Dysgra-what now?

Writing. It is my bread and butter. It breathe color into my life. I have constant story narration playing in my head. I eat, sleep and breathe writing. My son on the other hand...not so much.

I've known since the moment I started teaching him to form letters that something was amiss. I mean, I saw all those late night commercials with the six-month old babies who can read and write because of some miraculous learning system or website so why then couldn't I get my three year-old to trace successfully the letters of the alphabet?

When he began kindergarten his teacher looked down her pert little nose at me and told me he lacked the hand strength to properly grip the pencil and that I should have him color and model with clay as much as possible to correct the situation. There was only one problem: he hated coloring and Play-doh frustrated him. But I tried to sneak in these activities and work with him on his letter formation as much as possible.

Though he never won any awards for penmanship, he made it through first and second grade without too much trouble. Even then I noticed he avoided adding details to stories so he wouldn't have to write as much and that he consistently mixed up uppercase and lowercase letters, missed punctuation and had trouble spacing words on a page. To be honest, I chalked it up to disinterest and a lack of self-discipline. He's a boy who loves sports so he's never going to love academia, right?

In third grade, our school system switches children from penmanship paper to looseleaf paper. With smaller spaced lines, things really went downhill. Homework assignment after homework assignment came back with the words "I can't read this" or "Please write more legibly" scrawled across them.

I begged, bribed, cajoled and, yes, lost my temper on more occasions than I can count trying to convince my son to take his time with his writing, all to no avail. Homework became a nightly battleground that often ended with one or both of us in tears. I mean, he's a smart kid with a great imagination. It dumbfounded me that he seemed to refuse to use those abilities in school. Little did I know, that wasn't the case.

Things finally came to a head this summer when he was doing a math problem in his fourth grade prep workbook that required him to line up columns of numbers to calculate the correct answer. He consistently came up with the wrong answer because his numbers were so poorly formed and misaligned. I told him that this was precisely what I'd been talking about that if he didn't take the time to be neater, school would become more and more challenging. He replied, "Mom, this is the best I can do." He said it so sincerely and with such a serious expression I knew he meant it. This really was the best he could do. It was time to reach out for help.

After consulting with his pediatrician and his school, it's looking more and more like he has a mild form of dysgraphia. Dysgra-what now? Yeah, I said the same thing. Dyslexia I've heard of, but not dysgraphia. It's basically a neurological disorder where the nerve impulses from the brain that control the complex fine motor skills necessary to write get all jumbled up. It also explains why he struggled with basic milestones such as tying his shoes, doing buttons and zippers by himself and controlling a fork and spoon.

Upon hearing he has an actual physical impediment delaying his handwriting skills, I felt about two inches tall. How had I let my child struggle for years without picking up on the fact that something was genuinely wrong? His doctor kindly let me off the hook and told me that dysgraphia has only been identified in the past decade and it's not widely known. It's not something teachers look for as readily as dyslexia.

The school diagnostician assured me it's not the end of the world. "Though we'll keep working on the manual writing, most people don't write much by hand these days anyway. Typing is a totally different skill and he shouldn't have any trouble with keyboarding."

Okay, so I'm not the world's worst mother and I still find it disheartening that my son struggles with something I dearly love to do, but it helps to know that there are techniques and coping mechanisms we can use to help my son get the brilliant ideas out of his head and onto paper. Legibly :)

Find out more about dysgraphia here: http://www.ncld.org/types-learning-disabilities/dysgraphia/what-is-dysgraphia

#writing - Seven stages of book-flop grief

Hello everyone!

After a long hiatus this summer, I'm thrilled to be back at the keyboard. Just signed a spiffy new contract with Ellora's Cave for a book titled SHARING THE COURTESAN. Yay! With every new contract comes the hope that this book will go forth into the world and capture the imaginations of readers everywhere. Does that happen with every new release? Unfortunately not. In fact it doesn't happen with most published work.

Having pushed more than a twenty novels, novellas and short stories out into cyberspace, I'm no stranger to book-flop. What is book-flop, you ask? It's when all the months of writing, editing, crying, swearing and drinking (drinking coffee of course *wink, wink*) to produce a story net you very little sales. So what to do when the public doesn't love your baby as much as you do?

