Blessings for a Beautiful 2019!

Thanks so much, gang, for hanging out with me in 2018! It has been really just an amazing year. And most of you have been with me through all of it:

  • Trying to find a house to buy out in the Hinterlands
  • Finally finding the 117-year-old home of my dreams & I move in!
  • I learn to live with an astoundingly noisy train that practically runs through my house
  • Me and my cats are overjoyed with a house that has 21 wonderful wide-open windows as spring arrives
  • Starlings and robins build nests all around the outside of my house and my world comes alive with birds
  • Baby raccoons are born in my tree and fill me with delight!
  • The Mormon missionaries come into my world  for 4 months and open it up to so many beautiful things
  • But then ultimately I decide I am a sinner and likely to stay that way!
  • I fall into lust (from afar) with all those 20-ish-year-old Boys of Summer and then
  • The Muse returns to my life with a  vengeance in July and I start really writing again
  • the Mob comes back, briefly, into my world and I realize I’m nuts!
  • I decide not to be nuts and then I fall in love instead which turns out to be exactly the same thing
  • I go to NYC. I go to LA. I once again have way too many projects on my desk
  • And now here we are, at the precipice of another breathtaking New Year!!

I hope it’s a really good one, friends. Fight to stay positive, even when you see a little darkness maybe coming your way. The darkness won’t last if you can be good to yourself and hold others in the Light.

Take care. I love you. Thanks for visiting!!

Me, going on forever back in October

Redemption & Black Rain

It’s Patti Smith’s birthday today. I think she’s something like 110 years old, but don’t quote me on that.

Pictured above is a photo of my original copy of Horses, that I got for Christmas 1975, when I was 15 years old.

To that point, it was the greatest Christmas present I ever got. I was only out of the mental hospital for a few weeks by that time (if you’re new to the blog, see posts from August, I think? One titled “ooh yeah, throwing up”.)

Angels truly blessed me by bringing Patti Smith into my world when I was at my absolute lowest. She kept me alive, and helped me believe in the validity of myself — kept me writing songs, too, until I was old enough to get the hell out of Dodge and go to New York City and become a singer-songwriter.

Directly before being put in the sanitarium, I had bought a copy of the book Cowboy Mouth, by Sam Shepard and Patti Smith. I bought it  at a library sale for 10 cents. I had no idea who either of them were back then. I bought the book because it was a collection of plays, and because I liked the feel of the book in my hands, you know?

When they came and told me I was getting locked up in a loony bin, I was absolutely terrified. And they came for me at the final moment, you know? They said: Pack some things, we’re putting you away. Right now. In my 14-year-old terror, I grabbed whatever I could find that I thought would save me, and as luck would have it, I grabbed the book Cowboy Mouth from the top of my dresser.

Obviously, confinement in a mental hospital was a truly low point in my life. And I didn’t “get better” in there, unfortunately. I got worse. Because I learned how to fake everything and conceal my problems, because I was always trying to avoid conflict with the staff and things like the “Isolation Room.” An actual padded room, with a metal bed, a thin mattress, no lights and just a small window way at the top of one wall. How my mind really, really wanted to get out of that window. But anyway.

I read Cowboy Mouth and fell in love with Patti Smith. I had never encountered a woman who could write like she could. She was transgressive and courageous. I didn’t really use those terms back then, I just knew she gave me a fierce amount of determination to survive all that had happened, and was happening, to me.

The angels stepped in again, while I was waiting to see my appointed psychiatrist one afternoon. There was a copy of Mademoiselle Magazine on the coffee table in his waiting room. I flipped through it to discover an interview with and photos of Patti Smith!! That was when I learned that she had a record coming out at the end of that year – Horses.

Honestly, it gave me something to live for. And made me more determined than ever to move to NYC as soon as I could conceivably do that. Because, clearly, Patti was NYC at that point — all those poets! All that rock & roll. Wow.

Well, Horses was the most amazing album I ever heard in my life. It changed me. It solidified my determination to survive my own life – all the rapes and the utter abuse and cruelty. The only other record album that had a similar effect on my determination to survive came 10 years later, in NYC, when I bought The First Born is Dead by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.

You know, sadly, the man in my family who bought me Horses for Christmas, who made me so happy and gave me something to help me be courageous about life, was also the same man who, a couple years later, abducted me out to the country, drugged me and raped me for hours on end.

