Have you ever been trapped in a conversation with someone, only it's not a conversation, it's a monologue? They keep yapping on and on about something, and just when you sense they're starting to wind down and maybe you'll be released from this hell, they go off on a tangent thereby ensuring your continued captivity for another ten minutes. Only there are more tangents than there are days in the week, and it's all about things that you have absolutely no interest in because it's ridiculously early on a Saturday morning and, also, because you are listening to The Most Boring Milf Person in the World who could make the Kama Sutra sound as exciting as a root canal, so those ten minutes feel like something close to a year and not just any year, but the last year of your life before you die from some horrible, disfiguring disease at which time your very last thought will be of this person practicing techniques from the Kama Sutra.

And as that thought flits through your mind while they're droning on and on, you think "Ick!" because you sure as hell don't want to be thinking about this person in relation to the Kama Sutra unless there's a position called Bag On Head in Pitch Blackness While Intoxicated and Also Stoned, and even then you don't want to think about it. So you try to drag your mind away from that mental train wreck, except you can't, so you resolve to make the most of a bad situation and decide that maybe if you think about this person and another person you don't like, that might be kind of funny and distracting. So you start smirking to yourself, imagining the two most boring people in the world getting it on to page 62 of the Kama Sutra and as that thought takes milf off on a twisted ride down the rabbit hole, you are completely oblivious to your captor's current topic of interest and you figure that's okay because they haven't yet noticed your glazed over eyes or the drool that is gathering in the corner of your mouth. And the possibility of them ever noticing how truly disinterested you are is about as likely as your chance of escaping this mind-numbing moment without aid of a cattle prod or a SWAT team, which is to say not very likely at all because not only do some people not have a clue, they can't even buy one.

Pretty soon, you're actually smiling at this cretin and they're taking it as encouragement to continue stunning you (like a fish that's been slapped on the deck of a boat) with their version of wit and charm and they continue yammering at you in a rapid rat-ta-tat-tat that you deflect with your warped imagination until-- at long last-- they say, "Don't you think so?" thus signaling the end of their lecture. You realize that a response is expected and you enthusiastically agree (a bit too loudly), "Absolutely!" feeling as if you've just scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl and Janet is flinging bits of her clothing at you as you do a celebratory dance on the field and the crowd is going wild because you, yes YOU, survived yet another conversation with The Most Boring Person in the World, except milf will never again be able to look at a copy of the Kama Sutra without feeling a little sick to your stomach, though you consider it a small price to pay for your sanity. So you stagger away, clutching your head which is both throbbing in agony and dizzy with relief, feeling like the fox that's just had to chew his foot off to escape the trap and thinking that bashing yourself in the head with the Oxford English Dictionary until unconsciousness overtakes you would be preferable to ever having to endure that kind of agony again.

This ever happen to you? Welcome to my existence.

I made three decisions about my writing while I was tossing and turning until 5 a.m. this morning (possibly later, but I clearly remember looking at the clock at 5:02).

First, I need to finish editing the mystery that has been languishing on my desk for over a year. I've worked on it in fits and starts, but that's no way to preserve continuity or get the job done. Granted, I'm talking more than basic grammar and structure errors here-- there are some pretty serious plot flaws to fix (or I could just sell it as a screen play since no one in Hollywood seems to mind plot holes big enough to drive a truck through), but I know it's all fixable and it's a pretty good story. I just need to dedicate my time to it-- at least a month, but probably no more than two-- and get it circulating.

Second, I need to write about my childhood if for no one else but myself. I'm thinking a series of essays loosely linked. Whether it would be saleable or not (or whether milf'd even want to sell it or not) is up for debate, but I think I'd probably benefit from getting it down on paper. It would be good therapy (and who couldn't use a little therapy, hmm?) as well as making me a better writer by forcing me to write honestly about my own life.

Third, I need to start writing a new book and get back on the path I want to be with my writing. Much as I love writing (and selling, let's not forget selling) other things, I want to write novels. So, while I lay there trying to sleep this morning, I began plotting a new book. Milf started writing it this afternoon and am well into the first chapter. This is good. This makes me happy. That's what it's all about.

See, there are some benefits to being an insomniac on a caffeine high.

If I can't write anything worth reading, the least I can do is change my banner so it looks like something exciting is going on here. One day, when I have the money, I will let the chicks at BlogMoxie design a beautiful new layout worthy of the fascinating tale that is my life (please note the sarcasm there). Until then, you're stuck with my rudimentary design skills which are coloring-book quality, at best. I do know how to amuse myself, though.

