recrudescence: (naughty words)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 03:20pm on 06/08/2007 under
Why is there no acceptable way to refer to a man's testicles?

Testicles itself is too clinical to work for me. Balls, sac, and any variation thereof just sound childish, and nothing kills a mood faster than that. Scrotum kind of makes me cringe, but I've used it once or twice when there was no way around it.

Normally, I go for the elided approach (e.g. "fingers slowly cupping lower" and similar pussyfooting) and hope people get it.

There's never going to be any resolution to the eternal debate over the best way to refer to a penis or a vagina. But at least both of those have lengthy lists of alternatives unfurling behind them. Testicles? Not so much. There are plenty of people who still can't swallow get behind grudgingly accept cock as the most apparently tolerable euphemism for penis. Until rather recently, I couldn't read the word balls without wincing. And I really don't want to be one of those writers who chucks in a hair-raising word halfway through a sex scene and loses half the audience.

Maybe I should write about eunuchs.
recrudescence: (downcast wilson)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 02:01am on 03/07/2007 under ,
I can't sleep, so I'm drinking Vanilla Coke Zero, which tastes absolutely foul, but damn it, if I'm up, I'm plowing straight on till morning.

Inidentally, following up that "who am I fooling?" question? Heh. A: Not a damn soul.

That one meeting, on Thursday? I was so proud of myself for getting there and figuring out the parking system on time that I didn't realize till afterward, when I couldn't find my keys, that they were in my car. Which was still running. Oh, yeah. Never locked my keys in the car in my life, so apparently karma decided to make up for lost time. I spent most of the afternoon fiddling with a coat hanger donated from a maintenance man's dry cleaning, whipping out my bobby pin to poke at one of the locks, and letting my coworker snap a few photos of me perched on the trunk like a reject from corporate Vogue. Then AAA came and my boss was all, "Hey, at least this didn't happen halfway down the driveway at the Singaporean embassy!" and I got gas and did not have a dead battery and all was right with the world.

Such are the adventures of Fritz, the Faithful Focus that Could, and his dunce of a driver, yours truly.

Writer's block is still horrible. Is it typical to go months without feeling any pride in one's writing? Lately, I feel like all I've turned out is half-formed gibberish. And now, because I am a true temperamental artiste, I'm doing really cliche things like letting it keep me up at night, clutching a pillow, and waiting for the universe to tell me I don't completely fail at everything.

Vanilla Coke Zero is totally not a tragically artistic drink, but it's the best I can do.

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