You are loved.

In light of the events of the day (and the events of many days, though today more deliberately and starkly than usual) I find myself evaluating my parenting, particularly in terms of my personal response to emergencies, and my overall approach to the world.

I’m realizing that my response to this was, in essence, the same as one one of my lads got pushed by the other, and came to me with blood streaming down his face the other night. I gathered him in, held him close, took care of what I could, let him take care of himself when he took the tissues away from me, and after a cuddle I put him to bed where he belonged, with a kiss and a hug, and telling him I love him.

Today, when I found out what happened in Connecticut, I went into the living room where the lads were watching television with my mother, and sat on the couch. “Can I snuggle with you, mama?” asked the older boy, and of course I said yes. For a half hour or so I simply sat with him tucked under my arm, and his little brother sprawled across my lap, holding them close and letting them wriggle away when they wanted to.

I’m back at my computer now, having made them dinner, and am trying to wrangle in my focus on work. They’re enjoying a Friday night movie-and-pizza in the next room, and I’ll probably pop back in there again for more snuggles. Later there will be popcorn for dessert, and then likely the usual rigamarole of bedtime boo-hoos and idunwannas, which will be laid to rest with a story and a tucking-in and a kiss on the forehead. I will tell them I love them, and good night, because I tell them every night that I love them.

Something happened today, and it was something terrible. It’s something I cannot change. I cannot fix. I cannot offer the cold comfort of a stranger to anyone who was or is there. That piece of the world is out of my reach, and I have no control.

I have trouble with not having control. So I look at where I do have control.

I have the ability to not force my children to attempt to comprehend this event that is not immediately affecting them. They will probably learn about it when they’re older. I have control over giving them their dinner and some entertainment, and the evening routine to which they are used. Tomorrow they will probably snuggle me awake as I groan and ask them to go play quietly in their room for ten more minutes. We’ll get dressed and I will tell them I love them, and make them breakfast. We will see friends, and we will play. They will learn things about their world, because they learn things every day. They are always learning, and I love to teach them.

One of the things they’re going to need to learn is how to cope with the painful fallout of fear; my deep hope is that they learn from the way that I cope with their own pains, their own fears. Fear has a way of replicating and begetting itself, of becoming blame and accusation and more fear and more pain, terrible and cyclical and and and and and.

And I don’t like fear. I don’t like fear, or anger, or the sick clinch of my gut in bitterness and rage. I don’t like feeling wounded.

So I love them.

I love them and I heal them, or I give them room to heal themselves, and I love them.

To help the world, to even just help the boys, I must first help myself to simply let my heart be open. It does not mean that I am not sad. I take a deep breath and I breathe in the sorrow, and the fear, and I let it back out. I love. I love, and I relax myself inside, and I will not ball up tight inside myself with fear. That road is a tightening gyre that gets me twisted up and lost inside myself, and helps nothing, heals no one.

Even if I can do nothing concrete, I can love. Because love has a way of replicating and begetting itself, of becoming hope and strength and help and healing and and and.


If you can see this, know this: you are loved.

One more reason I’d really like a teleporter

On Sunday afternoon, after a long afternoon of children’s party and swimming in the pool, I went indoors to check y mobile phone and discovered that it would not turn on. It took no charge, either plugged in to a regular socket, or plugged into my computer with a different cord, for any length of time. This in conjunction with the ‘e’ key on my laptop having been broken for a while, I figured it was time to head up to the Apple store the next morning.

I started off bright and… well, mid-morning, only to have a christmass tree of lights come on when I was partway up the highway. Pushing the gas pedal had no effect. I threw on my flashers and veered to the breakdown lane, discovering in the process that my power steering had gone. By the power of inertia, I rolled to the offramp, and came to a halt.

There was me, with two kids, on a sunny offramp, in a dead car.

With a dead phone.

I opened the hood and tied a plastic bag to my antenna to signal for help to the passing motorists. I lost track of how many passing motorists there were, looking at me, after 30. By the time a very nice man named Chris stopped, I was in tears. He was very kind, calling the state police for me, and giving my children bottles of water and gatorade from the back of his car. We stared into the engine compartment together, and he pointed out how the serpentine belt was slack, and told me that was likely the culprit, which is good because those are far cheaper than an alternator.