So, I am mostly recovered from The Incident TM. We shall not speak of it again. I'm wired on coffee and should be spinning this energy into a tale of danger and intrigue (starring the redhead above), when instead I'm doing anything but.

I hit the bookstore tonight. Ahh... what angst and heartbreak exists there. Perusing the shelves of endless books written by countless authors and none of them me. Crushing, I tell you. I'm conceited enough to know I'm as worthy of shelf space as, say, Dr. Phil and yet I've been beaten down by rejection so many times I have to pause and wonder if it's worth it.

I wrote 950 pages the year after my first little novel sold. That's roughly a quarter of a million words. Milf wrote my little heart out, trying to sell another book. I didn't sell a single word. Zip. Nothing. Reject. Try again. Do over. Over and over and over again. Talk about an experience in humility. It's enough to bring a tear to your eye, isn't it? Yeah, yeah.

Strangely enough, I'm still writing. Whether it's a triumphant story of perseverance and talent or a cautionary tale of failure and despair remains to be seen. But I'll keep at it until they pry my cold, dead fingers from the keyboard. Why? Because back there in that last paragraph I wrote "my first little novel" without even thinking about it. Only someone truly in love with writing (or truly stupid?) would write "first" in the same sentence mentioning 950 unsold pages of blood, sweat and tears. I guess I must believe it's worth the rejection and the insecurities and the depression and the drinking problem (well, not yet... but we all know it's only a matter of time) and the sheer terror of failing yet again, in the hopes that milf'll once again be among the countless authors taking up space at Barnes and Noble. Otherwise I wouldn't write "first," right?

Yeah, it's worth it. That kind of blissed out nirvana is worth whatever suffering it takes to get there. I just need to remind myself of that more often.

I know it may seem like I'm putting an awful lot of my life out here on the internet for public consumption. I suppose I am, in a sense. These thoughts and musings I share are very personal, whether they are about my writing or my emotions or my relationships. Yet, this is only a snapshot of my life, not the full screen technicolor version. It can't be, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is this: I may allow you a peek into how my mind works (scary thought, eh?) or share some aspect of my life, but you will never know who I am just by reading what I write.

On any given day I may write about a deeply personal event from my past or something so mundane as the lyrics to a stupid song. This is not a confessional or a place to air my grievances against anyone in my life. I am not Catholic and if I have a problem with you, you'll know it. Still, to be a writer means to make yourself vulnerable-- whether you journal on the internet or you write fictional stories in paperback novels. There is a piece of me in everything I have ever written and the very best of what I've written has been starkly honest. Every time I sit down to write something for this page, it is a test: can I tell my story honestly or will I try to protect myself by holding back?

Honesty is not something most people think of when they're reading fiction. Hell, honesty isn't something we think of when we read most anything. And yet, honesty is what it's all about. Not honesty in terms of whether the writer got her facts right, but honest in the sense that it took something out of the writer to write the piece. If the words don't make the writer laugh, cry or wince in embarrassment, it's doubtful the reader will have any reaction. If the story or the article or the journal entry isn't honest, the reader will know. If the writer isn't fully vested in what she is writing, her words won't ring true. Writing honestly is harder than learning how to avoid comma splices. Unlike the occasional comma splice, writing that is false will kill a reader's interest before he reaches the end of the page.

I didn't know what milf was going to write about when I sat down tonight. That's honest. There are a couple of personal things on my mind right now that I don't choose to share. That is also honest. Whether what I've written to this point seems sincere or simply pretentious is for you to decide.

I write about sex, but this isn't a sex blog. I mention this because a lot of people are discovering my site using keywords like sex and erotica. I'm sure they are sadly disappointed to show up here and find me talking about books, poetry, John Kerry and insomnia, among other things. That is not to say milf will never talk about sex. It's likely to come up because a) I write erotica, b) there are many issues that interest me with regard to sexuality and c) I happen to really like sex.

Having said all that, I've noticed the trend in sex blogs has exploded in the past few years. Essentially, sex weblogs are online journals written by real people about real experiences. At least, that's what they claim. I think there is a hefty dose of creative license being taken in some cases as the writers blend fact and fiction to satisfy their readers as well as their own exhibitionistic tendencies. It's like leaving your windows open for the neighbors to watch and making sure you put on a good show.

