Tag Archives: The Muse Revisited Vol 1- 3 by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

It’s All About Me Today!!

That’s not actually me pictured up there, but some of the good news is that I did finally lose 5 pounds! So I almost look like her —  just need to lose about 40 years and get all my natural brunette hair back!!


Yes, it is Wednesday!! Which is all about me — doing the re-edits on all the various eBooks of which I’m going to publish POD trade paper options soon.

And I’ll be talking with Valerie later re: book cover designs — and then probably talk about a lot of other stuff — for instance, they got slammed with that near-hurricane level tropical storm yesterday. (New York City is just really the happening place to be right now, isn’t it?) We were texting back & forth anxiously yesterday, while tree limbs were snapping off and flying everywhere. And her poor dog was having an anxious nervous breakdown.

But I, personally, am expecting a really easy, low-stress kind of day. It feels like a while since I’ve had one of those. Yesterday, specifically, was really intense.  Abstract Absurdity Productions days (Tuesdays & Thursdays) are just getting really intense, in general. But on we go, right?

Today is also the day of the week that I do more research on potential topics for “sex-positive” articles. It is such an interesting world out there, people –as you probably already know. For some reason, though, the topics that appeal to me most tend to be about the continuing trend towards what I would loosely call “alienation” but I think it’s actually much more complex than that. More and more people living more of their sexual lives up in their minds — but also maybe including partners that are doing the same thing.

I just find it all so interesting.

And the weather today is just amazing — really sunny but really cool.  The high is only expected to be 78 degrees Fahrenheit today, which is, you know, just perfect.

Okay. Sorry this is short, but I wanted to get started early here.

For some unknown reason, I awoke singing “St. Elmo’s Fire,” at 4am this morning. (The titular song from that extremely popular movie from 1985 — one of those movies that had an ensemble cast of young American actors who all went on to become really famous in the 1990s.)

If you’re curious about what St. Elmo’s Fire actually is (the phenomenon, not the movie), here is a short YouTube video that explains it, but I couldn’t find any actual footage of St. Elmo’s Fire occurring at sea (although, I confess, I didn’t look really, really hard!).

And as for the movie of the same name — I have to confess, I actually enjoyed it but I didn’t watch it until decades after it was a cultural hit. Because in 1985, I only went to see “cool” movies — not hugely popular ones! (Okay, except for PeeWee’s Big Adventure!! Man, I loved that movie!! I know the entire movie by heart. I do not jest about that, either. This movie made me laugh so fucking hard. I went to see it several times in the movie theater, and then bought it on VHS when the home video finally came out.)

All righty. I’m gonna scoot. Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope your Wednesday is really nice, wherever you are in the world today!! Enjoy the “St. Elmo’s Fire” serenade!! I love you guys. See ya!

“St. Elmo’s Fire (Man In Motion)”

Growin’ up
You don’t see the writing on the wall
Passin’ by
Movin’ straight ahead, you knew it all

But maybe sometime if you feel the pain
You’ll find you’re all alone
Everything has changed

Play the game
You know you can’t quit until it’s won
Soldier on
Only you can do what must be done

You know in some way
You’re a lot like me
You’re just a prisoner
And you’re tryin’ to break free

I can see a new horizon
Underneath the blazin’ sky
I’ll be where the eagle’s flyin’
Higher and higher

Gonna be your man in motion
All I need’s this pair of wheels
Take me where the future’s lyin’
St. Elmo’s Fire, ooh

Burnin’ up
Don’t know just how far that I can go (Just how far I go)
Soon be home
Only just a few miles down the road

I can make it
I know I can
You broke the boy in me
But you won’t break the man

I can see a new horizon
Underneath the blazin’ sky
I’ll be where the eagle’s flyin’
Higher and higher

Gonna be your man in motion
All I need’s this pair of wheels
Take me where my future’s lyin’
St. Elmo’s Fire

I can climb the highest mountain
Cross the wildest sea
I can feel St. Elmo’s Fire
Burnin’ in me, burnin’ in me

Just once in his life
A man has his time
And my time is now
I’m comin’ alive

I can hear the music playin’
I can see the banners fly
Feel like your man again
And hope ridin’ high

Gonna be your man in motion
All I need’s this pair of wheels
Take me where my future’s lyin’
St. Elmo’s Fire

I can see a new horizon
Underneath the blazin’ sky
I’ll be where the eagle’s flyin’
Higher and higher

Gonna be your man in motion
All I need’s this pair of wheels
Take me where the future’s lyin’
St. Elmo’s Fire

I can climb the highest mountain
Cross the wildest sea
I can feel St. Elmo’s Fire burnin’ in me

Burnin’ in me
I can feel it burnin’
Ooh, burnin’ inside of me

© 1985 John Parr, David Foster

Hitting It On All Cylinders!!

Wow, yesterday was just a really, really great day.

It was the best day I’ve had in a really long time.

It was one of those revelatory days. I won’t go into too much detail about it, but several writers were unexpectedly emailing me with feedback about my newest works and it actually kind of blew me away.

One man wrote in response to that new flash-memoir piece I wrote last Friday — he’s not the potential publisher; he’s a much younger Iranian writer, although I think he’s living somewhere in Europe now. He asked if he could read the piece, so I sent it to him a couple days ago, never dreaming it would affect him as much as it seems to have.

Since he is the sole person to have seen that piece so far, it took me by surprise that he liked it as much as he did. And, of course, it made me feel great. Because almost no one responds directly to me about my writing anymore. They just don’t.

And then, my friend in Brussels (a photo- journalist) sent me an email with feedback about my upcoming novel, The Guitar Hero Goes Home.

He is the first person to give me any meaningful feedback whatsoever on the entire novel (other people have given me feedback on specific chapters) — and the manuscript has been circulating for over a year already.

Plus, I only sent it to him a few days ago, and I honestly never dreamed he’d read it so quickly. or have such meaningful feedback for me. There’s one small part about the main guy’s heart attack that I see now I need to clarify.  Plus, this friend is also the guy who told me he hated my original title, which I did end up changing, so he doesn’t mince words.

Anyway, he said really kind things about the novel. It’s experimental fiction, which can be dicey, but he ultimately seems to have really liked it. Words such as: compelling, intense, challenging, elusive.

I love those words!

Also, yesterday, one of the webinars I took re: Abstract Absurdity Productions, was about developing a film festival strategy (which festivals to submit films to — if any — and why).

I have had really good experiences with the 4 different film festivals I’ve submitted to in the past, two of them were Tier 2 festivals, one was a Tier 1. I won’t go into all the details, I just want to say that from what I learned yesterday, I became sort of aware that my writing is really good.

The guy giving the webinar is the programmer for a Tier 2 festival that I’ve entered twice over the years, and both times scored just 2 points shy of being a finalist, but that is still a really good score, and they make a big deal about it. It’s still an honor. But what I didn’t know is that that particular festival gets thousands of submissions, 80% of which are no good, right off the bat. So only 20% even get into the judges’ hands

I was quite astounded by that number. And I sort of saw my own projects from a different angle.

