I'm not bad...

I thought I went a little highbrow yesterday. So I have the need to set the record straight.

I’m coming clean. I’m stripping down. I’m going to tell you one of my treasured truths. Or one of my most bruise-like secrets: I’m a drop-out.

I got into all six colleges of my choice. I was one of the top students at my high school (no easy feat—there were 475 kids in my class). Yet I hated nearly every moment at the University. I dropped out, went back, did time at LACC (which I loved) and Santa Monica Junior College (which I flitted through). I think officially I dropped out of UCLA three times before finally saying Fuck it.

So I’m not so highbrow at all.

There are simply some things I like. Herrick. And Warhol. Hopkins. And Baudelaire. I read almost anything I can get my hands on, and I try to learn from each uncomfortable situation I find myself floundering in. But I couldn’t make it through school.

I’m a wise ass, so I did well when a teacher wanted a change. In an art history class, we had to write a paper stating whether two ancient pieces of Chinese pottery were art or artifact. My paper focused on how difficult it was to locate the damn pitchers—down a corridor, under the stairs—so I decided the duo must be artifact. That teacher liked me. A+.

In a Greek History class, we had to write a 100-word description on a character from the Iliad or Odyssey. I wrote a personal advertisement for Zeus: “Married Greek God seeks lithe wood nymph…” My paper was read aloud in a room of 500 students as an example of how to fail the class. C-

I wrote a folklore paper on my parents’ open marriage—A+—and an English comp paper about my first threesome—D. That one started “I was in jeopardy. Double jeopardy. And from the looks Alex Trebek kept shooting me, I knew my chances weren’t so good.”

For years, I’ve felt embarrassed by not having the drive on to finish my degree. My folks both have their graduate degrees from Harvard. I grew up outside Stanford, surrounded by intellectuals. My best friends went to Brown, Yale, the Rhode Island School of Design, Amherst, Oxford.

And then there’s me.

My saving grace? I’ve always worked. At beauty salons and vintage movie theaters. On newspapers and at bookstores. I’ve answered phones and tasted the coffee for my boss to make sure it was exactly the right temperature (if that’s not a Dom/sub move, I don’t know what is).

But we’ve come this far, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.

XXX,
Alison

INSERT SEX SCENE HERE

I’d like to tear out a page of my date book and post it here.
Except I don’t use a date book.

I scribble notes on scraps of paper, on the backs of business cards, on the tops of receipts. Generally, I don’t miss deadlines. I have a little internal calendar that either coos softly in my ear or nags like a motherfucker. But now, I am racing towards a Friday 5:00 p.m. deadline, scrambling to make sure I have all of my contracts in house, and re-reading stories I adore—but not for pleasure this time, for punctuation.

As a copyeditor, I’d give myself a B, maybe a B+. Usually, I know if something is spelled incorrectly. Often, I sense if a verb (oh, my fucking god, “lie”) is misused. But mistakes do slip by. I believe proofing galleys is the toughest part of my job because I worry that I’ll miss some glaring in-your-face error. Mistakes happen all the time. In a Virgin collection, my name is spelled Alsion. In one of my PTP books, I left off Rachel Kramer Bussel’s bio. In a story I wrote for Violet, my character’s panties changed color from blue to white.

A reader wrote to me awhile back taking me to task for that damn “lie” word. In one of my collections (and you’ll have to buy them all and read all the stories, because I will never tell which) the word is used wrong twice. This pulled said reader right out of the book. I offered her money back, but she never responded. I felt bad, I think. Maybe I felt badly. (Joking!)

In an early collection I edited, a writer stated that Closer to God was by Nirvana, not NIN. That got passed me somehow, but I fixed the error in the second reprint. I had one irate letter for a musician on that.

The most famous mistake I can think of dates from when I wrote for Masquerade: A book was published with the words (all in caps) INSERT SEX SCENE HERE.

I don’t remember who wrote the novel, but I do know that I would have been mortified if one of mine had escaped with that phrase. You’ve seen my notes . It’s why I generally write everything on paper. Or I put little marks in the book, like XXX, to search and check later on. (Often, I need to make sure my characters’ eye color hasn’t shifted.)

I’m not using this post to ask you to send me mistakes you’ve caught in my work. Because that will make me cry. And I’m on the very edge as it is. But do you have any favorite stories of errors in your own, or in works you’ve read?

Today, I have a meeting that's got me all nervous. I need to look professional, to polish up my bio, and to practice walking in my brand-new shoes.

Damn, I really ought to buy a date book!

XXX,
Alison

But I think I've just made the biggest mistake of my life
And I think I've just made the biggest mistake of my life
—Rolling Stones

Ah the sheer joy...

As promised, here is the review of LAFS in UK Forum. The opening is on the bottom of one page, and the bulk is below (click the pic to enlarge). I'm typing in the start of the review:

Ah, the sheer joy of being tied down and having all manner of deliciously appalling things done to you! That's the feeling which the contributors to this anthology of bondage-based short stories are striving to recreate—and when they do, the results...



The book also recently won a lovely review on erotica revealed. You'll need to scroll down to read it, and on your way, you can peruse the review of Cross-Dressing edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

XXX,
Alison

A Must Read

Sweet review news today. I received two brilliant reviews in UK Forum. One is for B is for Bondage and the other for Love at First Sting. If you click the image, you should be able to read the piece.

XXX,
Alison