Monthly Archives: June 2014

I’m with Stupid

I found this poem by L.M. Robbins on Koobug the other day. For some reason it really spoke to me ;)

Reprinted with permission of the author.

‘I’m with Stupid.’

By L.M. Robbins.

Fools come in all colours;
All shapes;
All sizes and gender.
Young, Old;
And those in between;
Rich man; Poor man,
Kings and Queens.
The drunk as-a-skunk,
The sober as a judge,
The ‘if only’,
The ‘could’ve’ and ‘should’ve’;
The ‘why-not-me’.
The obtuse, the erudite;
The observers of Mars;
The down ‘n’ outs,
The movie stars.
All do foolish things.
The list is far too long,
and I have little time.
But:
On the list you’ll find me,
Half way down the roll-call,
Under the large sub-heading:
‘The Biggest Fools of All.’

http://koobug.com/LMR____74
http://www.amazon.com/Lee-Robbins/e/B00DSD6ZWI/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_3?qid=1402283268&sr=8-3

Models Wanted for Erotica eBook Cover!

Are you big and beautiful? Would you like an opportunity to be featured as an eBook cover model? Submit your image for the chance to be selected for the cover of my upcoming erotica eBook, Me and Fat Marge!

Me and Fat Marge is an erotic short story that’s probably unlike any other work of erotica you’ve ever read. Yes, it is sexually explicit, but it’s written in my trademark style, which I call erotica with a sense of humor. This brief (non-explicit) excerpt ought to give you the general flavor:

“Thanks, honey,” Brent says placatingly. “But you know I can’t do that again so soon, right?” He lays a hand on his wiener and flops it helplessly towards her, its magnificent purple splendor reduced now to the color and consistency of a very fat earthworm. It’s not the most appealing sight, but Marge keeps staring at it as if it’s the gourmet concoction she’s been yearning for all along.
“More!” she insists.

Still interested? Great! My plan was to release this as a free eBook on Amazon and other outlets in order to generate exposure for my novels. But when I started thinking about what I was going to do for a cover, it occurred to me – Hey! Why not also make the cover an opportunity for someone else to expose themselves? (Pun totally intended.)

So here’s the deal. You provide the digital image and give me an unrestricted license to use it for this project. In return, I promise to promote you on my website, on my social media channels, and in the eBook itself, where, if desired, I will include links to your social media profiles and your bio, which I will be happy to edit for you if it needs polishing. There will also be an opportunity for the model whose image is selected to do a reading of the story for my YouTube channel should she wish to do so.

As I intend to release this as a free eBook, I can’t offer you monetary compensation for use of your image. However, it will give you some great exposure and a really cool credit to add to your resume, which could be incredibly useful if you’re seeking work as a model or actress or just need a little something extra to beef up your portfolio. And entering the competition will require very little effort on your part – you may simply email your name and the image you would like to use to me at lorilschafer(at)outlook(dot) com and I will select the winner from among those who enter.

I should mention that I have no conception of what Marge should look like, or even what kind of pose she should occupy, although I’m imagining that most likely she’ll be reclined. My advice is to read through the story and see what it inspires. You can read the entire piece here, where it was originally published in the very cool Erotic Review Magazine:

http://eroticreviewmagazine.com/fiction/2273/

Bear in mind also that your image will need to be of a high enough quality to work as an eBook cover, so the resolution has to be pretty good. In addition, you will have to certify that you own the rights to license it, so likely you won’t be able to re-use an image you’ve sold elsewhere. And, of course, since it will appear on Amazon and other publicly accessible websites, it must also be suitably tasteful – provocative but lacking outright nudity.

If there’s sufficient interest, I may even turn this into a full-fledged feature on my website so that I can promote and display the photos of everyone who enters. If it goes well, I may also want to do similar promotions for some of my other upcoming short story eBooks, such as The Hannelack Fanny; Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Rump (I’ll let you imagine what kind of picture I’ll be looking for there).

Feel free to email me at lorilschafer(at)outlook(dot)com with any questions you may have. I will actively be promoting my model search on Twitter if you wish to follow me there @LoriLSchafer. I look forward to seeing your photos – and hopefully finding the new face of one of my most unique – and personable – story characters, Marge!

Erotic Review Magazine

Authors with Blogs Wanted for a Writing Process Blog Hop!

Are you an author with a blog? Would you like to participate in a writing process blog hop?

It’s simple! Here’s what you would need to do:

1) Send me a short bio and a link to your blog.

2) On June 16th I will link to your blog from my blog in a blog post like that described in step 3.

3) On June 23rd you do the following:

a. Link back to my blog with the bio information below saying I am the one who introduced you to the blog hop.

b. Answer these four questions about yourself in that blog post:

i. What am I working on?

ii. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

iii. Why do I write what I do?

iv. How does your writing process work?

c. At the bottom or your blog post give the bio and link to three other bloggers/authors you’ve found – this will continue the chain.

Here is my bio and website information:

Lori Schafer is a writer of serious prose and humorous erotica and romance. More than thirty of her short stories, flash fiction, and essays have appeared in a variety of print and online publications, and her first novel, a work of women’s fiction entitled My Life with Michael: A Story of Sex and Beer for the Middle-Aged, will be released in 2015. Also forthcoming in 2015 is her second novel Just the Three of Us: An Erotic Romantic Comedy for the Commitment-Challenged. On the more serious side, her memoir, On Hearing of My Mother’s Death Six Years After It Happened: A Daughter’s Memoir of Mental Illness, will be published in October 2014. When she isn’t writing (which isn’t often), Lori enjoys playing hockey, attending beer festivals, and spending long afternoons reading at the beach.

http://lorilschafer.com

If you’re interested, please e-mail me at lorilschafer(at)outlook(dot)com to confirm. I will take the first three authors to respond. I look forward to learning more about you!

