I hate to write from a place of dissatisfaction, but the truth is it is in the absence of things that I think of them most. When I am single I want to write romance, and when I am celibate I want to write sex, and when I am busy I want to write calm, quiet rooms. I won’t mourn, and doubtless the closer readers amongst you will know already, but suffice to say this comes from a place of wanting.
For a while now I have had the word “storytelling” playing across my tongue. It runs through my mind, and to my fingertips.
Because it is one of those words that includes most everything I do, but is specific in its atmosphere. Though images can tell stories, and I’d like to think even mine do from time to time, it is usually, mostly, utterly about the words. I have paced back and forth, considered how important sights and sounds and sensations are to my creative and personal make-up, sought to incorporate them into my viewpoint, and they are present: but they are always second to words. Even “storytelling,” regardless of how pervasive a term it may be in my own head, is far too expansive. One word alone can floor me.
I am the kind of girl who will go to great lengths to save and keep the moments that most affect me. I have a hard drive full of screenshots, full of words, and although I tend to keep the whole story, it is undoubtedly just a few well turned phrases that push my hand between my thighs.
But like hand cream and milk, I can use them up. There have been glorious times in my life when every night I was issued a new story, an unfolding of desires that lit me up and arched my spine. The tingling of a new cruelty, a perversion recreated, an idea pursued, a phrase well turned… Sometimes they are ugly, linguistically awkward, mistakes even, ineloquences pounded out at the heat of climax, and my manufactured attempts to sate my own desires are but faint impressions of those salacious works. But when the words are few and I go back again and again to squeeze transgression from every pore, they reduce themselves to letters, assembled in lines, pretty but little more.
Don’t get me wrong, the touch of greedy hands on my flesh, of invasive fingers, and hungry eyes can melt my body, but I want the words. I want them hateful and ugly, possessive and unkind, violent and selfish. I want brutality and pain and horror that would put my nightmares to shame. The delicious intensity of a flogger at the height of a lover’s strength will numb me to peace, make my bones ache, but his words in the morning are what I will replay in my mind, again and again, as the bruises fade and my satisfaction takes its place.