So, um... those of you who know me in RL may have figured out that I'm attracted to heavier guys; which over the years has led me to explore the fat-fetishist tories on the web. Just like fan fiction, the stories vary widely in quality, and range from straight-out porn, to romance in which one or both of the leads happens to be fat and the other one considers that a feature, not a bug.

Lately I've begun trying to write some of the latter; when it got no attention on tumblr, I bit the bullet and submitted it the fiction section of Dimensions Magazine online. It takes a while for their moderators to review things and post them, but the first part went up a couple of days ago and has received some positive comments.

It's an odd thing to be writing in the romance genre, because I never really read it much; it's also odd to be writing something with no SFF content, but still is unlikely to attract a mainstream audience. OTOH, it's kind of liberating to do something this self-indulgent, because as long as I'm at it, I might as well do whatever I want: set the story around a production of Edith Sitwell and William Walton's Façade? Why the hell not. Spend several paragraphs describing how to paint a theatrical backdrop? Not my problem if the audience is bored.

Meanwhile, someone on the boards wants a story that revolves around a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and you know what? I bet I could write that too.

I've been working on a submission for This Patchwork Flesh. So far (a), it's very weird, (b) enough that I worry if it can break 2000 words without losing coherence entirely, and (c) I keep worrying that I'm not placing enough emphasis on the protagonist's orientation, except in kind of a reverse way:

A friend wants to know if you’re unable to grieve because of internalized homophobia. You remind them that they’re not actually a psychiatrist, and that you’re not their patient. They ask you if you’ve read Sontag’s Illness As Metaphor.

You can see it from her point of view, of course. You’re gay, and widowed, and probably a bunch of other undiagnosed things, and it would be one hell of a coincidence for you to be haunted as well.

(That's from early on, before the story starts to lose coherence. At least I've cut the gratuitous Surrealist shout-out.)

It was a busy Friday, and I hardly had time to think about H.H. Furnishings, Ltd., but I took the catalogues home with me, made myself a sandwich, and opened the laptop again. ( Read more... )