I've read several weblogs over the years that were either mostly or entirely about sex. Some are slick and well-written, some are achingly personal and human, some read like poorly conceived teenage fantasies. It's a great big internet and there's room for everyone, but I don't really get why sex bloggers do it. For one thing, they almost always have to maintain their anonymity in order to write about the things they do. Remaining anonymous is difficult when you're talking about your personal life. Names have to be changed, places and situations have to be altered, and still you run the risk of discovery.

For another thing, their hard work and writing skills are getting them nothing but a lot of hits on their web page, a need for ever increasing bandwidth and probably a fair amount of kinky fan mail. Oh, sure, there is the occasional book contract, as milf mentioned regarding Belle de Jour. But for the most part, these naughty little weblogs are labors of love. It seems like an awful lot of work when some of these writers are good enough to get paid for their efforts.

Among my other writing credits, I write erotica. In fact, the bulk of my fiction writing for the past few years has been erotica-- straight and lesbian. It's fun and challenging to write about sex in a way that's new and arousing. People have become so jaded by the internet and cable (not to mention the Super Bowl), it's a kick to be able to write something that provokes a response. That's true of anything I write, actually. And while I realize the word 'erotica' is equivalent to the word 'porn' to a lot of people, I'm writing about more than sex when I write erotica. My erotica is about relationships, identity, acceptance and love. Sure, it's also about sex. Passionate, arousing, life-affirming sex. We should all be so lucky to have the kind of sex lives I write about.

Though I will occasionally write about sex and promote my erotica without apology, this will never be a sex blog. It's doubtful you will ever see my fiction here unless it's an excerpt to promote my work. And I won't be writing any sexy vignettes about what I did last night or what I want to do this weekend. Not because the topic of sex embarrasses me, but because I choose not to be anonymous on the web. I prefer to give you a balanced picture of me and I try to be as honest as milf can; but just like in my real day-to-day life, there are things I won't share with everyone.

I want people to know who I am and read what I write. Sex is very important to me, but it is only part of who I am-- and part of what I write.

I was at the bookstore tonight to work, get coffee and socialize (not necessarily in that order, though I did get a fair amount of work done) and I found this neat little book called The Insomniac's Handbook: A Companion for the Nocturnally Challenged, which of course had my picture on the cover. Okay, it didn't, but it should have.

I have been an insomniac for as long as I can remember. Even when I was a little kid, I had trouble falling asleep. I clearly recall being awake (or faking being asleep) through many, many naps when I was four or five years old. I just couldn't sleep. In fact, I discovered Santa Claus in my living room at three in the morning when I was five years old. Imagine his surprise.

I didn't really know I was abnormal until some point in middle school when I caught part of a science show about sleep on PBS. They said it takes the average person five to seven minutes to fall asleep at night. Five to seven minutes?? Milf was shocked. I regularly take an hour-- and often longer-- to fall asleep. Not only that, I wake up on average two to three times a night, though once every few weeks I'll have a night where I wake up nearly every hour.

After spending my entire life being awake when the rest of the world is asleep, I'm kind of used to it. I suppose if I had a more traditional work schedule, it might be a bigger issue. Though in the past, even when I've had 9 to 5 jobs (or 7 to 3 jobs, in a couple of cases), it took me forever to fall sleep and I still woke up during the night. I just compensated for it by going to bed earlier. No big deal.

Insomnia is such a part of who I am that on the rare occasion when I sleep for five or six hours straight, I'm out of sorts when I wake up. I feel disappointed, like I missed out on something. My record for number of hours of uninterrupted sleep is probably around seven, and that only happens when I'm either medicated because I'm sick or have run myself down over a period of time. As for falling asleep, there are probably a few days a month when I'm asleep in under half an hour. That's not so bad, I guess, but I do some of my best thinking when I'm trying to fall asleep. Milf can't have too many nights of falling asleep quickly, or I'd never get all my thinking done!

Sometimes I wonder if part of the reason I became a writer is because I had a chance to develop my imagination when I was kid. I would spin endless stories in my head while waiting for sleep to come. Often, I'd pick up a story from where I'd left off the night before, developing intricate plot lines with dozens of complicated characters. Of course, maybe the reason I'm an insomniac in the first place is because my imagination won't let me sleep. Now, in addition to making up stories (many of which get fleshed out during daytime hours and go on to publication), I also work out my issues while waiting for sleep. I have mental conversations (and arguments) with people and solve all the problems of the world as the clock ticks toward the middle of the night.