You know, the angels will give you something transcendent and beautiful, and then Life comes along and says “there’s a catch.” The angels have given you the key to your redemption already, but you have to remember to use it when the black rains come.

It’s sometimes a struggle to find that key when you really need it most.  But I tell you, gang, I keep working on it.

Anyway. Happy birthday to Patti and to everything she’s always stood for in this world.

Oh for heaven’s sake, people!

Okay, I’m just kidding. Nothing makes me happier than having readers download my books, whether or not they’re free.

But, seriously, this is getting insane. I have no clue where all these people are coming from. The numbers long surpassed the amount of followers I have on my blog.  And I only advertised the Smashwords sale on my blog. And only deranged lunatics would download the same eBooks over & over & over, ad infinitum.

And I like to think my followers are not deranged lunatics. It reflects better on me when they aren’t. My followers are all really cool, smart people!

Anyway, it just astounds me.  Where do they come from? And now people are starting to download Freak Parade like crazy. I have no clue why all of the sudden that happened.

And what’s funny is that almost no one downloads Twilight of the Immortal. It has erotic sex scenes in it, but it is certainly not graphic sex. And it is really well written fiction. But nobody wants it! They’d rather have, I don’t know, 5 pages of graphic fellatio or something. It’s just so funny.

I’ll tell you, though, sometimes I read over these old stories (from The Muse Revisited Series) and I am frequently flabbergasted.  The short story titled August on the Lake (in Vol.3) was written expressly for a French publisher and was immediately translated into French (as Aout sur le lac). I think the only English version of the story is in The Muse Revisited.

I was told that, in French, it was a really beautiful story. That it was literature and not the usual smut. (Thank you. I like to think that my entire life is beautiful literature and not the usual smut! Anyway.) I’d forgotten that it was written specifically for a French publisher and for an anthology about: Yes,  fellatio.  And as I re-read it, years after its publication, I was dumbfounded. Why would I go on & on about fellatio here? It was not a topic my work was ever really known for. It actually made me uncomfortable to re-read it. Like, What the hell was on my mind when I wrote this strange story that seems to be, in a lot of ways, about my second husband?

Eventually I figured it out. But really, I don’t remember any of my stories verbatim.  And if I happen to re-read one, it becomes brand new to me, and I’m reading it as any other reader would and oftentimes the stories are a little shocking. Yes, even to me. If a story wasn’t written  for a specified topic, then the stories almost always reflect something that’s going on in my mind, my world, my relationships, my life. (A reflection, not a memoir…) And sometimes it’s just too intense to revisit it.

“Awake in the Dream of Life” was only published once in print (although it’s included in the eBook, Dirty Filthy Lovely: Dark Erotica). A woman originally published it, even though she wasn’t really happy about it but she wanted me in her anthology of popular women writers so she published it – I guess in the category of: Popular Women Writers Who Are Out of Their Fucking Minds.

When I re-read the story several years ago, I was, like, Holy Moly. No wonder women were upset by this story. Men loved it, of course. Men into BDSM, I mean. One of my long-time publishers at the time read the piece and said it was the best thing I ever wrote but that he could never publish a story like that; he wouldn’t want to deal with the reader backlash.

At the time, I just could not understand why people were so upset. But I was in such a bad place and had no clue my mental state had sunk into that. Happily, though, it is now documented for all time! Because I’m a writer and I write stuff and out it goes — into the world!

I’m not even really kidding, you know? It’s one of the reasons I don’t actively seek “followers” on any of my social media accounts. If you want to be following me, thank you. That’s great. It is. But you have to actually want to be here of your own volition because only God knows what I am going to wind up putting into your world.

It was one of the reasons I was actively seeking obscurity. I had no control over the amount of people coming into my world by way of my writing. In the old days, I had thousands and thousands of people reading my blog every day. And those weren’t “followers” because there was no such thing back then. They were actual readers, every day. And nothing I could think or do or say was private anymore. Including, naturally, my family.

MOTHER: “Are you really that much of a drunk??!! Is that all you do is sit around and drink booze??!!”

ME: “Um, no, I was just being funny on the blog.”

COLLEAGUE IN SOME FOREIGN COUNTRY: “Is that what you really think about my writing??!!”