Step #1 - Cry. Yep, go ahead and let it out. Let's face it, no author puts out a manuscript hoping no one will like it. Well, maybe Ayn Rand, but for those of us who hope to entertain with our writing it can be a crushing blow to see that no one gave a crap about what we had to say. If you're not given to tears, then slam some doors, break some inexpensive glassware, whatever it is you do to let the frustration out.

Step #2 - Commiserate. Reach out to other authors. Writing can be lonely, isolating work. But when it comes to book-flop you are not alone. Sometimes it helps to know we've all been in the same boat.

Step #3 - Pamper yourself (or what I like to call the "wine stage"). Take a day to chill out (hence the wine), lick your wounds and do something nice for yourself.

Step #4 - Accentuate the positive. Okay, so no one showed much interest in your latest release, but don't dwell on that. Focus on the things about writing that make you feel good. Maybe it's awesome reviews from readers, maybe it's the success of past books, maybe it's the fact that you're a published author at all. I mean you DID write a book which is an accomplishment in and of itself.

Step #5 - Learn from the experience. Maybe zombie woodchuck shifters just aren't popular right now. Doesn't mean they never will be (okay, I know they never will be), so it might not be the right time to put out that sequel. Or maybe you need to shift your promo strategy and find the places that zombie woodchuck shifter fans hang out. We learn more from our failures than we do our successes.

Step #6 - Forget about it. Easier said than done, but if Babe Ruth focused on his last strikeout, he wouldn't have been in the frame of mind to hit 714 home runs.

Step #7 - Get back on the horse. Now that you've picked yourself up and dusted yourself off, get back to the keyboard and write another book. Maybe this will be the release that garners you fame and fortune...or at least a royalty check that isn't embarrassing to deposit. And if not--wash, rinse and repeat steps one through seven.

Happy writing!
Cindy

#BookBlitz #BDSM #Erotica WILDER'S FANTASIES by Cindy Jacks

Available now all in one collection!

Wilder’s Fantasies by Cindy Jacks

http://www.amazon.com/Wilders-Fantasies-ebook/dp/B00FKEFFZG/

 Fiona Wilder’s name didn’t fit her at all…until she met Marcelo. Introducing her to a world of BDSM sexual play limited only by their imaginations, he unlocks Fiona’s wildest fantasies.

 

Excerpt:

The silken blindfold cooled Fiona’s eyelids; her heart beating out a powerful cadence. Leather bindings cut into her wrists and ankles, winding across her body and snaking around her waist. More ropes held her legs akimbo.

How did I get here? Fiona asked herself. Tricky question, that one. Did she mean “here” as in stripped down to her slip and bound in the bedroom of a man who fascinated and frightened her at the same time? Or could it be that she wondered how she had evolved from Ms. Fiona Wilder, CPA and hopeless singleton to Marcelo’s preciosa, a woman who caught fire at the thought of giving over to his every desire.

No, she corrected herself, they are my desires. Marcelo made himself clear on that point. He had wined and dined her for months, putting ideas in her head that at first she found alarming. Their time together tonight wasn’t about what he wanted, but about how much she wanted to push herself. Thus far, Fiona had surprised herself with where she had allowed herself to go.

The night started with a light meal. Wine, an assortment of cheeses, artisan bread—a little snack to sate the need for food so no other physical needs interfered with the sexual appetite. Then, he took her hand and led her to the master bedroom. A darkened hallway led from the living room of his mid-town condo

She had allowed him to undress her. Taking his time, Marcelo unfastened the buttons down the front of her dress one at a time. The sleek fabric slipped over her shoulders and into a pile on the floor. Reaching beneath her slip, he slid her panties down her legs and pushed them aside with the dress. Fiona’s cheeks and ears heated at the sight of her white cotton underwear, embarrassed she hadn’t thought to buy something sexier, more sophisticated.

Marcelo freed her hair from the single pin that held it in a bun and cupped her face in his hands. His lips brushed against hers. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Do you remember what to say if you want me to stop?”

She looked into his cool blue eyes, studied the black waves along his hairline. Disbelief took hold of her very time she stopped to consider the stunning features of this man. How could someone so handsome want her? Plain, unremarkable Fiona. Ignoring the doubts that plagued her, she answered, “Strangelove.”