The Tier 1 festival I entered was one sponsored by the Academy Awards (the Oscars) and I scored in the top 8% out of 7000 entries that year.  I knew that was good, even back then. I wasn’t aiming to win — I was aiming to make connections and see what the feedback was. So I knew the score was good, but from this new distance of time, I see that my work consistently shows up. And in smaller places, it actually even wins the awards.

So, it was just a good day. I was getting a new perspective on my work. Coming to a new understanding about it, since I get so little outside feedback anymore.

And then, of course, Peitor and I did actual “Ab Ab Pro” work on the phone for a few hours and got a lot accomplished.  We have narrowed it down to the 3 micro-micro shorts we want to write the scripts for next — with an eye toward shooting them as soon as feasibly possible in these days of COVID. (We have literally 20 micro-micro-shorts in development. And 3 other projects that are from 4-10 minutes in length that we kind of consider our “gems,” including Lita måste gå!)

We do have just so much work to do but it really is moving forward and I feel really happy about that, too.

I’m at that place in my life now where, as long as I can get to the close of a day and feel really good about the day and want to come back and experience my life again tomorrow — that’s what matters now. So I am always so grateful when I do have just a really affirming day.

Okay. Today is all about beginning the re-edits of The Muse Revisited Collection, in anticipation of publishing POD trade paper editions of all three volumes in the collection.

And then Valerie in Brooklyn is supposed to call later to discuss where we are on all this cover art I still need! (Primarily for The Guitar Hero Goes Home so that I can actually finally publish it.)

Nick Cave sent out yet another Red Hand File early this morning — still relating to his really amusing one from the other day, where he tried to score a free piano from Fazioli in Italy. Now it seems that some fans have started up crowdfunding campaigns to buy Nick that really expensive piano.  (Not so far from what I thought was a ridiculous comment to make — that we were taking up a collection to buy him one for Christmas. Apparently not so ridiculous a comment after all.)

Anyway, he has asked his fans to not do that. That he can buy his own piano.

Sort of weird, right? That fans took this really delightful post of his and turned it into this thing.

All righty. Well, I’m going to get started on the editing here. I hope you have a really nice Wednesday, wherever you are in the world, gang!! Thanks for visiting. I’m going to leave you with my listening-music from last night. I’ve posted it here before, but it is really just  lovely — probably the most popular contemporary ukulele recording out there, even though Israel Kamakawiwo’ole has been dead for a number of years already.

I had this on repeat for I don’t know how long last night — in bed, lights out, sun setting — and it took me to some amazingly rapturous places.  His voice was so beautiful. This is his medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World.” Listen. Enjoy. Find peace, baby!! I love you guys. See ya.

Gotta Be Brief, Gang!!

Okay, well, last night’s post — Memory Lane — is actually going to be today’s post, too! If you didn’t already read it, you can scroll down to the previous post (Memory Lane) or use this link.

I am almost done editing Peitor’s book, about 50 more pages to go, so I want to get that finished here this morning and get it back to him, then get back to work on Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse.

But I wanted to alert you that, if you’re a fan of any of the stories linked up there in “From the Vault,” that whole section is being removed. I am doing new editions of The Muse Revisited Collection, including print-on-demand options to buy them in trade paper, so none of the stories will be available through the home page of this site. If you have direct links to any of the stories, they will still work, you just won’t be able to find them linked here.

So, just FYI.

Okay, I’m gonna close and get started here! However, I wanted to leave you with this very cool & very short video, for Nick Cave’s Stranger Than Kindness exhibit, FINALLY opening in Copenhagen on June 8th!! Enjoy!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!!

What Could Be More Exciting?!

Yes! I’m doing laundry! Lots of it!

I’m hoping that if I can focus on something besides every single solitary thought that’s in my head, it will help me get better. We’ll see.

I know I don’t have pneumonia, because I feel absolutely perfectly fine except for this inability to breathe normally. If I lie perfectly still in bed, I breathe normally. And in fact, I sleep great. I’m feeling absolutely fine. But as soon as I get out of bed and start moving around, the out-of-breath thing starts in again and I am just so fucking tired of it. This is Day 17 already.


I’m still loving Vienna Blood (PBS) but I am already halfway through the final episode. I hope they are going to plan on making a Season 2.  The writing is a tiny bit uneven, because I feel like they’re trying to cram too much plot from the novels into a 45-minute episode, which means suddenly a chunk of dialogue will happen that is purely exposition and it kind of sticks out from the rest of the story. But it’s negligible, and if you aren’t a writer, you might not even notice it at all. It does make me want to read the novels, though.  (Vienna Blood is based on the Max Lieberman novels by Frank Tallis.)

And actually on a similar note… I am seriously considering just starting my own small press again. I mentioned this in a post a few days ago.  But now I’m actually really thinking about it. First, just to put into Print on Demand my own titles, and then maybe consider publishing other writers who are super fringe. I have to really think about it, though, because it would mean looking into actual distribution and marketing if I published other writers, too. And I’m already — virus notwithstanding — a tad bit busy.

I’ve been wanting to get Twilight of the Immortal back into print with an updated cover, instead of just having it as an eBook. And then publish Blessed by Light, In the Shadow of Narcissa, Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse, Thug Luckless: Welcome to P-Town, Down to the Meadows of Sleep: The Hurley Falls Mystery, and  maybe do Print on Demand editions of The Muse Revisited collection, and finally clean up all the typos in those specific eBook collections.

Part of the allure of it is knowing that I don’t have to worry about the content and how it would fit into someone else’s marketing agenda. I can make it as hardcore as I want (without going off into those areas where I’m looking at prison time again, of course…) The main problem with most of my work has always been that it’s both too literary and too erotic.  And now it needs to be one or the other to appease most small presses these days.  (Plus, I’ve gotten just ridiculously tired of waiting to hear back from other small presses who simply just never get back to you.)

So I’m really considering it. The investment is in the cover design, but other than that, the cost to produce each book is negligible. Between my popularity among international book piraters and the state of small presses now, I don’t know that it even makes financial sense to give up a portion of my rights to small presses anymore. Better to give a cut to the actual printer (what’s left after hemorrhaging potential profits to book pirating, I mean) and then just try to arrange readings when I’m off hither and yon doing the various film & theater projects.

Which reminds me that the other play I’m doing with Sandra (with the fluctuating title) that’s being produced in Toronto, has been pushed from this Fall off to the misty glades of 2021. So I’m guessing it will premiere on June 3rd, when I’ll be with my new friends in Switzerland to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds…

(As usual, I sure hope I’m kidding about that.)

Okay. Well. It is going to be a really gorgeous day here today. It was pretty yesterday, but it was cold. Today, it is going to be super sunny and really mild. I can probably open some windows around here, which always makes me so happy!!

And I am hoping to spend less time in bed today. I really am. I so want to be past this virus and start writing again. We shall see.

I hope you guys are all in a good space on this wonderful Monday in Pandemic Land.  I’m gonna go finish up the laundry now, check in with my dad, get another cup of coffee. Thanks for visiting, gang! I leave you with some very fun Ringo Starr music from I don’t even remember when — the 1970s? “The No No Song,” which of course, I can attest to now, but when it was an actual hit, I was quite far from it… (if you don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, you gotta listen to the song! The lyrics are in the video, gang!) Okay. Enjoy!! I love you guys. See ya!

