In my travels on the internet, I ran across an old flame of mine, Playboy Playmate, Ashley Cox. What I remember about Ashley is that I first came across her in my step-father’s stash of Playboys when I was 15. I didn’t like her. All the other Playmates smiled. All the other Playmates were very happy to be naked. The other Playmates appeared to be thrilled that you were looking at them.
Ashley looked disinterested in her own nakedness. I put her away and masturbated happily to smiling naked women.
But for some reason, Ashley lurked in the back of my mind. My step-father’s Playboys were in the attic. I had a hiding space under a shelf in my room that could only hold six issues. The issues that lurked under there were always my favorites. Ashley’s issue kept rotating in and out. I wasn’t sure why. She was sexy in a different way and I didn’t understand it.
I still am not sure. I look at her now and what I like is her weariness. She looks tired. She looks real. She looks like she could use a buddy or a joke.
I think ultimately she is a mystery and mysteries will always intrigue.
On a different note, Joe Lansdale, a writer I admire like he was Santa, writes in an article
“It’s not the place. It’s the story. And most of all, it’s the writer who tells the story, and how he tells it.
Would-be writers often tell me how they’re waiting for the right time or a good place to work, and I think that’s all well and good, but most of them have been waiting a long, long time, and it is my guess they will continue to wait. They don’t have the drive, the real urge to be a writer.”
I am often skeptical of writers who say they are waiting for inspiration or the right moment. I sympathize because I know what it is like to want to write but lack that certain something. What is missing is not inspiration, time or the materials. What is missing is the will. It amazes me that people will drag their asses out of bed and go to work with a severe hatred for their job, but they can’t seem to find the ability to write 4 pages on something they technically love.
On a third note, I have been thinking a lot about motivation. I am terrible when it comes to updating my bookmarks so this week I took a crack at it. I deleted over 50 sex blogs that I don’t read any more. In 95% of the cases, the blogs had already been deleted by their owners. It is tempting to think that they deleted them because people like me were not reading them but then I look at my rather low web hits for my blog and I keep plugging away.
The fact that people read my blog is a plus, but it is not my sole motivation. I am fortunate enough that I have a job that pays my bills and this blog is my hobby. I think I am more fortunate in that I am addicted to writing. I am addicted to story telling. I am addicted to making books for the joy of making a book.
When I am at my snobbiest, I often say that the reason certain people I know are unhappy is because they don’t create anything. They fuck a lot, they keep up on every piece of trivia on their favorite shows and they eat to excess but they bitch all the time about their lives. To me this is because they don’t make anything. The guy who fucks a different girl every week never seems to be as happy as me when I write a really good threesome scene that week.
Breakfast is done and I promised myself I would quit. Go make something.