“That’s right.” He traced her cheekbones and jaw line with a fingertip. “If you feel at all frightened or uncomfortable, you say the word and we’ll stop.”

With great care, Marcelo set about tethering her to bronze rings that lined the wall of his bedroom. First, he hoisted her onto a barstool. Adjusting and readjusting her pose, he worked her into the perfect position: buttocks on the edge of the seat, legs and arms splayed wide open. Once satisfied, he secured various bindings, slings and clips to hold her immobilized.

Confronted with the reflection her half-naked body in the wall of mirrors across the room, her most private parts glaring back at her, she closed her eyes. Whether by design or as a reaction to her obvious discomfort, Marcelo gave her the luxury of a blindfold. Fiona relaxed a little, no longer aware of her brazen display.

And so, she found herself here, adrenaline coursing through her veins, cunt pounding a violent tattoo, dying to know what Marcelo would do next.

_________________________________
Get your copy today! http://www.amazon.com/Wilders-Fantasies-ebook/dp/B00FKEFFZG/

Julian

    

 Recently Julian has been driving me nuts.  Or, because I can’t say Julian has changed, maybe I’m driving myself nuts.

     That’s the great thing about him; he never changes. That’s Julian. Steady, polite, unchanging. He is polite to everyone, including me. Can you imagine how that feels? We’ve been together long enough and I know he loves me, but I still feel he is polite to me? Politeness is meant to be for outsiders, for strangers. I should be special, and I feel special when he opens a car door for me or holds my coat, except I know he would do exactly the same for any woman, even one he had never seen before.

     All this time, and we have never had an argument. Really. We never fight. He lets me know what he wants or how he feels and, if I disagree, he changes his ideas. He is just so reasonable it’s sickening. He says he doesn’t want to upset me, and that I have as many rights as he does, so he tries to think of something different. 

     No, I have just read what I wrote, and it not right. He doesn’t change his ideas, he just puts them on a back shelf. And he certainly does not do what I want just to please me. He is all about velvet compromise, but only up to a point. If we go to the movies, his choice is usually a complicated thriller. If I turn my nose up at that, it won’t worry him at all. He will let me choose instead, and that should be fine. Trouble is, I know if I choose an outrageous chick flick, or something about idiot vampires, he won’t enjoy it. He will sit beside me and I will know that he is simply being polite again. You have no idea how that can spoil a film! I end up compromising myself, and he will thank me by being especially considerate all evening, but I still have not seen the film that I wanted.

     Julian is intelligent and well read. I call him my encyclopaedia. If we are out with friends, he will usually be at the centre of some serious discussion about politics, science, history and people defer to him simply because he knows about stuff like that. He has strong ideas, but he never stuffs them down anyone’s throat. He is too damned polite.

     He has strong ideas about me, too. He knows how he likes me to dress and to look. I don’t have to wear the clothes he likes or keep my hair this length, but he showers me with compliments when I do, and rewards me. If I choose to wear something he dislikes, he lets me know gently (and politely) but does not mention it again. I cut my hair quite short once. I don’t know why; perhaps because other girls in the office had nice short hair or perhaps I was just feeling rebellious. When I got home I already felt nervous and believe I was even trembling when I asked him if he liked it. He sighed and said it would grow back. That was all. My hair was not mentioned again and I swear it grew back more slowly than any hair in the history of the world. I felt bad about it all the time, and I let him dress me in shorter skirts and more revealing tops than ever before. I looked like a tart and did not care. Anything to divert his attention from my hair.

     Julian likes looking at me. He is the only man I know who pays real attention to his wife’s appearance. He notices new earrings. He tells me what he thinks of my make-up, and he has a good eye for what works for my face. True, he is not at home to subtlety and I usually leave the house with more lipstick and shadow than Mother would approve, but I am noticed when I walk into a restaurant. As we sit at our table, he makes quiet comments about the other female diners. He is absolutely merciless if they have not dressed to please, and fans my ego by saying I am the only girl in the place who is not dressed like a frumpy librarian. 