You’d think she’d just dig the fuck outta this…

This idea that the entire Universe is forcing me to stay home and write, you know? You’d think I’d just fucking love that.

And in a way, I do. Because, thankfully, I’m really healthy. Although yesterday, when we had that brief burst of mild Spring weather and I was able to open a couple of windows — man, that fresh air felt so incredible. I really, really miss the fresh air.

But I do really enjoy being alone. And writing. (Although, I would of course prefer being with that guy I’m totally trying not to love, but since that’s utterly impossible — just more impossible than you can possibly imagine — I just enjoy the fuck out of being alone…) (grumble grumble grumble)

But the sameness of the days is getting sort of weird. A little too “Groundhog Day”-ish, you know? Except for the fraction of a second that I interacted with the gals at the pizzeria, and the few moments standing 6 feet away from the guys at the Granville Inn — aside from that, I’ve been alone in here for 168 hours.

Thankfully, I talk to Peitor a lot. Or we text (constantly). We get a lot of creative stuff accomplished, which feels so great.  Other than that, though, I don’t really interact with anyone. I call my dad every day because he’s getting depressed. Not only is he on lockdown, too, but he doesn’t actually enjoy being alone, and, it’s been raining a lot where he lives so he can’t even get outdoors and take a walk.

Aside from that, he’s still grieving the death of his wife of 35 years. She’s only been gone 2 months now. And even though my dad and I have not had the best relationship during my adulthood, by any stretch of the imagination, even I knew that he had a really happy 3rd marriage. My stepmom was just the best.  They loved each other so much. And she was the easiest person to be around. One of those rare women that you just enjoy being in the same room with — and you really noticed it when she left a room. She had such uplifting, delighted, joyful energy all the time.

So with or without the quarantine, my dad no longer has that wonderful energy in his life. Now all he has is the TV.  And it’s on constantly — always on the news. Every time I call him, I have to say, “Dad, turn off the news. It’s depressing you.” Of course, he doesn’t do it, but I still feel it’s my sworn duty, you know, to tell him to do that every single darn day.

(I’m guessing that the minute we hang up the phone, he’s saying “You’re not the boss of me.” And he’s turning the volume on the news right back up!!)

But anyway. That’s my day. Peitor and/or my dad. Then I eat endless vegetables — so boring. I’ve already “ice-creamed” myself out — totally not interested in the ice cream anymore. So it’s back to eating really healthy stuff. Doing my yoga and my Booty Core, so that I can feel and look great during my endless days of living in captivity all by myself. And I still meditate and keep my endless little journals, so that my mind doesn’t completely unravel.

And then, you know, I sit down at my desk and write. In so many ways, that seems like heaven — so how come it doesn’t feel like heaven? Hmmm……

Oh — I did want to thank you guys for buying my books yesterday and during the night.  Seriously. I actually do appreciate it, even though you steadfastly refused to be led in the direction of my more literary pursuits — i.e. Twilight of the Immortal. I still really do appreciate that the old erotica still sells. (It will remain on sale for the next 4 weeks on Smashwords only.) (See yesterday morning’s post.)

But I do want to point out something, and I have no qualms whatsoever comparing that specific novel (Twilight of the Immortal) to F. Scott Fitzgerald. I honestly don’t. I know it’s a really well written book (that a lot of publishers also loved but they did not love the fact that there were so many lesbians in it & I was not willing to delete them from history). Still, I’ll point out that when F. Scott Fitzgerald died, you could not buy a copy of The Great Gatsby in any bookstore. Nobody wanted to read it.  (And, frankly, it is my favorite novel of all time.) And now, almost 100 years after it was written, it is not only considered a masterpiece of 20th Century American literature, but right now, today, it is ranked at #5 on Amazon’s Classic Literature list, and ranked #131 in all books.

All books. Do you know what that means? Can you even estimate how many books are being sold on Amazon right now — and that nearly 100-year-old book, which at one point, while he was still alive, nobody wanted to buy, is ranked at #131 amid those millions of titles?

Image result for the great gatsby cover art

I’m just saying. Your great-grandchildren will be more than happy to buy my lonely little book, let alone get it for free! Even though it doesn’t have a ton of sex in it… (And you’ll be stuck up there in Heaven — with any luck, that is, because it’s getting dicier with all that porn you’re reading — but anyway, you’ll be stuck up there just listening to harps and stuff!)

All righty!!!!

So here’s good news. The numbers, while increasing for now, are still encouraging. Close to 94,000 recoveries from the virus as of today (3/21/2020). About 179,000 known cases worldwide, and about 171,000 of those cases are considered mild.

And some other good news — because of all this quarantine stuff, that portion of my bathroom ceiling that collapsed yesterday because of all that sudden rain? I get to just ignore it for now because no way on Earth is anyone going to be able to come out here and fix it yet.

I love, love, love ignoring needed home repairs!! It is one of my very favorite things to do! And usually it bothers my conscience when I’m doing it, but not this time!! Yay!







Okay, guys. I guess that’s it for today.  I’m guessing that Nick Cave is out there, quarantined somewhere, too, and yet still wearing a suit and having some sort of a conversation!!! Alas, we don’t know for sure. It’s just an educated guess. (Yes, life’s getting a little boring here in my room.) Oh, I’ve started streaming re-runs of the British Crime Drama, DCI Banks in the evening. So that’s fun. And I did eventually finish watching Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary — man, was that good. If you like jazz and you haven’t seen that show, it’s totally something to watch. It’s about 20 hours, but still worth every moment.

All righty. Thanks for visiting! Wash your hands and stop touching your face already. Life is good. The world is beautiful. I love you and I feel certain that a whole lot of other people do, too! See ya, gang!!

“In My Room”

There’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to
In my room, in my room
In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears
In my room, in my room

Do my dreaming and my scheming
Lie awake and pray
Do my crying and my sighing
Laugh at yesterday

Now it’s dark and I’m alone
But I won’t be afraid
In my room, in my room
In my room, in my room
In my room, in my room

© – 1963 Brian Wilson, Gary Usher

Yeah, Baby! Spring!!

Happy first day of Spring, gang!

Here, it is raining –we even had a bona fide thunderstorm during the night. The temperature is supposed to go up to nearly 70 degrees Fahrenheit by this afternoon — and then plunge down to about 28 degrees by tomorrow morning!!

So, yeah. Spring.

But I’m happy!

Before I forget, in honor of everyone being stuck at home all over the world,  I’m participating in a month-long special sale at Smashwords. All of my Muse Revisited titles are 60% off. So is Freak Parade. And Twilight of the Immortal is absolutely free!

But you have to purchase them through Smashwords to get the discount, not Amazon or iTunes, or any of the other outlets that sell my eBooks. However, Smashwords gives you the option to download the eBook in any format you need.