ME: “Um, no, I was just being funny on the blog.”

FATHER: “Is that what you really think about the President of the United States??!!”

ME: “Um, yes, that’s what I really think about the President of the United States.”

And for that comment, I was promptly disowned, disinherited, cast off, forgotten by my adoptive father. Seriously. Blogs can be a real pain, and sometimes damaging to me, when people are actually reading them.

But my attempts to live here in Crazyland in obscurity have come to naught.  I mean, I don’t want my career to be obscure. I just wanted my private life to be obscure within the town I am living. But it just doesn’t work if you have a blog that people read. Obscurity is an impossibility.

The other day, when I said that Kara was my only friend out here in the Hinterlands, someone wrote to me, personally, and reminded me that she was my friend, too. Oh gosh.  Of course you are. I’m so sorry if I hurt your feelings. I had no idea you were reading my blog…

And then also the other day, my niece, who doesn’t live too awfully far from Crazyland, sent me a link to an essay she wrote. She wants to be a writer, like me. It was a good piece of writing, but it was all about how she struggles with depression.

And I was, like: No, no, no! This is not acceptable. You were born to have a life that was better than mine.

When my niece was born, it was at a time in my life and in my marriage when I was coming to grips with the fact that I was going to remain childless. I was so excited for my brother when his daughter was born. And I was excited for me, too. A little girl, connected to me, who gets to have a much, much better life than mine was. A life not full of the garbage I had to deal with. And yet, all these years later, she’s dealing with depression. And here I blog about my crippling depressions and I guess I make it seem somehow okay.

But it’s not. It’s not an acceptable way to live. Her life is supposed to be better than mine.

Well, how is she supposed to know that, I had to ask myself; if you ignored her for most of her life?

Because I had a falling out with my brother – but the outcome for my niece was still the same. I was gone from her life from the time she was 4.

Choosing obscurity, choosing to isolate – I see now that it isn’t really very fair to other people, because they still exist. I know I still have to find a balance between the people who are toxic to me and the people who aren’t; and how to protect my private life but still be a public writer. But I’ve got to deal with it.

That balance is tricky for me, but I’m learning. When I consulted that reader in London a couple weeks ago, as a Christmas present for myself, I knew I was having some very serious problems with my mind. I needed help finding my balance; to feel grounded again, to get clarity.  How to show up in the world as myself, and not to detach and dissociate.

The reader in London was so helpful to me. He really was. He told me what I needed to work on, 3 times a day for twenty minutes each time. And he said, “Stick with it, and in 3 days things will begin to turn around. And if you stay with it for a month, you will be amazed by the difference in your life.”

Well, he was certainly correct.  Everything is changing, sort of at warp speed. And I think this indescribable frenzy of eBook downloads is part of the river of change. That flow. Suddenly, more and more people are also following the blog, and all my other social media accounts. People are just suddenly showing up, you know? Including my niece. And yesterday, even Mob Guy #2 returned very suddenly and said, “Please, Marilyn. Come on.  I’m still waiting for you to come back to me.”

What the heck??!! Where did you come from all of the sudden??!! (My answer was still no, but it was nice to be so suddenly thought of, so intensely.)

I mean, it’s certainly not bad stuff, but it is a lot of stuff. And I have to step up and be accountable for all of it, even the stuff that I totally fucked-up and can’t repair, because I’m not obscure. I do exist in the world. So. It has been very, very interesting. To say the least.

Okay, you guys have a wonderful weekend. Thanks for visiting Crazyland!! I’m always happy to see your bright, shining faces. I love you guys! Take care and see ya.

PS: I don’t actually live in Crazyland. It’s a play on words – on the name of the actual town I live in, which was founded by  a Mr. Samuel Frazey in 1828.

Excerpt from Blessed By Light

For today’s actual blog post, please scroll down!

Meanwhile, here is the latest excerpt from my new novel, Blessed By Light. Chapter 15 -17, approximately 10 pages. Contains sexually explicit material.


Selling the House of Love

WE LOOK GOOD TOGETHER, don’t you think? Me, so much older than I ever was but still seeming 30 in my mind; and you, timeless now. To me, anyway. From now on, for me, you will never age.