     He likes watching me dress and undress. If we are going out, I am not allowed to put on my dress until the very last minute, so he can enjoy watching me trot around the house dressed in lingerie, stockings, heels, jewellery and make-up. If we are early - he cannot be late for an appointment or table reservation - he may even take me dressed just like that, in all my finery except clothes. Many times he has slipped into me as I rested on my elbows over my dressing table. We can watch each other in the mirror, and I am proud of how I look and how hungry he is for me.

     A silly thing has come up between us recently. He persuaded me to join him at an Art class. I have the artistic ability of a dormouse, but I went along, expecting to paint stylised flowers on table mats along with other women my age. The class was not like that. He signed us up for figure drawing, and we had to work hard. It was interesting, and I made some progress. I can now sketch a figure from life, although faces remain a problem. Julian had no trouble at all. Although he is an engineer at work, he quickly became the star artist in class. While the rest of us were struggling in pencil, the teacher soon had him working in charcoal and pastels, and his portfolio is impressive.

     The trouble came when he wanted to draw me, at home. Not homely portraits of wifey in the kitchen, but of me the beautiful courtesan, dressed to provoke and posed to demand attention. This portfolio contains the best work he has done so far, and it stays at home. There is absolutely no chance any of our fellow students are going to see it, or even suspect it exists.

     I really liked those portraits. It is a tremendous thrill to see myself through his eyes, to know that when he looks at me he imagines this wonderful, fantastic, sexual woman. When he completes a portrait and we sit with it on the easel and raise our glasses to it, I know I am only minutes away from another special session of love-making and the thought makes me melt.

     Then he spoilt it all by showing the secret portfolio to our teacher. We had invited him home for coffee, and when I came from the kitchen, there were my portraits spread over the coffee table. I felt stunned, abused, worthless. My naked body, no secrets left, something that should have belonged only to him but now on display to a stranger. It was all I could do act naturally and serve the coffee.

     Our teacher was effusive. He felt sure that the pictures deserved an exhibition. They would sell like hot cakes, and for hundreds of dollars. Even thousands for some of the bigger ones. He complimented me, of course, but mostly he praised Julian. This was real art, a privilege to see and even more of a privilege to own.

     Once he had gone, you can imagine I wasted no time in letting Julian know just how I felt. He was shocked, he did not understand.  “But you look wonderful,” he kept saying. “You heard what he said...” Then he apologised and was genuinely contrite. I remained furious and still felt violated next day, but what can you do? Life went on, but without the posing. For the moment, at least.

     And then one day, as we made love in our front room, he lifted me onto all fours. I liked that. I like it doggy-style, I like the animal feel of it and the way it feels inside. But instead of mounting me immediately, he began to stroke me, running his hands over my back and bottom. That felt good, and I did not resist when he pushed down on my shoulders until I was resting my head on my arms. My hair fell about my face and I could not see what he was doing.

     “You are beautiful like that,” he said, “Beautiful.” He was running his hands up and down my back. Along my sides, and the sides of my breasts. “Beautiful. I love the way your arse sticks up in the air. You are showing everything.” He bent to brush his lips across my pussy. “Everything. Like this, you are pure sex, nothing else. The woman that every man dreams of. I want to draw you like this.”

     Not a chance. He had spoiled the moment and I push him onto his back to sit on his cock. Any future pictures had better show a real, thinking woman or else. I think he understood, but we said nothing.

     So that is why I am here, in the house alone, waiting for Julian. I have put a towel over the coffee table to make it more comfortable, and dragged it around so my back is to the door. I am dressed the way he likes to see me, stockings, heels, jewellery and too much makeup. In a moment he will walk through the door and see me on the table, head down and my bum in the air, showing him everything. Just as he dreams of me. What will he think? I know, and I know what he will do to me.

     So what happened? Have I stopped being a thinking woman and become a sex object? Of course not. It may have taken a little confusion, but I have decided to be both at once. He loves me, he respects me, and I have taken his portfolio to a gallery. We are talking money and dates.

     His key is in the door. Unbelievably, I begin to tremble. I bury my face as I hear his steps behind me.

Jacqueline lives in Far North Queensland, on the shore of the Coral Sea. She keeps herself busy with her cats and garden, and by writing books - some of which are far too naughty for her own good. You can find out more about Jacqueline and her books at www.jacquelinegeorgewriter.com