm sharp, thank you very much—but I still have a routine with it: if I’m not going out on Friday night, then I snuggle with my cats on the couch to watch Grey’s before bed. It doesn’t quite beat karaoke or dinner out or happy hour, but it’s a good runner-up if nothing else is going on.

Which leads me back to the week of the cold, and me finally streaming Grey’s while I tried not to hack up a lung. I’m going to issue a major spoiler alert right now just to be safe, but holy crap people—I ended up so completely disturbed by Shonda Rhimes’s insane trip down the rocky potential of Meredith and Derek’s currently long-distance marriage last week that I lost my shit.

For those of you who don’t know, MerDer have been through the wringer. They started as a casual bar hookup after Derek’s failed marriage to the uncannily beautiful Addison Montgomery, and while little Miss Grey takes us along through her doctoral education with a bunch of kooky other doctors-to-be, she ends up having this deliciously sweet relationship with the dreamy-as-fuck brain surgeon, Derek Shepherd. All sorts of craziness happens (Bus accidents! Dead friends! Izzie Stevens! Plane crashes! Electrical storms! Shooters in the ER! Being stood-up at the altar! Fake legs! Neglectful moms! Alcoholic dads! Mysterious siblings! The death of my future lover, McSteamy!), but eventually, they solidify their vows and get married—on a post-it. It was a charmer of a scene and takes way too long to explain, but what’s important is that this post-it loving woman has, to this day, never found a more delightful use of her own post-its, which might be why their sticky note marriage still tickles me to pieces. And of course after that, they went on to have some kids and rah-rah, everything is happy.

But then Rhimes comes along with her maniacal ploy to test them, real hard, again and again. As if Meredith’s miscarriage and Addison’s face and everyone moving in and out of their house wasn’t already enough for these two, now she goes and sends Derek off to D.C. and leaves Meredith to learn she’s actually damn successful without being under his shadow. That’s tempting fate now, isn’t it? And then two episodes back Rhimes launches some madness with a mystery woman answering Derek’s phone that starts calling his integrity into question.

NO, SHONDA, NO. YOU CANNOT DO THIS WITH MY BEAUTIFUL DEREK SHEPHERD, INVENTOR OF THE POST-IT MARRIAGE AND ONE HALF OF ONE OF MY LIFETIME SEX FANTASIES.

But she does! She starts making this intensely weird. Meredith is freaking out. The residents around her are freaking out. I am freaking the fuck out. And people, I was sick. This was not good for my health. I’m getting feverish and trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I might for the first time in my life write something I would never dream of drafting—a letter telling a writer I don’t like what she’s doing with my beloved characters—but I’m so fucking enraged by how she’s puppeting Derek around, I want to throw my TV to the ground. I kid you not.

So this whole run of stress continues for most of the show until, thank god, she brings us all back around to reality. Derek is not the bad guy. Meredith is not going to leave him.

I can continue believing in post-its.

And despite this, despite settling down and kicking back on my couch and breathing a true sigh of relief over a goddamn TV show, it hits me what just happened.

Shonda Rhimes did what we writers all want to do: she made her plan, then wrote her brilliant heart out exactly as she wanted to, and even if I didn’t like what she was doing, she got me fired up enough to care and kick and scream and threaten to break my $1,000 TV.

And that, people—that’s great writing. Damn fine writing, in fact. Ambitious, follow your wild-little-mind kind of writing that we should all aspire to each and every time we sit down to write, even if it makes our audience fucking crazy.

No wonder I keep coming back to this show.

XX,
Jade

PS More sex-writing next time. I promise.