Yes, I said that. And I meant it. Too sentimental sometimes, I know. But don’t start doubting me again, honey. You’ve been doing so good. Just so good.

However, now it’s my turn.

Doubt. The Devil with that awful name.

I need to talk to you about this, honey, because there is no one else on Earth now who can really hear me. That second wife. How much I loved her. Love her still. But I am putting that house of love up for sale. That home she and I made so much love in.

I walked through those rooms today – empty, though still filled with all that furniture – and I could still feel her around the edges. Could feel her in every room.

She was so young when she came there to live with me, to be my wife at last, after I’d pursued her and pursued her and bought that whole house just for her. And then she was like that proverbial fine wine – she aged so gracefully. Just so gracefully, and I thought she was going to be mine forever; to outlive me – me; who was so much older than she was. But she died.

And now there is a house sitting there that is a ghost of a home. The echoes of love are contained within its walls; I can still feel her in there. I know she listens to me. I walked through all those rooms today, trying to find a way to tell her that I’m putting our home up for sale – our lives and all the things we were for each other while we were together.

Soon even the echoes will be gone, the walls will be owned by someone else, and there will be only memories left for me, with no anchor of “home” to know them in.

How will I stand that?

Will she feel betrayed?

I’m sure she knows already what I’ve decided to do, even though I couldn’t say it.

I feel desolation within her – if that’s possible. I don’t know if my conscience is playing tricks on me or what. But I feel a sorrow so much greater than anything my own heart could pour out on its own. It must be coming from her heart, as well.

This twin sorrow that weighs just so heavy on me. It’s hers, too. I’m sure of it.

Does she blame me? Is that what this heavy weight is all about?

Whatever it is, I just can’t carry it. I can’t. It’ll break me. Honey, I’m gonna break.


You’ve said that no one was ever there for you so you learned how to count on the angels to carry you.

But this is new to me. I don’t know how to do it, how to depend on them. But I need to be carried now. That’s for sure.


I called my oldest girl first. She’s easier to talk to. It took her by surprise – all this. I know it did.

I asked her not to call you, though. And not to blame you. To keep you out of this equation. That the house going up for sale has nothing to do with you.

Of course, it has everything to do with you. I just meant it was my decision. I’m not some old rich man being coerced by a stranger. No one’s inheritance is going out the window.

She called my younger daughter, of course, and now it’s devolved into her histrionics. Furious texting and then that angry face-time thing.

I’ve given them both so much of my money already. But this can’t be a discussion about my money. This is love I’m talking about.

I need them to see that. And if they can’t see it, I need everyone to just be quiet for now. Just shut up and be quiet.

Yes. I know it’s redundant.

But if I hear one more word about my money – well. Everyone’s too old to go across my knee anymore, so everyone’s just gonna go to their rooms. Including me. I’ve had it.


Yes, I know it’s your room.

You’re cute, honey. You make me smile even while I’m so angry with those two. Those girls. Those girls I gave so much life to – the girls I helped teach how to talk – which I regret now. And how to type. That younger one keeps texting me, even though I told her to let it rest for tonight.

I turned the sound off on my phone so that she wouldn’t keep pinging at me. But I keep seeing those little streams of text springing up, assaulting my eyes and then my intelligence.

When I married my second wife, I had to coax those girls into liking her; into coming around to meet her, into being polite. I don’t want to trivialize it now, because it meant so much to me that they all eventually got along. More than just “got along,” they acted warm together – like family, you know? Family on a real good day.

She was a wonderful woman and they loved her, and that meant the world to me. It gave me a second chance with those girls, you know? I could try to repair some stuff among us – make us sort of like a family again. A new family. They still had their mother, of course, but my second wife was there for them, emotionally. Without the baggage of real motherhood. It worked so well. Especially holidays – Christmas. It was always so nice. No screaming. No cocaine. No memories of cocaine, even. Just kindness and people being nice.

At moments like this it’s as if they’re forgetting that I’m the one whose life was blown open, whose heart was shattered most when she died. My conversations ended. My need to know what her plans were for the day; what were we having for dinner or did she want to go out? Did she want to make love, was she tired, did she feel good, did she sleep all right, who’s doing the laundry? Then: where the fuck did she keep everything that I couldn’t find anymore?

Fuck. My life ended when she died.