There was a spendy tow to the garage my family uses – I just HAPPENED to have on me a carefully hoarded sum of cash left over from a yard sale, plus enough pulled from two separate bank accounts, to cover it. I’m at least glad I WAS able to cover it. What do they do when you don’t have the money? Does the tow company keep the car on the truck?

My father came to pick my kids and I up from the nice air conditioned waiting room, and we proceeded up to get lunch and hit the Apple Store, where they resurrected my phone and Macguyvered a fix for my E key that saved me $200 – which is good, because as previously mentioned, I’d just spent that amount on the tow.

I’d been told on Monday that they’d know what the problem was by the next day. They only finally just called me, to tell me that the problem was in fact a massive leak in my power steering pump, which had sprayed fluid all over the belt, which slipped off. The pump and belt both need replacing, with labor and tax to the tune of half a grand.

So I’ve returned the Pick Your Things! Widget from the preorder sale to the left sidebar, so that anybody who wishes to purchase books to Help The Bliss can do so. The 20% discount for both books still applies, and you’ll still get the signing and the fun extras that were part of the preorder sale.

If you’ve already purchased books but still want to help, donations can be sent via PayPal to – or messages of floatyhearts and cheering-up can go to

Thank you.

What I’m reading: “Moa” by Tricia Stuart Shiu (Novel Publicity Tour)

Please enjoy this excerpt from Moa, a paranormal YA novel with a literary bent by Tricia Stewart Shiu. Then read on to learn how you can win huge prizes as part of this blog tour, including $600 in Amazon gift cards, a Kindle Fire, 5 autographed copies of Moa, and 5 autographed copies of its sequel, Statue of Ku.


Eighteen-year-old, Hillary Hause’s left thumb searches frantically to turn on the “I’m Okay to Fly” hypnotherapy recording. Her nerves on edge, fuchsia fingernails press into the blue pleather armrests of her airplane seat.

“No spells can help you now,” she whispers to herself under her breath—then checks to see if anyone notices. Nope, they don’t.

The plane lifts through the early morning, gray fog of California, “June Gloom” giving way to the azure sky, and Hillary covers her curly brown head and retreats beneath the questionably clean plane blanket cranking the volume to drown out the drone of the engines.

“Outer shell close to breaking.” This time she doesn’t care if anyone hears.

I hover just beyond her “outer shell”—a movement in the periphery, a faintly familiar scent, a fond memory just beyond recognition, a non-human observer. Before the week is up, Hillary will save my life, as I will hers. But, for now, more about Hillary.

The drink cart rolls past the blanket, which has, by now become a moist steamy cave.


“Hey, freak. I hope your plane crashes.” The memory reverberates through her brain despite her attempts to distract herself with the hypnotherapy recording. She increases the volume, but the ugly conversation, which occurred just before school ended, still haunts her mind.

“I guess the only people they check on those flights are the suspicious ones,” Krystal Sykes, a bully from her home room, leans in as Hillary hastens to grab books for her next class. Krystal, also a senior, has hounded Hillary since the first day of freshman year and this is the final day during the final hour at this tiny high school of 376 students —where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

“Look, Krystal.” Hillary turns her eyes toward the sneering blonde. “It’s the last day of school, we’ll never see each other again. Can you give it a rest?” These are the most words the two young women have exchanged in the entire four years of high school.

A look of shock replaces Krystal’s smug snick, “Oh, so now you talk.” She leans in, so close that her spray tan becomes a patchy Impressionist painting. Her pores are blotched with cakey, two shades too dark powder, her unblended cream eyeshadow creases across the center of her lid and her tropical breeze flavored breath threatens to strangle the words right out of Hillary.

“I know all about your witchcraft practices and have made a few spells of my own. Trust me. You’ll never make it to your sister’s house in Hawaii.” Krystal’s backpack jingles and Hillary watches her spin around and skip down the hall.