I chose to make Twilight of the Immortal free because it is probably the best book I’ve ever written, but because it isn’t erotica, almost no one buys it. I honestly think I’ve sold less than 1000 copies of this novel. And it’s been in print since 2010 (it came out first on a very small press, then I got the rights back and published it myself electronically because the publisher had filled it with typos that enraged me.)

But anyway, it’s been in print for 10 years now and no one buys it and it’s a great book, but it’s not erotic. No explicit anal sex or fellatio or anything — although anal sex and fellatio are heavily implied in many passages…

For instance:

After Valentino has died (at the peak of his fame), Rosemary, the novel’s protagonist, returns to Hollywood to marry her best friend, Mitch.  Mitch is a very successful movie producer but he is notoriously gay in an era when it is still illegal to be gay and the Government is cracking down on any suspiciously single men employed by the movie studios (this is fact). Rosemary recalls the final days she spent with Rudolph Valentino, after his notorious divorce, while she was employed as his “assistant”:

I drank the champagne down. The bubbles seeped into my veins and made tiny explosions all up and down my spine. Rodolfo; it was the name he’d been born with, that he preferred to the Americanized “Rudolph.” The moment had finally come where he’d told me to call him Rodolfo and so I did. He whispered in Italian, “Abbi coraggio.” Then more closely, right in my ear because now we were in bed together, naked, he said, “Be brave.” It had sounded so tender, so bewitching, and so erotically compelling that I could not resist him; I leaned down in the dark and did what I’d seen the boys do. In truth, I’d had no idea what I was doing and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to resist him; I was so glad that Natacha was gone, at last. I knew life was spiraling downward; I couldn’t ignore the hypnotic pull of his private hell. I was trapped in it, too, like it was quicksand. He was miserable, lonely, aching without her. I was clumsy but I tried to fill the space. Mostly there were men everywhere filling up his nights and days, not just with erotic favors but with polo, endless games of it; Rudy loved his horses. And there was also Pola Negri, but she was only acting a part and grasping at more and more fame, ensuring she was on Rudy’s arm whenever the cameras came out. I wasn’t competing with her; a rising star. I wasn’t competing with anybody. I just wanted my moment in the sun. His sun — I wanted to bask in his attention finally. But I overplayed my hand and, for me, the sun only shone after midnight when the lights were out, when the decent world was dark and the house was otherwise empty.

Or here, where Rosemary’s soon-to-be (gay) husband is informing his lover, Jim, that he’s being tossed to the curb because, in order to save his career, Mitch is marrying Rosemary:

The raised voices on the patio grew more heated. I tried to focus on the golden bubbles bursting at the rim of my wine glass and block out what the voices were saying, but it was next to impossible. “How convenient,” Jim practically shrieked, as if to doubly-ensure I could hear him. “A girl like that is almost as good as the real thing, isn’t she, Mitch? Everyone knows it — what she was up to with Valentino. It was all over Hollywood. With a girl like her, just turn out the lights and you’ll never notice the difference.”

So, yeah, there’s anal sex in the novel, too, but it’s not explicit at all.

There’s tons of lesbian sex in it, too, although back then they were called Saphhists. A lot of those scenes are between the young Rosemary and the true love of her life, the very poor, very abused, very worldly, very Irish Molly McClellan, who works as a Dresser for  Alla Nazimova, who was called “Madame” (and who, in case you don’t know the name, was, at one point, one of the most famous actresses in the world and a totally “out” lesbian):

Molly waited expectantly for me to finish what I was saying, but I knew I was lying, or at the very least embellishing what had happened. “Go on,” she encouraged me. “Spill it; what did she tell you?”

“Nothing, just that… I don’t know — someday.”

“Ah, go on, Rosie. She’s practically thirty-eight; you’re just a kid.”

“Not anymore I’m not,” I warned her. “I’ve done things now.”

“Oh, and what have you done?”


“I mean, that a woman like Madame would like?  Have you been to the lady doctors yet?”

“What lady doctors?”

“The midwives down on Broadway.”

“Why would I go to a midwife? I’m not having a baby.”

“It’s not for girls who are having babies, you ninny who thinks she knows everything. It’s a code word. These midwives cure hysteria; they do things to you with their hands. Things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Like what?”

“They pull up your skirt and take down your drawers, for one thing, and they touch you down there and make you feel things with their hands — until your eyes roll up in your head.”

She had my attention there; that was certain. I’d never been anywhere where a midwife had done a thing like that to me. “Oh, I don’t believe you,” I said.

“What’s not to believe? How do you think I learned what I know? How do you think I make Madame so happy with me?”

“Well, then I’ll go, too. I’ll learn.”

“You can’t. They don’t just let you in. I knew a woman who worked at one of those places, so I got in. Besides, you’re not old enough, so just give up your dreaming.”

“I’m going to be eighteen soon.”

“And when might that be?” Naked now, Molly slipped under the bed covers; apparently she wasn’t going to wear a nightgown.

“Summer,” I said.

“Summer?” She laughed at me again. “That’s, like, years away.”

“Well, what of it? Regardless, I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You mean because you’ve done it with a man? That makes you grown?”

“Yes,” I said bravely, knowing we were inching onto a topic I didn’t want to discuss with her.

“Boy, have you got a lot to learn. Come on ‘old lady’; turn off the lamp, why don’t you, and come to bed.”

I was annoyed with her; she knew everything it seemed. Still, I was freezing and wanted the warmth of the bed. From somewhere downstairs, I could hear the Victrola playing. I slid under the heavy eiderdown next to Molly and said quietly, “Aren’t they ever going to go home?”

“Better get used to it, is what I’m thinking. Some nights, Madame and her friends don’t go to sleep at all. It’s mostly those actresses she knows; they never sleep.”

“They’re awfully loud. I can hear that music all the way up here.”

“That’s because they’re right underneath us — they’re in Madame’s bedroom now. And when the Victrola winds down, you can hear other things.”

“What other things?” I whispered, snuggling close to her mostly because I was still so cold.

“Guess,” she said slyly.

“Oh no,” I said. “We’re going to have to listen to that?”

“We could always drown them out, you know — go at it like a couple of alley cats ourselves.” She worked her hand up under my flannel nightgown. I was still annoyed with her, but for the time being, I let her do it. “How does that sound, Rosie; want to give it a go?”

I didn’t answer her. I was too entranced by her fingers…

Plus, the novel is 600 pages long — however, if you want something to just get lost in until the quarantine is lifted, then this book could help you do that. And even though it is many pages, most people say that the book is hard to put down. Especially once Rosemary — our heroine — gets to Hollywood in 1918 and eventually starts working for Mr. & Mrs. Rudolph Valentino. Then the book races almost unstoppably to its tragic (but sort of uplifting) end.

Most people who take the time to read this book, end up loving it. However, if you are one of those few people left in the world who honestly believed that Rudolph Valentino was heterosexual, then you will despise this book.

I researched all of it as best I could, hampered by it being nearly 100 years after the fact, and came to my own decision that when Valentino fell for a woman, he fell hard — and she was always a very worldly and beautiful woman, and usually very destructive to his reputation and his career. And when he wasn’t in love with a woman, he hung out exclusively with groups of men who were known in Hollywood to be homosexuals.