I bought that house for her to live in as my wife. What makes those girls think I could be so carefree or reckless about parting with it?

I love you. With you, I’m alive again. I got my life back. I might be dying, yes, thank you, girls; I know that. And I have to be more mindful. But I got my goddamn life back. Why do I have to justify that to two little girls who were so helpless without me? Whose mother was so strung out on drugs when they were barely adolescents that I had to try my best to be both a father and a mother to them when I wasn’t thousands of miles away from them, on the road, making that stupid crazy fortune that they’re freaking out about now.

It’s none of their business if I want to sell that fucking house. It wasn’t their home, it was mine. Mine and my wife’s. They were grown already. They had homes of their own – that I paid for. Christ.

And it’s not that house. It’s you. That’s what’s freaking them out. You. Where did you come from?

Of course I saw it coming. Of course, I did.

I know my girls.

They make it sound like they’re worried about my money. But it’s you.

They’re worried about having to be sectioned off inside my heart again. Me and one more woman, getting all my love. But it isn’t like that. There are permanent places inside my heart for each of my daughters. I’ll take those loving places with me to the grave and far beyond the grave. I’m gonna love them forever. I’m gonna be there for them in spirit, always – when it comes to that. I’m gonna watch out for them. Always. They’re my girls. They’re my great big grown up women who are still and who always will be my girls.

I wish they could see that.

I hope I don’t have to die for them to see that.


The Profane

THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING you. Just try to see this how I see it and it won’t scare you. George’ll be driving.

He’s a good driver. He can handle a fast car. The only thing we have to be careful about is the Highway Patrol. We don’t want to get caught going 200 mph in the middle of the night. Then everybody’s gonna know you’re name, honey, but only as the girl who was naked in the backseat of that speeding car with two fully-clothed famous guys.

And depending on which Statelines we’ve crossed, we might even be called fornicators. But that’ll just be the icing on our cake, won’t it?

No, we aren’t gonna cross any Statelines. I was just saying that to be funny. We’re not gonna go far. We’re just gonna go fast. In the dark. On the freeway. All that motion, those wheels taking us to the edge.

Everyone likes to have sex in a moving vehicle – once you’ve already had it, that is. There’s nothing else like it. I used to love making love with that first wife on my bus, when the girls were so little and sometimes they’d all come out with me on the road for a few shows out there in the middle of America. Summertime. School was out. All of us were happy.

There is something about those tires zooming, the road flying by underneath you. Streetlights, headlights, taillights. All of it cradled in darkness that expands into nowhere while you sail through it. And preferably with a naked girl under you. Or in your case, a man – me – on top of you; my cock taking you all the way home.

The road at night is the motion of sex. It is, honey. Even those little girls of mine – I knew what was going on with those two; in that bunk they shared on that bus. All that giggling under the sheets. All that summertime in their heads. I acted like I didn’t know what they were doing. Let them have their once-in-a-lifetime world together, you know? The childhood thrills of everything new. It all goes by so fast. Just so fast.

Even back then, I knew their worlds were flying away from me, seeking their own directions.

Somedays, though, it was all just too good. It was impossible to be melancholy. There were fireworks filling the sky at night, every night; falling in that cascade of diamonds and fire. Sometimes that feels like what America is in the summer: Fireworks at night. A boom of noise and the feeling like we’re poised on the edge of something breathless. Bodies alive with promise. With hope – and a little bit of that Eros. No matter how young you are or how old.

All of that is the motion of the road.

When you’re in love. And so happy.


Yeah, it’s called a Hellcat. Expect a fast ride, honey, but don’t expect it to be comfortable. And just hold on.

No, not to me. To the backseat here. Somehow. I don’t know how. Just somehow. Because we’re gonna go – zero to, whoa, sixty in, like, 3 seconds – shit.


I have no clue what prompted George to lower those windows but it sure is adding to the thrill of this thing. That rush of wind. That cold roar. That feeling like the stars must be exploding out there in that black sky over the freeway because in here, in this backseat with you, honey, the noise, the power, the speed, my cock inside you, and those sounds you’re making. Good lord. Can anything really be this fun? I feel like a goddamn kid again. Jesus.