Hillary is not a witch. She has, however, carefully crafted a “shell” to protect herself from bullies like Krystal—who, as far as Hillary can tell—is not a witch either. She has watched Krystal throughout elementary, middle and high school and has not been able to discern whether or not she practices witchcraft. No matter what Krystal’s background, her intent is to harm. And there is nothing worse than a spell with an aim to hurt. Hillary has had no choice but to remain in a constant state of defensiveness.

The twenty-minute recording ends and Hillary falls into a troubled sleep—feeling every bump and hearing every creak of the plane.

With about an hour left in the flight, Hillary awakens with a “turtle headache.” Hillary’s older sister Molly taught her this term which means a headache caused by sleeping too long underneath the covers of one’s bed.

Sadly, Molly lost her husband, Steve, last year in an unfortunate surfing accident. The throbbing pain in Hillary’s left temple could be the result of remaining submerged beneath an airplane blanket and wedged between the window and armrest, or it could be from worry about how Molly and her niece, Heidi are dealing with their devastating loss.

Disoriented, Hillary pokes her head out just in time to glimpse puffy clouds and sparkling sea below. A flood of excitement and sheer wonder flows through Hillary in the form of a tingle from her head to her toes. And then, a lovely thought: “…And for an Everlasting Roof, The Gambrels of the Sky…” She will enjoy this plane ride, thanks in part to Emily Dickinson.


As part of this special promotional extravaganza sponsored by Novel Publicity, the price of the Moa and Statue of Ku eBook editions have both been dropped to just 99 cents this week. What’s more, by purchasing either of these fantastic books at an incredibly low price, you can enter to win many awesome prizes. The prizes include $600 in Amazon gift cards, a Kindle Fire, and 5 autographed copies of each book.

All the info you need to win one of these amazing prizes is RIGHT HERE.

Remember, winning is as easy as clicking a button or leaving a blog comment–easy to enter; easy to win!

To win the prizes:

  1. Purchase your copies of Moa and Statue of Ku for just 99 cents
  2. Enter the Rafflecopter contest on Novel Publicity
  3. Visit today’s featured social media event

About Moa: Eighteen-year-old, Hillary, anticipates adventure
as she embarks for trip to Honolulu, but gets more than she bargained for when Moa,
an ancient Hawaiian spirit, pays her an unexpected visit. Get it on Amazon.

About Statue of Ku: The second book in the Moa Book Series, “The
Statue of Ku” follows Hillary and Moa as they jet to Egypt on the Prince’s private plane
to reclaim Moa’s family heirloom, the inimitable statue of Ku. Get it on Amazon.

About the author: Tricia Stewart Shiu combines her addiction
to the written word with her avid interest in the healing arts and all things metaphysical
in her novels Moa and Statue of Ku and looks forward
to finding new ways to unite her two loves. Visit Tricia on her website, Twitter, Facebook, or GoodReads.

The Adventures of Jasper!

The following story was just dictated to me:

A long time ago, when there was one boy named Jasper who had lots of weapons, including shield and a sword, he went on an adventure.

But then one day he forgot which way to go – he got lost! He tried to think of which way he should go. He picked the path found to the left, instead of forward, or right, or back the way he came. He forgot he should have gone backward.

He went on and on until he came to a waterhole with no poison in it, and no yucky stuff. He was glad because he was very thirsty. He scooped the water to drink it – and discovered a tadpole in his hand! He put it in the water of a nearby swamp.

Then he found a tank full of fresh-looking water. He almost drank out of it – and found a fish. ALL the fish! He put them in the swamp as well, where they could live and breathe. Only then did he drink the fresh water, and he was no longer thirsty.

But he was hungry. Luckily, he had brought along one big fresh carrot. He ate it, and was no longer hungry or thirsty, and returned to his adventure.

Next, Jasper found some ants. He gave his leftover carrot crumbs to the ants to bring to their ant home – but they were no ants, they were termites! He stepped on all of them until they were dead. Walking over the dead termites, he found the King of the Termites, who was enormous! He sliced him before he could get pinched, and stabbed the King of Termites dead. Then he came to the Queen Termite, and stabbed her with his sword.

