Kinky Scribbles installment five! This writing exercise has been so immensely helpful to me as a tool to break past my anxieties as a writer.
I make notes about how long it took me to write and edit because I’m trying to recalibrate my sense of when something is “done enough” to share.
In the past I would write a thing and leave it in my files to collect dust because I was convinced it needed some unknowable quantity of edits, a goal with constantly shifting measures of success. When I limit myself to a scribble, the path becomes so much clearer. It’s been really good practice for me, so I’m going to keep it up for the foreseeable future.
And far more sincere thanks to my friend Dick, the Micro Giant, who let me roleplay this little comfort scene off and on today to work through these feelings.
Ten minutes. Just a scribble. Let go of whatever you think this needs to be, Elle. Just write.
(Ten minutes turned into an hour and a half of writing, with another half hour of edits. I never know if I should feel pleased at my accomplishment when this happens, or annoyed with my inability to keep my projects small. I do feel really good about this one, though.)
Kinky Scribbles: Body Pillow
(M/f, male Giant, female tiny, shrinking, cuddles, comfort) 1020 words, est. 1.5 hours of writing, 0.5 hours of editing
I have had the good luck to end up with a writing coach for the month of January, and she’s helping me figure out ways to lower the stakes of writing more often, both for erotica and for my mainstream projects.
Step one is to attempt what I’m calling “writing scribbles” that will be quick, short, relatively unplanned, and can have only one round of edits before sharing with the world.
This is basically what I achieved many times over with Tumblr’s format, and what I’ve been avoiding with my shiny personal website for the last year. As if I went from a commuter train full of conversations with friends and acquaintances I see regularly, to a personal vehicle where I make all the decisions of where to go, and I do it alone, and have to roll down the window or deliberately invite people inside to talk to them. It’s clunky, lonely, and it feels like the stakes are higher (silly ideas about identity, success, connection) if I decide to go in the wrong direction or say the wrong thing.
Fuck the wrong thing. Nothing is wrong–it’s either unethical, painful, uncomfortable, or various shades of awkward. I might regret a thing, but who cares? It’s on my website, and I’m in control of whether or not it continues to see the light of day. I’m going to take the steps to make sure it’s as ethical as I can make it, by offering tags and informed consent and giving credit to other writers and artists. As for pain, that can heal. Discomfort and awkwardness are also hallmarks of change and growth. Nobody ever made progress or created something wonderful by staying 100% comfortable.
Scribbles can be drawing, writing, any kind of creative art. The point is that it has to be quick, simple, and low-stakes.
At this point in my process, I’m not allowed to turn it into a big thing or make extra work for myself with extra ideas. I’m not adding it to my mainstream works. I’m sticking to kinky content only, because it’s the one kind of writing that brings me the most joy and escapism right now. And also because it’s a way to keep my scope small.
Ironically for someone with size dysmorphia, I have no idea how to keep my ideas and goals small.
I know how to “go big or go home” in other parts of my life, but over the years I’ve let it become too overwhelming with writing because I get cloudy with assumptions of what it means to be a writer and what it means to be “enough.” (Fuck you very much, Impostor Syndrome.) Even discussing the scribbles concept with the coach and how to fit 10 minutes into my schedule a week, I quickly morphed the discussion into how I could carve out 30 minutes a day, every day. When she pointed that out and reminded me that I am already enough regardless of how many minutes I can or can’t put into my schedule right now, I burst into tears.
Fuck going big all the time, fuck that overachiever mindset that’s burned me out so many times. Fuck the toxic productivity culture of never believing I’m enough.
I want to learn how to go small. I’m a sizeshifter, damnit. This is a skill I can develop, just like any other. I just need to find a way to show up and do the work without self-sabotaging all my efforts with last-minute deadline scrambles and other misguided attempts at staying comfortably far away from risk and failure.
“It’s magic,” Irena whispered. She, too, ran a finger down Mora’s tiny body and the tiny woman felt more beautiful under their shared gaze than she had in years. She felt strangely powerful, in spite of her size… She felt drunk on the feeling, as if the rational part of her were willingly taking a back seat to the glorious rush of pleasure and power.
“And so, shrunk down, strapped to a tiny dildo, little more than decoration for a party she should have been hosting, Mora shuddered and spasmed and cried out with her first orgasm of the day.”
Hello, my lovelies! One of my goals for the new year is to share more imperfect writing, so today I’m sharing a Winter Solstice gift: a 10K word sizeplay story featuring lesbian sex at a holiday party, succubus magic, shrinking, objectification, mind control, humiliation, dubcon, unaware, scissoring, mouthplay, insertion, and more.
🎵it’s the most wonderful time of the year🎵
(because I can trance you to think you’re holiday decor and have you loop thrusting yourself on a dildo like the most nsfw and prettiest ornament on my tree❤️💚❤️💚)
I wrote it in one marathon writing session, and I’m deliberately giving it to you after only two hours of editing today. Why? Because stories that collect digital dust in my files don’t bring pleasure to anyone. Editing is good, but editing as a way to postpone being vulnerable is not serving my goals as a writer. I have to learn that it’s better to let them go before I’m completely satisfied. (I’ll never be completely satisfied.) In an effort to re-calibrate my sense of “this is good enough to release into the wild,” I’m going to share more content with deliberately fewer rounds of editing. I’m tired of holding back, so I’m going to let myself be imperfect. It seems like the only way forward.
One other thing holding me back is that I know I will need content for Kindle once I begin publishing. I write a story and stare at it, deliberating. Should I post it to my website and share it for free? Should I hold onto it and polish it more and publish it on Kindle? Or is it possible that maybe, just maybe, these questions are keeping me frozen in place, not sharing content or moving closer to my goal of publication?
This story is a little messy. It’s a little dark, because I was in a dark place when I wrote it, and all I wanted was to be owned and objectified and to lose myself in pleasing someone else. There were parts I considered cutting, parts I think need more polish and clarity.
But you know what? Sex is messy, too. I have never had a single experience of perfect sex, and if I had waited for perfection I would have missed so many wonderful, beautiful, intense moments of intimacy and connection with real, genuine, messy, and sexy people. I would never have had any sex at all, and sex is one of my favorite pastimes! So. Fuck perfection. Have some free erotica.
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