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Catching Up With Myself

After a few weeks of running around — conference, Berlin, New York — I’m home again at San Francisco…

~ Trying to put my thoughts and memories in order.

~ Trying to get back on schedule: And I’m sure you’ll permit me an ironic little ha! when I remind you that I’m supposed to be posting to this blog on Tuesdays and Fridays. And you’ll know I’ve shed the last of the jet lag when I’m back to working in real time.

~ Trying to get back on Weight Watchers. I only gained 0.6 pounds while we were away — yesssss!!! — and we ate some great food. Come back soon and I’ll tell you where in Berlin you can go to eat it too. And wish me luck on my last 6.8 pound trudge on my journey toward Goal, lots of it done on the treadmill at Valencia Street Muscle, my wonderful neighborhood gym.

~ Trying to begin to publicize The Edge of Impropriety — it comes out this November, which isn’t so far away, so I guess I can start by sending you to my latest contest, which entails reading a sneak peek excerpt from this forthcoming novel about secrets and sensuality; eros, esthetics and empire.

~ Trying to pull together my reflections about erotic writing. Again. Still. And no, I haven’t forgotten that I still owe you the second half of my response to AgTigress’s take on the difference between erotica and pornography. Truth is, after I wrote the first half here, I decided I needed to go back and pick up a book I’d set aside a decade or so ago when I decided it was time to write Safe Word. Which was the right decision for then — but now I need to think about the information in Walter Kendrick’s The Secret Museum: Pornography in Modern Culture. Which I did finally read, in Berlin. It’s terrific, and I’ll be telling you more about it. And erotica, pornography, narrative, “story,” and a few other things before I’m done.

~ And (last but not least) by trying to get back to work on The Next Project. Which I’m not going to tell you about — though I don’t promise not to hint — but which is exciting me. And which, hopefully, will be the armature around which all my other time will shape itself.

In an unfolding present, where I hope that I and my reflections will soon feel at home again.

(oh, and the photograph, btw, is by the great, great Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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