So, you know, you do the math. (Today, he would probably be called non-binary.)

A couple of reader reviews to gently bludgeon you over the head with how good this novel is:

“As soon as I read this quote attributed to Valentino: ‘Observe, Rosemary, how in Hollywood there is no difference between a knife and a smile,’ I knew for sure that I had found a gem! Twilight of the Immortal is both beautifully written and an engaging romp… Marilyn Jaye Lewis captures Valentino’s essence, the allure that endeared him to millions of fans. There is not one false step in this book. All the details are meticulously researched … I give it five stars!”

“Unlike her previous books, this is NOT erotica! This is a serious novel that should be enjoyed by the general public. The story is captivating. The characters are very strong and the book is hard to put down.”

And the eBook is free at Smashwords for the next month.


Another thing that might of interest during your quarantine — Soulpepper Theater Co in Toronto is hosting a live webcast of playwrights reading their newest plays. The program is called Fresh Ink, and you can listen free, online, 4:30 PM today, Eastern (NY) time. Visit here and listen for free. (You will need to download Zoom at the link.)

All righty!!

I actually have to work with Peitor this morning on Abstract Absurdity Productions stuff, so I’m gonna scoot! I hope you’re able to make the best of your house arrest, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang! I might come back later and do a real — non-promotional sort of post. God knows, I’ll be here! Okay. I love you guys. See ya!

Valentino sees his wife, Natacha, off at the Los Angeles train station. However, they are merely posing for press photographers here. In truth, unknown to the world yet, they are divorcing and this will be the final time they lay eyes on each other. Valentino will die soon after the divorce, at the age of 31. In this photo, the incredibly famous husband & wife pair despise each other, but you’d never know it. Such is fame & Hollywood…


Quick Tuesday Afternoon Update!

Okay, for reasons related to publishers, my short story “After Hours” has been removed from the above linked drop-down menu, From the Vault.

I replaced it with two other short stories, of a similar temperament (meaning erotic but not as hardcore as some of the stories in the vault).

The stories added are:

The Epicures : a previously published short story that eroticizes food and wine and that includes sexually graphic depictions of sex with food and eroticized simulations of childbirth, so squeamish readers should be forewarned.

August on the Lake: an erotic short story about fellatio and divorce. It originally appeared in French. I don’t think it appears in English anywhere, except here and in my collection The Muse Revisited, Volume 3.

I also decided, after a zillion months, to update the excerpt in the section above titled, Excerpt: The Muse Revisited. If you are the sole person left in the English-speaking world who has never read my short story, Anal, from 1994, here’s your chance to unburden yourself of that uncomfortable moniker!

But please be forewarned: The story contains sexually graphic depictions of anal sex that, even after all these years of being in print, will still not be suitable for all readers.

Okay! Back to your regularly-scheduled Tuesday programming!! And I’ll get back to mine!! See ya!

Image result for vintage drawings of naughty little girls getting spanked

Memory on top of a Memory

I am working on Letter #3 in Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. The letter is titled, “Baltimore,” because, oddly enough, it’s about something (or someone) that happened to me in Baltimore.

Something I had actually forgotten about until the story started to come out of me.

The result of that tryst, in a round about way, led to me writing the short story, “The Insomniac’s Tale,” which was my version of what happened to Edgar Allan Poe — why he died so mysteriously in Baltimore, in a charity ward even though he was already famous.

So, in anticipation of the wildly different erotic piece, “Baltimore,” I give you “The Insomniac’s Tale.”

*   *   *

“The Insomniac’s Tale” originally appeared in 2001 on Mindcaviar.com; in 2002 on Eros-Noir.com; in 2004 in Lust: Bisexual Erotica by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, pub. Alyson Books; and in 2012 in The Muse Revisited, Vol. 3 by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, pub. by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

The following contains sexually graphic content, including depictions of necrophilia. Readers are strongly cautioned. (Approx. 7 pages)

The Insomniac’s Tale 

Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence, whether much that is glorious, whether all that is profound, does not spring from disease of thought… Edgar Allan Poe

Curiously, as I lay here dying in the anonymity of a Baltimore charity ward, trapped in the watchful gaze of a stalwart nurse who seems, from time to time, to regard me as if I’m already dead, I find I have not a shred of remorse. In fact, if my vocal cords, if my entire larynx weren’t paralyzed by my rapidly deteriorating condition, I would even go so far as to confess to my warden-nurse what my true motivation had been. Why I’d departed—no, fled—the train when it reached Baltimore, never proceeding to Richmond where I was to wed Eloise Whitmore within the next fortnight. I’ve ceased to feel shame over any of it, yet I can’t recollect when the shame abandoned me. For the longest time, since the death of my first wife seven years ago, it seemed the shame was my sole companion. When did it leave? Why is it gone so suddenly?

I’ve no doubt now that somewhere during my debauched excursion along the wharves of Baltimore this very weekend, I ingested a large quantity of poison. Whether it was in the opium or the cocaine, who gave it to me, and whether or not any of the prostitutes I’d paid handsomely during the course of my debauch, who’d perhaps watched me consume my fatal indulgence, knew about the poison – well, these are the final mysteries I’ll be taking with me to the grave.

Funny how, normally, I’ll pounce on a good mystery, unable to leave it be until I’ve worried it like a bone, picked it clean and solved it. Now, as the end arrives, I find I’m oddly ambivalent. These last mysteries are too meager, too petty to trifle over when compared with the grander mystery that always fueled my life: my unconquerable and insufferable destiny.

Every muscle in my face has now grown rigid with paralysis. I can’t so much as blink an eye. I’m terrorized by thoughts that I will die with my eyes open. What horror will I see as one light dims and perhaps the fires of Hell emerge? Whose face will be my final vision as I pass over to the next realm? If God were merciful, it would not be this dour face of my warden-nurse, a memento only of this wretched charity ward. It would instead be the face of an angel, my child-wife, a reminder of the beauty that could have been Life had I been born to a more regal fate. I fear I’ll know the extent of God’s mercy soon enough. As it is surely imminent, my release from the fever of living.

I lay here unable to move as the paralysis creeps slowly through me. How many hours has it been? When did they bring me here? I no longer know. There’s a certain timeless euphoria brought on by abject misery. Meaning, time passes strangely, an hour becoming an unfathomable depth. In a way, life has always been a one-way tunnel. Still it never seemed quite as linear as this certain encroachment of death. Deeper into the tunnel I’m drawn, though, helpless to fight death’s pull. My mouth brimming with a bitter, corrosive taste. Not just from the hours spent vomiting up poison down by the docks, but the bitterness of a final acceptance, a reluctant understanding. A bleak awakening, if you will, to a truth too unnerving to allow me ever again to know the blessing of sleep.

Had I been courageous enough to carry through on my vow to marry Eloise Whitmore, had I proceeded on the train to Richmond, done the honorable thing, I wouldn’t be in this hideous predicament. I know that. I’m always well aware of my failings. However, the drive to satiate my deeper urges pushed me from that train.