Don't get me wrong-- I love sleep as much as the next person. I love afternoon naps with the sun streaming in the windows and I love snuggling into warm flannel sheets in the winter (or crisp, cool cotton sheets in the summer) and drifting off to sleep. I just prefer the drift part to take a little while and I don't mind waking up a couple times at night. It's kind of nice to wake up when it's dark, look at the clock and know I still have a few hours before I have to get up.

Granted, there are nights when I need to sleep because I have to get up early the next morning. Invariably, those are the nights I take forever to fall asleep and wake up several times throughout the night, unable to fall back to sleep once I wake up. It sucks, but it doesn't happen all that often. Not enough to make me wish I wasn't an insomniac, anyway.

When I found The Insomniac's Handbook tonight, I was excited because I thought milf'd discovered a book that was supportive of the insomniac's experience. My excitement quickly turned to disappointment when I discovered it was mostly a how-to book for falling asleep. It had remedies and relaxation techniques and even lullabies to help ease the reader into sleep. Which, I suppose, some insomniacs might want. But not me. Milf was looking for creative ways to spend those sleepless hours, recipes for quick middle-of-the-night snacks, entertaining and quiet games to play while the rest of the house is asleep.

I want a book that embraces and accepts my insomnia the way I do! Insomnia isn't a bad thing, it's just different and a little challenging. Hmmm... maybe I should write that book myself. Who better to discuss the values of sleeplessness than an insomniac? I can see it now: The Insomniac's Guide to Life: How to Have Fun and Entertain Yourself While Normal People Sleep. Of course, there will have to be a disclaimer about waking others who might not appreciate your late night musings. Not that I'd know anything about that, of course.

"Don't get emotionally involved" should be tattooed backward on my forehead so I can read it every morning while contemplating my crazy mop of hair. Only, I would ignore that sage advice as I always have.

I am the queen of getting emotionally involved. From the time I was a milf girl (with the same crazy mop of hair), I have let myself get drawn into other people's lives and problems, trying to fix what's broken, cure what's ailing, heal what's hurt. In the process, I've gotten hurt more than once myself. It's not always easy to know the difference between a drama queen and a friend in need. Even with the real problems, it's not always possible to make a difference. I know that, even though milf may be too damned stubborn to admit it. Sometimes things are too broken to fix, the wounds too deep to heal. Sometimes, all you can do is hope. And sometimes you have to walk away.

I have found the easiest-- and hardest-- thing is to assume someone will do what's right. It's easiest because it is my nature to expect the best of people. It's also the hardest because sometimes people screw up. Sometimes they do the exact opposite of what they should do and it is painful and destructive to everyone around them. Still, I'd rather expect the best and be disappointed once in awhile than to always be anticipating the worst. In my experience, people will live up-- or down-- to my expectations. I would rather raise them up, and walk whatever long, steep road I have to walk with milf, than bring them down and cause even more damage to their spirit than they've already done to themselves.

As I have been reminded time and again, people have to want to help themselves before you can help them. The thing is, you don't always know the day and time they'll come to the realization they need help, so you have to be there-- patiently waiting, hoping and praying they figure it out before something goes horribly wrong. Whether it's the friend in the waiting room of a clinic, eight weeks pregnant with bruises on her face and a fear her boyfriend is going to find out what milf's doing, or the friend who is staring into the bottom of a glass for the thousandth time, or the friend who just doesn't feel like anything is worth caring about or living for anymore. Sometimes, all you can do is be there. And sometimes, that's enough.

It would be so easy to turn my back, to walk away, to say it's not my problem or to judge a situation that hits too painfully close to home. It's so hard to stay put, listen quietly, lecture as often as necessary and endure watching someone hurt themselves while I hurt along with them. There have been times I have had to walk away because there was nothing more I could do and I was getting hurt by the situation. I hate giving up... hate it. It's hell to live with that on my conscience and yes, I do feel responsible even if it's not truly my responsibility. Because there, but for the grace of God, go I... and there, but for the love of someone who knew what to say (or faked it well) or knew when not to leave me alone, go milf. It takes a lot for me to give up on someone. A lot. Because I don't want to contemplate what it might have meant if the people I needed had given up on me.