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bear by san

March 2017



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bear by san

I'm shocked--SHOCKED--to discover wolf smut going on here!

Well, I was looking for an excuse not to feel guilty for being a bit stuck on Undertow--

So, truepenny and I have a revision request on the smutty wolf book (So, yeah, uh, we sorta figured that there was no way that one was getting into print unmodified, but sometimes you have to see what they'll let you get away with) so it remains to be seen if we can walk that fine line between artistic integrity and marketability to find it a home.

I think it would be pretty easy to sell if we were willing to just turn it into a fuzzy wish-fulfillment companion animal fantasy, because it would be a pretty decent type example of that particular (highly commercial!) subgenre. Unfortunately, as a deconstruction of fuzzy wish-fulfillment companion animal fantasies, it's required that living with the fuzzy companion animals demand some pretty heinous sacrifices of the humans involved (and something beyond, lo, the unbearable loneliness of all that Mary Suedom I mean, power and responsibility), which means that large chunks of this book are Pretty Freaking Dark, and Replete With Degrading Sex (TM), so we can't take that bit out.

Which means what you might call the necessity of telegraphing the squick early on, lest we blindside somebody with the squick a bit too hard. Kind of like, if you're going to have a castration by rat, for the love of Mike just get it on the first page so we all know what we're getting into, here.

(***Bear adds the word "catamite" to the first chapter. Repeatedly. Catamite, catamite, catamite... *** Wait, didn't I just write this book?)

Anyway, revise revise. Revise revise revise. Catamite catamite.

Um, sorry, where was I?

Oh, right, so there's that to get done. And also a synopsis of The Dead Shepherd to write, so it and its brother can go off to the great submittal pile in the sky next year.

And lo, there was work, and it was good.

And somewhere in here, I need to get that Undertow proposal done. As soon as I find some antagonists.

and drat it, the big one just volunteered the name Kloss, and he can't have it, because it's way too close to Kroc, and I've got one of those already.

...I suppose he could spell it with a C. Closs Closs Closs. Catamite catamite....

No, I haven't been drinking. Why do you ask?


catamite catamite catamite catamite catamite catamite...

Once you start, you can't stop!
"Telegraph the squick" may be my new favorite expression.
The grinning scarfed Doctor in my icon bows to the grinning scarfed Doctor in yours.


A dog and his boy, you say?


Love your stuff, won't be reading that. Bless you for the telegraphing!
*g* You may be making an unwarranted assumption there. It's a deconstruction, not Anais Nin..... or Harlan Ellison, for that matter.

The problem, we learn, lies in trying to write literary responses to genre conventions.

(We're seriously considering getting truepenny a t-shirt that says "replete with degrading sex." For conventions.)
Needs more tentpeg.
Or possibly cowbell.

One of our rats has had his black jewels removed (we hope it will help him get along with the others) and your post is filling his little head with revenge fantasies.

I hope none of your readers think catamite is a mineral.
It's the... No, I can't type that. How about "It's a variant color form of dolomite?"

BTW, thank you for comment on the Jenny books in your blog. I am glad you liekd them!
Huzzah! And here's to artistic integrity; I really enjoyed that ms.

::clears more space on bookshelf::
First we gotta sell it!
And it's not erotica. Not even slightly. Erotica is erotic. *g*
Oooo, maybe if this sells you'll be up for the Bad Sex Award. *dreamysigh* One can hope, anyway.
If you fitted a catamite with a detonator, could you cause a catastrophe?
darn your contagiousness.

When you're answering the door for the UPS man, try not to be chanting "catamite, catamite, catamite" under your breath, folks.

What's the collective noun for catamites, anyway? Cataplexy? Cantata?

If only I thought they really knew...

Do the people who enjoy fuzzy companion animal stuff really know what the flip is actually going on there? I mean, c'mon. The male canid's penis swells up and gets trapped in the female. And then she drags him around. Seriously. One of my grandmother's chow chow bitches got so bored, she ran off tracking a squirrel, and the male fell completely off her back, and she dragged him around backwards by his penis.

The noise, man. The ungodly noise.

And don't get me started about cats and barbs.

What are these people thinking?

My squick-o-meter is heaving.

Re: If only I thought they really knew...

I think you're thinking of furries, dear. I'm talking about Mercedes Lackey and Anne McCaffery. *g*