The youngest, freshest girls one can hope for often begin their lives of ill repute along those dank, rotting wharves of Baltimore. Some girls so fresh, they still carry the scent of home in their undergarments. To me, it matters little—their inexperience in the varied tastes of carnal lust. I’ve long since tired of the meaningless couplings of body touching body. What I’ve come to seek is a peculiar sin, cultivated from the emptiness of too many years. A sin I can only re-enact with the youngest of women, for I was with a young woman when my need first began.

My now-dead wife, once the love of my life, was a child of thirteen when I married her, though her mother had given us her full consent to wed. Then, I was a man of twenty-four. Unlucky in my studies and my military career; unlucky in much of what had already passed as ‘my life.’ Yet my literary prowess had begun to emerge. From the meager earnings I secured with my writing, I supported my child-wife and her mother, and we persevered. Hiding—successfully, I should add—a certain secret from the world.

In Boston, where I was born, I had been orphaned at the age of two. Years later in New York, no one I knew had ever known my mother, or knew that my mother-in-law had been my mother’s sister. That she was indeed my aunt; and my child-wife, my cousin. But how I cherished the young girl I had taken for my bride. Not to marry would have been unthinkable. Never to join her, flesh pressed to flesh in the conjugal bed seemed a fate unendurable to us both. But my aunt had a romantic and sympathetic heart of the most charitable nature so she agreed to let us marry. In that, my bride and I were blessed. And in the facelessness of a bustling city such as New York, our sin – the incestuous nature of our marriage – was easily concealed. For a time, we even thrived.

In the beginning, yes, she was delicate, my wife. But she did not seem frail. Though her skin was so sheer, so translucent that its pallor was decidedly tinted by the underlying blueness of her veins. Everywhere I touched her, she seemed impossibly soft—an unimaginable velvet—and too yielding to the merest caress.

It was hard to keep my thoughts fully centered on my work. I developed literary theories, wrote moody, atmospheric poems, which helped me to secure a certain fame, if not fortune, along the eastern coast. But always, the larger portion of my thoughts were devoted to (should I say, tormented by) my enchanting wife.

Her modesty was such that throughout the course of our brief marriage, I never saw her by daylight entirely undressed. On occasion when we were alone, she might lift her skirt for me, or lower her blouse to bare her breasts. When under cover of darkness, or with luck, if a slash of moonlight would cut through the grimy windowpane at night and reveal her youthful wantonness sans nightclothes beside me in the bed, my eyes would desperately drink in the dim vision of her beauty. My other senses were then driven to overcompensate for the sight of heaven of which my eyes were so deprived. The feel of her in my arms, her downy skin; her soft, tumbling tresses spilling across my chest; the flit of her feathery lashes against my cheek. Or the scent of her, her taste on my lips, the sounds of her awakening desire while we kissed—this was how my heart created its intimate portrait of her. How it aroused me. It was unspeakable. For there was yet another sweet agony I endured: my wife was still a child. Her womb had not yet reached womanhood. It lagged behind our eager needs. Our conjugal bliss was to be left unconsummated for two seemingly endless years. Until she reached the age of fifteen, when quite early on a stifling summer morning, the blood finally came.

It’s hard to believe, as I lay here, the paralysis approaching my lungs, my chest tightening; my heart, a thin, miserable throb; that I could have once known such unbridled joy as the night my beloved wife and I endeavored to explore at last the full sanctity of our union. She was sweet, but not coy. Determined to let me enter her as many times, and in as many positions, as I desired.

It seemed we were finally ready to face life, to stake our claim in the future. We had spent two years always moving, moving. I chased after employment with first one magazine then another, achieving more fame but still struggling to keep my little family from the jaws of poverty and hunger. But soon enough, it was clear I would remain unlucky in this endeavor, as well. My dear little girl, my wife, suddenly fell ill. Before long, we knew it was consumption. That lingering, wretched disease for which there is no cure. Malnourishment—a result of the poverty I alone had placed her in—aggravated her suffering. Seven times, she slipped down to the worst depths of the disease. Only six times did she rally. With each of her slides down to the rim of death’s abyss, I railed at the night and lost myself in drink. Turning also to the comfort of opium or cocaine. Behaving disgracefully around my peers. My public drunkenness, severely damaging my hard-won reputation at banquets meant to honor me and my celebrated oeuvre.

Still, it was during these terrors, as I helplessly watched my poor wife wither, as I heard her cough and choke on her very blood, and knew without doubt that her release from suffering could come only with our final parting on this gruesome plane, that I wrote my finest tales of sheer horror – stories that sealed my fate in the pantheon of literature even while fortune continued to elude me.

It was upon my wife’s death that my taste for the peculiar sin I earlier mentioned, emerged. I was unable to escape its grasp. While it brought me a few moments of carnal pleasure, it brought me more an abundance of shame. A shame I could never retreat from, nor pacify once my sin had been unleashed.

My wife’s mother and I were both at her side when my wife finally expired. My mother-in-law tenderly wiped the traces of blood from my wife’s lips, and then attempted to remove the soiled dressing gown from my wife’s limp form.

“No,” I insisted. “I want to be alone with her. You’ve nursed her all these years. Let me tend to her now.”

When my mother-in-law left the room and I eased my wife’s thin, lifeless body from the nearly threadbare chemise, my eyes weren’t prepared to behold the heartbreaking beauty of her nakedness. A sight I had been deprived of throughout my marriage. How exquisite she was. Dear reader, I know you will be shocked by where my longings urged me! You, who have not known such bereaved misery as mine; you could not be expected to comprehend the brutal power of love’s erotic pull, even after death. I admit it plainly now. As I near death myself, I have no remorse. I hungered to know my wife’s body in intercourse one final time. But could I dare it?

At first, I thought no. I let my mind become submerged in the details of the task before me, attempting to let reason override the mounting pressure of my longing. I filled the wash basin and bathed the remnants of sweat from her once fevered brow. Faithfully, I combed my wife’s still silken tresses. I sponged the length of her young body clean. Then I anointed her breasts with lavender and rose water.

My wife was just shy of  sixteen the afternoon she died. The spectre of her purity, even in death, proved to be my undoing. Though I’d gone so far as to wrap my wife in her funeral shroud, when her mother knocked gently at the bedroom door, I refused to let her re-enter.

“I need to pray,” I explained feebly. Then I turned the key in the lock, shutting out my last hope of sanity.

Had I known where it would lead me – the dark alleyways, the rotting wharves, the foul-smelling mattresses in vermin-infested rooms – had I known these curses would come closely on the heels of my indiscretion, would I have unwrapped my wife’s still supple body from the winding sheet? Would I have allowed my mouth to kiss hers as if she were still full of life and able to offer her lips to me? Would I have deliberately used that kiss as my invitation to cup the fullness of her breasts, then to enter her? And not just enter her, but part her legs garishly and watch my thick member violate her repeatedly as I pretended she willingly obliged me.

This is why the young whores of Baltimore are so well suited to my proclivity. I don’t need experienced, licentious advances. I don’t want vulgar women, whose very sexual openings are so well used as to seem lewd in how they gape. Though they needn’t be virgins, I need fresh girls with a willingness to say “yes.” To lay motionless and unstirred while I fondle and explore their secret places, first with my often trembling fingers, then with the more erotic caresses of my tongue.

