smug bastard

I think it was Kinky Friedman, novelist, musician, and self-styled sleuth, who said that no one can be smugger than a writer who has just written. If it’s not the Kinkster who said that, then somebody else surely did, and let me just say that I totally dig that twisted little wisdom.

Fact is, I am feeling smug today, Palm fucking Sunday.

And that’s because over the course of my weekend, Friday and Saturday, I was able to write something other than a blog entry or some rant in my private journal.

I actually started writing fiction again, which is after all my first love.

It’s this story I owe a friend, who promised a hand in getting it published within the year. “You’ll have your next bestseller soon,” was what she said.

Like, wow.

Charmaine, my most vicious critic, had seen the prologue and the first few paragraphs of the first chapter, and said they’re okay. She has some questions though, but they’re nothing some minor tweakings can’t thresh out.

Indeed, the muse is with me. And I will plunge into that story again first thing in the morning tomorrow. Updates to follow if I feel like it.

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i, pornographer

In 2007 I was a whore.

Like beggars, whores can’t be choosers. I was doing freelance then, and assignments were hard to come by.

I simply had to put my mouth on something to feed myself.

So I wrote a pornographic novelette, and got paid for it.

The plan was to put all my lurid thoughts on paper, submit it, get the check, get drunk somewhere, and get on with my life.

There were no delusions of book signings, Sunday Inquirer interviews, Palanca awards, all that glittery jazz.

My only wish was to avoid CBCP’s radar. Bishops and I don’t go along well.

When the book got published (by Literotika, with distribution by Anvil), I thought that was the end of it.

Although I had fun writing it, late nights while bombed on Gran Matador, I never thought it would be something. Frankly, I never thought I’d still hear about it years later.

My mistake. Somebody should’ve reminded me that sex sells.

I’ve read reviews about the book, both profound and, well, not so profound. I’ve met people in Friendster and Multiply because of it. A “fan” even sent me semi-naked photos of herself. (Charmaine saw these and, understandably so, went ballistic.)

What can I say? It was weird, it was wild, it was fun. Me being a whore. And now I’m hungry for a repeat.

Unfortunately, Literotika has long since folded.

While the CBCP is still out there.