When I was a little boy, for the most part the world was a quieter place. Not so much inside my house because you know my dad was a drunk, but the world, just in general. It felt so much more predictable. Even the thrills were quieter, more common place, but still such fun.

Just riding my bike. Or chasing my brother around the yard with that garden hose, spraying ice cold water on him on a hot summer day. Then learning how to play a guitar. Then playing it for people who liked to hear me play. Hell, even smoking a cigarette back then – it was a thrill, because I was just a kid, getting away with something I knew I wasn’t supposed to do.

Then standing back in all my shyness, watching the girls go by; that thrill turned into something mighty, I can tell you. It propelled me out into the world and gave me something to strive for. To leave home for. My girl and my guitar – out into the world we went.

It was almost all about the sex then. The music and the sex. Music first; sex a very, very close second. You almost couldn’t see the difference, some nights. We were just so young.


Look at me, honey. Just let me look into your eyes. Who knows when we might get a thrill like this again? So much of life is already behind us. In that rearview mirror, don’t you see? Images to remember now; not to be truly felt anymore. Let’s take this one moment. Let me see your face, alive with life, with lust, with urgency and grace. Your eyes that I will never forget; the beauty in them that I will take with me to that higher place.

What is it about making love with you – about fucking you so hard – that makes me want to carry your beauty inside me forever, sear the sight of your face into my memory for all time?

My cock going in you. You’re so hot, so wet – it takes over. It just takes over.

Hold tight to me, honey. This is a fast car. Such a fast car. We might even catch tomorrow at this speed and I don’t want to miss the thrill of you coming with me while I’ve got you in my arms.


You know what George said to me before – he’s such a tits guy. You know what he said? He always likes to fuck you missionary-style because those tits of yours bounce like crazy. He said that to me. Funny, isn’t it? That he trusts me enough to say a thing like that?

Like I won’t haul off and deck him for staring at my girl’s tits.

Like it’s okay to fuck you that hard.

To have a preference for how he likes to fuck you best.

And you’re my girl.

Oh god.

I love to fuck you. Jesus.

I love to fuck you.


Turn over.

I know. I know we’re going fast. Just try to.

I gotta have you that way, that’s all.

I gotta have you that way.

You’re my girl. You gotta let me fuck you like I say.

You’re my girl, honey. My girl.

Oh yeah. Oh man. Up a little. Lift up. Yeah.

That’s right. I wanna hear you say it. Tell me that you’re my girl; my dirty little soaking slutty girl. Say it. Say it just like that. Say it so I can hear you. No one else.

No, not with your face buried in the car seat. Turn this way a little, honey. I wanna hear you: You’re my soaking slutty dirty little girl.

And then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna wish it was tomorrow already. But I won’t stop fucking you not even then. I won’t stop. I am just too goddamn hard. Jesus.

Not gonna let your pussy get away from me. Not now, not ever.

Your pussy is mine, hon. Don’t even try.


“Did you hear that, George? Can you hear me in all this – noise?

She’s mine – this conquered girl. Mine.”

Oh yeah.

This hot little pussy is all

All of it




You know what I like about fucking you, now that we’re old?

Okay – older.

I can come in you without worrying about having more mouths to feed.

You’re the best, honey. I love you. Thanks for that.

You’re so fun.


My second wife – she was so young. Not to make you feel old or anything. Because you’re perfect just at the age you are. But she was so young that we still had to worry about that.

Imagine me, at my age, with a brand new mouth to feed.

We just had to be careful. All the time.

Jesus, I cannot believe she’s gone.


I’m sorry I said that.

It just slipped out.

I didn’t mean to ruin your moment.

My moment.

My moment in your sun.

I’m so sorry I said it.


The Sacred

THIS IS WHAT GRIEF IS. AS SOON AS you think, I’m managing, I’m handling –bang – it’s right back. Loss, and all that it takes from you, robs you of.

Yes, loss is part of the flow of life. Nothing blooms all the time. Death comes. It’s just “transitioning” to something else. I know all this. I accept it and internalize it, and yet, grief still swoops down on me when I least expect it and commands my complete attention. Even when I’ve just been having the time of my life.

And still grief is sacred. Anything that pierces the heart has gotta be sacred, otherwise, how can you process such pain?

Let’s make it all sacred – all the things we can’t comprehend about being here. If it’s incomprehensible, let’s call it sacred, okay? That way, there’s less of a reason to shoot ourselves.