Not that I had had nerve enough to know my wife’s lifeless body in that intimate a manner. No, in the moments of my disgraceful assault on her, my mind was clouded with fever. I was fearful of being discovered at any moment by my wife’s mother—my aunt, my own mother’s sister; a witness to my debasement of her only child! Even while I knew the door was locked, in my mind it did not seem secure enough. An iron key in a simple hole did not seem an impenetrable barrier to the towering grotesqueness of the deed I was perpetrating. I kissed my wife’s mouth, yes. And I squeezed her breasts which were hardly warm. Yet when my erect manhood, seemingly of its own volition, proceeded on its mission to penetrate her, it was a deed I undertook in haste.

The sweeter subtleties of lovemaking, the gentler acts of fondling and caressing were not part of my assault. Not until the black midnight after my wife’s burial, as I lay awake alone in bed, my thoughts tormented by the fresh memory of what I’d done to her, did my imagination give birth to its hideous cravings.

The sorrow of my loss was inexpressible. How I ached to have my wife alive again beside me. How I scourged myself for my financial impotence; my inability to lift her above the crush of poverty and the ravaging disease it delivered to her. It was in this swell of sadness that I began to regret not having lingered longer over her young healthy body when it had still been a living, breathing vessel next to me; a body full of warmth and eager curiosity. As in the first days of our marriage, when every nuance of physical love was new to her, and each intimate exploration, a delight. Those early days when she was still too young for intercourse, when our nights were spent in ecstasy just the same.

Before my marriage, I had known many women—mostly the sort of women one pays. And I wasn’t ashamed of this. In my years of approaching manhood, I learned what I would be expected to teach my wife about lovemaking, and I learned the more carnal aspects of it that I would be expected to shield her from. It was my duty to her and it was perhaps the only duty in which I served her well.

To ready a young woman’s body for what will be the more demanding encounter of sexual penetration requires patience. But more, it requires dedication. I dedicated myself to my wife, to awakening her to her own capacity for sexual desire so that she would one day be ready for her final step into womanhood.

Yet how do I describe it, the veritable anguish of my desire? The nearly unbearable restraint I managed, as I explored her youthful body in our bed, her nightclothes lifted for me, her legs eagerly raised and parted but her modesty prohibiting me from seeing her even in the glow of firelight. Her labial folds swelling under the touch of my fingers. My ears filling with the sounds of her passionate moans, her gentle cries, as my mouth between her spread legs urged her deeper and deeper into her own erotic abandon. Never to see her, to truly see her to my heart’s content, in the usual female postures of lascivious invitation. Think of it! It must have been what drove me to do the unthinkable when my eyes were finally granted the full sight of her nakedness so soon after she expired.

Yes, it was ghoulish, how the force of my thrusting member so disturbed and rattled her lifeless form. But my eyes shut it out. In the delirium of my sin, my eyes could only take in the beauty of her feminine secret; her vulva, at last exposed, revealed in the light of day.

After my wife was buried, the fevered thoughts that I’d assumed were satiated, regrettably returned. I pictured it over and over in the dark: my thick and aching manhood glistening with my own spit as it pummeled into my wife’s snug hole. My thoughts became diseased, replacing ideas of a more rational sexual fulfillment with notions of perverse lust. I berated myself for not having had the presence of mind to take more advantages with my wife’s dead body while I’d been alone with it. Time and again, I brought myself to ejaculation from the overwhelming erotic power of the vile urges that were in my head.

I became confused by the intimacy I’d experienced with my wife during our marriage and the foul deed I’d done to her after her death. I wanted to relive it all, but memory and fantasy became jumbled. I wanted my mouth again on her slick, swollen labia with her stiff clitoris, the tiny captive of my tongue. Or my fingers pushing deep into her secret holes. I even wanted the tighter posterior one, a thing I would never have asked from her in life. I wanted to “relive” things I’d never done with her! I wanted to experience that torrid liberation that I knew only briefly, the feeling that her body belonged solely to my lust, that I could do with it as I wished for she was dead and couldn’t deny me.

Soon enough, the intensity of my passion increased. I started to seek the company of young whores in an effort to find release. “Just lay there, you understand?” I would say. “Don’t move. Remain motionless while I undress you. Make as if you’re dead. Then I want to do things to your body but you mustn’t make a sound.” At first, each woman would balk at my unexpected request.

I knew I must have sounded mad, as if I meant to jeopardize their bodily safety. I learned to pay the women their money in advance, while making it clear there was more money to be made if they could follow my instructions to the letter.

“You mean you expect me to lay here and let you have your way with me?” each young woman I propositioned would scoff while always, without fail, eyeing the additional money.

“Yes,” I would insist. “Don’t move and don’t make a sound.”

In the ensuing silence of the girl’s dank, putrid room, I would block out all things of the more rational world and allow my dark imagination free rein.

My literary pursuits, at long last, started to amass me a modest fortune. It was during a particularly bright period in my career that I met Eloise Whitmore. She was a decent, loving woman who was more my age, a woman who’d been tragically widowed in Richmond, and the younger sister of a writer I greatly admired. During a weekend visit to the writer’s family estate, he introduced me to Eloise.

It wasn’t long before a mutual spark of love ignited between Eloise and myself. For a time, her gentle dignity brought out the best in me. I proposed marriage. On the weekend that she accepted my hand, I fooled myself into believing I was a changed man. I was now engaged in more noble endeavors. I was through with my sickening preoccupations. No more time would I waste propositioning whores.

Though Eloise was an upstanding lady, the fact remained she was also a widow—a grown woman, well acquainted with the delights of the marriage bed. In what seemed at the time a harmless tryst—for it was understood we were soon to be married—Eloise and I decided to make love. I stole into her room late one night, where she eagerly awaited me in her bed. The rest of the household had long said goodnight. The entire house was in darkness.

In Eloise’s room, the lamp was still lit. She lay naked in among the sheets and the eiderdown. She had a robust, womanly figure that surprised and excited me. Full breasts, a voluptuous ass – so different from the young bodies to which I had become addicted. I slid into the bed beside her, kissing her ardently, entranced by her naked splendor.

She put a delicate finger to my lips to hush me. “Remember, we mustn’t lose ourselves tonight,” she whispered. “We have to be very careful. My brother’s room is right next door. We don’t want him to hear us.” Then she proceeded to accept my unbridled sexual advances. Allowing me to know her in every position, including her mouth, but keeping silent the entire time.

It was her silence that unnerved me. It was her silence that baited me, even while I understood its necessity. It triggered the dark passion in me and provoked me to challenge her. I began to put her through her paces roughly, to see if I might elicit so much as a moan from her lips. She endured all my brutish passion with a compliance that bordered on subservience. Relentlessly, I drove the thick power of my manhood into her. She accepted its full force without a whimper. I even put her through the unthinkable—introducing my member to her anally. She struggled only briefly, then acquiesced.