Bunny of Doom

He’s going to hop any minute now… I can tell.

I am Subject: On Writing My Memoir

I am participating in Diane DeBella’s #iamsubject project http://www.iamsubject.com/the-iamsubject-project/. Here is my #iamsubject story.

ON WRITING MY MEMOIR

I forgot her.

I hadn’t intended it. I didn’t mean to forget, or to set her aside. I didn’t plan to consign her to the fog of some distant past, or to the blur of some hazy future. I had no plans for her at all. I didn’t even realize that she was missing. I did not know that she had been forgotten.

About a year ago, this young woman I had banished from my memory returned without warning. I know what prompted it. I found my mother’s obituary online. She had died, without my knowing it, six years before.

My mother was gone. Her insanity and the cruelty to which it drove her would lie forever buried, vanquished by the final failure of her physical being; she would never return. But that young woman would.

She came to me first in the guise of a story. Not a memory, but a story, a short piece of fiction that bore a striking resemblance to a vague recollection I had of her life. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t real. How could it have been?

A short time later, she came again, with another story to tell. To quiet her, once more I put her in fiction. But I didn’t examine her character closely. She couldn’t bear examination, and neither could I. Still, she kept coming. She appeared before me month after month, in story after story, until suddenly I realized that the stories were no longer fiction. They had diverged unexpectedly into other forms, into nonfiction and narratives, essays and vignettes. Short bursts of truth expunged onto paper.

They meant little at first. A memory here, an incident there. Never very personal, and never very real, at least not to me. Events that had indeed transpired, but in another woman’s life. Not in hers, and certainly not in mine.

I continued to write them down nonetheless. They were compelling, these bits and pieces of someone else’s past. Some of them sad. Some of them frightening. But after a time it hurt, telling her stories. It was no longer merely an exercise; I began to feel it, someplace inside. Someplace I had forgotten I still kept inside.

They were horrible stories. A mother’s psychosis. A daughter’s terror. Stories of pain and isolation, of threats and violence. Stories of a woman who needed help and never knew it; stories of a girl who cried for help and never received it. Stories of hunger and homelessness, of the ever-present fear of capture and the deathly slow torture of starvation. Stories of a runaway shivering through cold autumn nights filled with loneliness and desolation. It pained me to tell them so I stopped. I had forgotten that girl and her stories two decades before. What sense was there in bringing them back now?

I put them away. But I could not put her away. She would not go quietly, as she had twenty years before, when, more than anything, I had needed to leave her behind. This time she stayed; this time she waited. Until I was ready to tell the rest of her story.

It happened unexpectedly one spring afternoon, just a few weeks ago, when the sun was shining brightly and a stiff breeze was blowing across the rooftop where I like to do my writing. The last six thousand words, the ones I had been holding back, the ones that told the rest of her story. Not of what had happened to her. That I had told already, the factual version, a clinical history of severe mental illness. No, these words finally revealed how I felt about it, of what it meant to me, deep down in places I don’t care to explore. How sorry I am for her pain. How deeply I feel for her, that young woman whose life took such dreadful and devastating turns. How deeply I feel for me, for having to remember. For how much it hurts me to remember.

I found myself weeping as I typed, weeping over a long-distant past, the words blurring before my eyes as, for the first time in twenty-some years, she came sharply into focus, that girl that used to be me. How hard it is to hurt for someone else. How much harder still, to hurt for yourself.

I had tucked her away into the deepest recesses of my mind, into the darkest corners of my heart, that unfortunate young woman I once knew so well, so intimately, that I could not have distinguished between her and me. I thought I could leave her behind, as I had left my family behind; thought I could forget, get by without her.

But that day on the rooftop with the sun warming my face and the wind whipping away my tears, I knew this could not be. I had lost a vital piece of myself, of who I am and who I was. I had to reclaim her, to re-forge the connection between her and me, to integrate us, the former she and the current me.

The following day I added the final segment to my memoir. It depicts perhaps the most important part of our journey together because it’s the story of our transition, from her into me. The story of how a dauntless young woman somehow managed to dig her way out of a hole of despair, to hold onto hope in a sea of hopelessness, to fight a battle she had little to no chance of winning. Because what I discovered, when I opened the door to let her back into my life, was that much of my strength lies not with me, but with her. And as I find myself facing a new set of trials I finally understand how much I need her, how firmly I must grasp hold of the young woman I used to be, for she, more than I, has the power to persevere, to overcome, to survive.

Perhaps I do not like the memories she brings. Perhaps I would prefer to allow her to settle quietly into the dust of my personal history, to let her remain forever buried, as my mother is now. But with her inside me I need not shy away from fear, from pain. She copes with fear. She handles pain. She is, and always has been, subject.

I cannot be subject without her. But together, we can be.

***

Update: I am thrilled to announce that my essay “On Writing My Memoir” has been selected for inclusion in Diane DeBella’s I Am Subject anthology! Please click the image below or visit iamsubject.com to learn more.

For more information about my memoir On Hearing of My Mother’s Death Six Years After It Happened: A Daughter’s Memoir of Mental Illness – available November 7th in paperback and audiobook, and available now for Kindle pre-order – please click the image below or visit the book’s webpage.