And you, being with you is sacred to me, too. Not because I find you incomprehensible. But because you give your love to me so readily, so easily. What other woman, of all the myriad women I have known, would agree to get into the backseat of some other guy’s car and take off all her clothes just because I wanted to go really fast while having sex with her on the freeway in the middle of the night?

It’s not just love, it’s your spirit. That’s what always calls me, frees me, keeps me wanting to be right here with you rather than anywhere else on Earth, even though everywhere else on Earth keeps calling to me, too, because the fans are everywhere now. Just everywhere.

And that’s sacred to me, too. Because that’s incomprehensible to me on so many levels – all those fans, some of whom don’t even speak my language but who understand the music – and music comes from the unknowable higher place, where language is not needed, and so this also tells me I’m blessed. Blessed down to my very soul.

Is this what it means to get old? I would not have expected to live this long in the first place. But now that I have, well, here it fucking is.

Crying one minute from so much loss.

Crying the next minute from too much joy.

Then lighting a cigarette, knowing that it’s killing me, but I have never been able to resist smoking a cigarette while sitting under a billion stars on a night so full of promise with a woman I so dearly love.

It took a lifetime to get just right here.

Let’s celebrate that, honey. You and me.

And George.

I forgot he was still here.


I think it’s cool that you wanna drive this thing. All this horsepower and just naked you, wrapped in your little blue trench coat. Not even any shoes on your feet.

Go for it, honey. It’s not called a Hellcat for nothing. And you sure know how to raise hell when you feel like it.

I think it’s cool that George is even letting you – he never lets me drive this thing.


Oh man, honey.

Something, it’s just not…


© 2018 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Like White on Rice, Gang!

The downloads of free eBooks are happening so fast and furiously that I have to wade through a literal ton of ping! alerts just to get to my actual email.

And 99% of those downloads are still for The Muse Revisited Volumes 1 through 3. The downloads are now far surpassing Christmas Day, which, until the days after Christmas, was my busiest download day in 10 years.

I’m not complaining, I just don’t really understand it.  The stories are really old. And yet it’s like a feeding frenzy.

And then – also on the day after Christmas – my year-end royalty check came from a publisher who’s been selling eBook editions of my 3 erotic romance novels for 10 years now (originally published in print by Barnes & Noble way back in 2004). And this same publisher also publishes a collection of my dark erotica, Dirty Filthy Lovely. Again, a collection of stories written a long time ago, and published in numerous print markets before being put out to pasture as an eBook.

Really old stories. I mean, really old. And I’m still getting checks. Or whiplash, in the case of this current download frenzy on Smashwords that keeps sending these ping! alerts to my iPhone, which only send my head spinning to my iPhone screen in breathless hopes that the guy I insulted beyond belief has suddenly realized he likes vitriolic vipers who are out of their fucking minds and so is finally texting me again — but au contraire!

Don’t mind us, says the iPhone screen. We just wanted a little more of your porn.


I also got a really lovely Christmas card from Little Brown & Company in the UK. A huge publisher.  Known hugely for publishing incredible literature.

Why am I getting this lovely Christmas greeting from such an awesome publisher, I wondered blankly. Upon investigation, I discovered, Oh! Because they’re my publisher!

They’re the ones who publish Neptune & Surf . I didn’t know that! They bought the rights from somebody who bought the rights when Hachette took over the world.

Yes, another really old pornographic book that is still in print. And in just a handful of days, guys, that book will have been in print continuously, without interruption, for 20 years!!!!!

I sometimes even get letters in the mail from Virgin Publishing in the UK – forwarded to me from my ex-husband in NYC who still lives in our incredibly beautiful apartment on the Upper West Side but I am not bitter, gang. Not in the slightest… it does not bother me one bit that I lost everything I had in the world.  Except for my guitar. But I see these letters and I think, Hmm. Why is Virgin Publishing writing to me? And it’s, you know, because they own the rights to a German translation of a filthy dirty story I wrote a million years ago that now German people cannot get enough of.