It soon became apparent to me that even without the formality of the marriage vows Eloise regarded me already as her lord and master. It was a heady feeling; one I hadn’t known since my first wife had died. It made Eloise Whitmore more enticing than ever. At the end of that weekend, I couldn’t wait for Eloise to be my bride.

Why then, you must be asking, did it come to this, my imminent death by poison in a charity ward when I should be enjoying my most celebrated period of literary fame? And why my inability to resist the drink, the opiates, and the lurid pull of the young whores of Baltimore, when a woman of substance, of good breeding and a respected family, was waiting in Richmond to be my devoted wife?

The paralysis now squeezes hard about my lungs, shredding my final breaths. My warden-nurse has taken my right hand in hers, her fingers pressing firmly against the faint pulse in my wrist. As my eyes remain frozen garishly open, surely lending a mask of obscene horror to my face, I know now that God will have little mercy on me after all as I depart this miserable plane.

“It was to save her, you see!” I try vainly to scream at my nurse. But no sounds come. My mouth won’t move and my tongue seems gone. My thoughts are wedged tight against the thin ledge at the back of my barely sighted eyes.

It was to save Eloise Whitmore, who was so full of life, from ever discovering what I knew I would always hunger for.

Who is it who comes now? A sudden face when all around has drifted into darkness. Listen to my tale, whoever you are. It was the body of a dead girl I cherished! It was the world between her legs! Not to marry would have been unthinkable and so I took my cousin to be my child-bride.

© – 2001 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Just Getting Ready to Figure it All Out…

Now it’s all about being a tuner, being a receiver, and allowing the signal to just come.

I’ve written this play how many times already, gang? How many times? Now I just need the best possible version of it to get itself onto the page.

I know it is all there. So I simply have to receive it.

We’ve all decided that Sandra is not going to come here to begin rehearsals on August 5th. We’ll start the rehearsals in September, in NYC. And the director wants to spend the next several weeks here, just working with me on the script. To finally nail it down.

I work well under that kind of pressure, but it is indeed pressure.

And when I say “here” I don’t mean that the director will be here in my ancient home that is from pioneer days. I mean “here” as in 20 miles from me, in his circa 1929 mansion that is just so beautiful and has more rooms in it than I can even remember (i.e., you need to consult your map to find the powder room).

So he won’t be exactly standing behind me, looking over my shoulder as I type; as I sweat, as I squirm; as I squint at the laptop screen because I refuse to wear my glasses; as I fumble with an unlit Pall Mall between my fingers — toying, for hours, with the idea of actually lighting it. Throwing it down angrily once in a while so that I can grab handfuls of my unwashed hair or rub the skin right off my forehead and say: Think, Marilyn, think! There’s got to be a better word here. Fucking find it already. Jesus fucking Christ!

No. He’ll more likely be drinking a whisky, neat, while sitting out on his sprawling veranda, admiring the 3-acre view of rolling lawns and sweeping trees, while listening to the birds and the gentle tick-tock of the grandfather clock coming through the screen door  from the vestibule; yes, just sipping whisky and silently awaiting more stellar pages to arrive from me. Where are those stellar pages? he might wonder from time to time, as he looks at his pocket watch, the sun setting serenely in the west…

That kind of pressure.

Anyway. I do work well under pressure. But it does mean that, yet again, Peitor and I cannot do any work today on our micro-script for Abstract Absurdity Prods. 3 weeks in a row now. So that bothers me.  But he still has his hands full with exhausting familial/ elderly parents/ obligation stuff out there in West Hollywood. I guess maybe it’s a needed “switching of gears” for both of us right now.

On the topic of short films, though. On Fridays, I get the weekly email from Short of the Week, which always includes about 5 or 6 short films in various categories.  Not to be snarky, or anything, but I rarely find anything that truly blows me away. I still watch them for the editing, the camera angles, the shots, the locations – that kind of thing. How filmmakers are best utilizing these things for short films.

Yesterday, however, there were actually 2 films included in the weekly round-up that I absolutely loved.  Both were Asian-American influenced themes. One Korean-American: Koreatown (12 mins).

Synopsis:  At a discreet host bar in Los Angeles, Kyeong uses his talent and charm to create the illusion of love for the women who hire him. When a new client pays him for a “2nd round,” Kyeong discovers too late that behind her kindly demeanor lies a disturbing request. Watch it online here.

And the other one, Chinese-American: Kiss of the Rabbit God (14 mins).

Synopsis: A film about an ordinary restaurant worker’s extraordinary sexual awakening. Nightly visits from the Rabbit God, who arrives in the body of a tantalizing mysterious stranger, blossom into a tryst that empowers the young man to embark on a journey of self-discovery.  Watch it online below:

Beyond that, what I really wanted to do yesterday was stream old episodes of The Flintstones on my iPad and lie around on my bed, delighting in the absurdity of all that old stuff.

However, under the above-mentioned circumstances, that seemed like a usage of my time that might be a wee bit hard to justify right at this particular juncture. So, watching The Flintstones (see yesterday’s post), I guess, will have to wait…

That said! I gotta scoot and get going on some new stellar pages.

Oh, wait! Two things. I never mentioned that my new passport photo was, yes, even more hideous than my new driver’s license photo! A feat that I didn’t think was humanly possible. And I get to keep it for 10 years….

And also: the Summer Sale at Smashwords ends in 5 days. So if you haven’t already downloaded my eBook titles over there (for free), you have 5 more days to do that in. Titles included are: The Muse Revisited Vols. 1-3; Freak Parade; and Twilight of the Immortal.  The links are above, under “About Marilyn Jaye Lewis”. (Only Smashwords-linked titles are free; Amazon is not.)

All righty! Now I’m really outta here. Thanks for visiting, gang! I love you guys. See ya!

Image result for the flintstones


Absolutely 100% For Real, Done!

I finally finished the final edit, final re-write, final everything on Blessed By Light and it is done, gang.

I am just so pleased with it. I have the best Muse ever, and I just feel so blessed. What a strange little book it is but I really, really love it.

And continued thanks to all of you who keep downloading the eBooks at Smashwords. At this point, I know it’s people who probably aren’t even coming to this blog, unless of course, you all like to download the exact same books over & over & over.

But, still, thanks.

In fact, I remember the long ago days when each of those stories in those erotic “Muse” collections was brand new, and I would finish  writing one of them — it was always a great feeling. And a really great feeling when the story got sold.

The thrill of getting that letter from a publisher that said, “We are happy to inform you…” (Back then it was actual letters, not emails.)

In fact, I only wrote one short story – a really early one – that didn’t eventually get sold, gang. So if you are still new to your own writing career, just hang in there and keep believing in yourself. It all eventually comes to pass.

(And eventually the letters became, “Dear Ms. Lewis, We know how busy you are, but we are writing to ask you if you’d be willing to contribute” etc., etc.)

So, yeah, it’s a beautiful world!!

Okay, I’m gonna go collapse for a few minutes! Thanks for visiting!!

I leave you with my current favorite song for my Muse! (Honestly, I can’t stop playing this song, gang. I think this is gonna go down as the best year in my life.)