You know, I bring this up because in the month of January, I have to spend a whole heck of a lot of time on Skype – several hours a week, for the entire month – working with some producers in LA to make sure I’m presenting my CLEVELAND TV pilot script in the best possible way. The production company that has already optioned the pilot has “strongly suggested” I do this. So I’m doing it. On Pacific Coast time. Which means, during my nighttime hours, when I’m already brain dead, I have to have these Skype conferences to nitpick my pilot script. All because I am an unproven writer in a new market. So even while everyone loves this TV pilot and its premise, especially this new revised version (because – yes! It now has sex in it!), no one will put money into it until I can get someone with a track record to attach to it.

I don’t even want to be a TV writer. I don’t. I just want the “created by” credit here. I want this particular show to be out in the world because I get the distinct impression the characters are going to matter to people.

ME: So. You like the writing. Everyone agrees it’s a good idea. But as a writer here, I’m “unproven.”

Hmm. Something’s really weird here. I can’t quite put my finger on it. “Unproven.” I see. Meanwhile the pings! continue…

All righty. I gotta get crackin’ here. Within these last few days of December, I have to re-write the show bible to match the revised version of the TV pilot script. So, onward!

Thanks for visiting, gang. Have a really blessed day. I love you guys!!

Best gift ever??!!

I think maybe it is, folks!

Kara, basically my one & only friend out here in the Hinterlands – and she’s from New York originally, so I guess that explains it.

But anyway. As luck would have it, Kara has been reading my novel, Freak Parade. We got together for dinner in town last night and to go see a play  (a revival of Gypsy), and she brought me a Christmas present!

This is not an appeal for anyone to read Freak Parade, it’s just that, in the book, the main character, Eugenia Sharpe, always  drinks Wild Turkey & Diet Coke.  And this is what Kara got me – a bourbon flask!!

How cool is that, really? How intensely targeted and thoughtful.

Yes, I used to also drink Wild Turkey & Diet Coke. But let’s not have that conversation again about  fiction versus memoir!

I don’t drink Wild Turkey anymore – I can’t handle hard liquor since becoming a vegetarian.  But I was still overjoyed to receive this gift and will just treasure it forever.

It is so wonderful to have a friend and to have the friendship just happen organically, you know? It’s not based on any sort of networking at all. Knowing Kara has really been incredible.  I’ve blogged about her before – she is definitely on her own planet, but it’s a planet I always enjoy visiting.

At one point, I finally told her I was a writer and she started not only buying my books, but also reading them! And we’re still friends. Go figure…

I don’t tell anyone out here that I’m a writer.  I came out here to the Hinterlands, to this wonderful, tiny, crazy town, to live in obscurity.  To have no past for anyone to know about; no career; no identity. In fact, I always remove my middle name from everything out here because it makes me even more intensely obscure once my middle name is removed.  I try to be friendly and everything when I’m actually out in the town and have to interact with people, but mostly I settled here because I just wanted to be a woman who practically didn’t exist anymore except when I was upstairs at my desk, all alone, writing.

In the last 15 years or so, I systematically lost pretty much everything in my life that meant anything to me. All I had left was my writing, and then my ministry. And I found a way to be content with that. I really thought that was going to be my life – writing, house in the middle of nowhere, 8 semi-feral cats, cemetery plot up the road.

I was so totally okay with that until I fell in love. And then everything inside  me changed and my head exploded. (I think that exploding head is what caused me to lose my mind – just a wild guess. Perhaps it’s on the floor here somewhere…) And then suddenly I wanted EVERYTHING.

Just everything.

But wait, I know what that means – it means you will once again lose everything. I can’t go there again, can I? The prospects of all that loss will kill me.

But who knows, right? I just gotta learn how to wake-up in the morning and try not to make everybody crazy right along with me. A tall order these days, gang! But I’m working on it.

And speaking of work… I gotta get back to the new novel today. So I’m off!

Enjoy Thursday, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting. In spite of everything I grumble about, I’m real glad our paths are crossing, gentle readers. I mean that. See ya!

Yes, I Want You! The beginning of the end of sanity around here….


Okay, since several readers have asked what happened to the “BDSM story about the girl and her bladder” (!!) I restored the post, gang.  It’s down there on Saturday’s post, titled That Time of Year.

The story is called “Necessary to her Good.” But you can also download it for free right now at Smashwords, in The Muse Revisited, Volume II: Erotic Novellas and Longer Works. The direct link is in yesterday’s post.