Then there were no more termites, just ants scattered all over. He gathered back up his crumbs to feed to them, and they were no longer hungry.

He went on. The ants followed him. He gave them bits of cheese, which they brought to their holes. He gave them water, which they carried in pouches to their holes, and there they stayed to rest in their ant beds.

Jasper followed their example, going backward the way he came until he, too, got home to rest. The end!

This story was dictated to me by my younger son, who just turned five in March, and will be beginning Kindergarten this fall. My mother tells me that he is quite like me, very independent and self-directed, and always with a story to tell.

You can see in this particular story the evidence of the storytelling culture in which he is being raise, not only with kids’ movies and such, but with books I read to him, and stories that I tell him on the fly. In the simplified parlance of the unit his older brother did in his first grade class this year, on the elements of a story, this has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It has a main character, who has an overarching conflict or problem. It has minor characters and smaller troubles with which to contend along the way, the solving of which in part end up helping guide the main character to the solution of the overall problem.

It is at once childish and childlike, this story, and yet it contains the same things that all great stories do, in essence. Moreover, it gave him great joy to sit by my side and tell this story to me to type for him. It gave me joy to listen to it developing, and recognize the frameworks in it.

Writing and storytelling are crafts that are often considered esoteric and solitary, but the truth is that a writer cannot exist in a vacuum. Many authors’ advice to young writers includes “Read.” Reading fills our mind not just with ideas and tales, but the form and frame of them, the paths they follow, the structures of world-building, life-building, problem-solving.

Reading and learning these things starts before we can read at all – while we are being read to, our human brains which are undeniably attracted to patterns will start noting these subtle similarities among the tales we are told, learning them to put forth years later in our own work.

In this way, the Adventures of Jasper are the adventure of all storytellers – we learn from the tiniest things.


Enjoy my blog? Get my books! Click on My Books at the top for descriptions of Nightmare Fuel and Bits of Bliss – then follow the links from that page to get them in digital format, or (for a limited time) click in the sidebar on the left to preorder signed print copies!

A man named Mark

Let me tell you a little story about a man named Mark.

Mark is the firstborn son to a couple that started their family in the mid-fifties, and in true Catholic tradition didn’t stop adding to it for quite a while, not until Mark was the oldest of seven. Son of a teacher and a news photographer and erstwhile leader of the band of siblings, he had a storied youth in a waterfront town, the whisperings of which even now keep slipping forward into the future. Mark grew up, got married, became a firefighter, and had children.

Where some people will spend a good portion of their initial working years jumping from job to job, Mark went with fire fighting, and he stuck with it. It takes a particular kind of person to fight fires, to run into a burning building while others are rushing out. To help those others get out, and then try to prevent the utter ruin of their worldly goods. Mark also became and EMT, the better to help folks in need.

Son of a teacher and a photographer who went back to school late in life to also become a teacher, Mark learned a lot about learning. He learned a lot about teaching. Every day and in his own way, as his small children grew, he sought to teach them – starting with the little, essential truths that every parent tries to instill in their child:

Be kind.

Be thoughtful.

Don’t hit.

Tell the truth.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Then, as those children grew, so did the depths and complexity of the lessons:

Choose a seat where you can see a lot of the room.

Be quiet, be still, and see what you can learn while people talk over and around you.

Always ask for and use your waitress’s name, and leave a good tip. They work hard.

Be kind.

This is how a lever works.

This is breaking strain, these are different kinds of rope.

This is how to cast your line into the shade under that tree just along the brushy shore, where the fish probably are, without getting it caught in the tree.

This is how to be still while you wait.

Be thoughtful.

This is how to tie a knot. This is also how to tie a knot. This is how to tie another knot. Here are some other knots as well.

Water mains are large and hoses are small for volumes of water, as well as for pressure.

People are under pressure, just like water.

Don’t hit.

This is how to drive stick shift, check your oil, change a tire.

Think about what your friends are asking you to do, and about what could happen. Take a step back and imagine consequences, and don’t just follow the pack.

Tell the truth.

This is how to transplant a tree so that the roots get enough water while it settles in its new spot.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

This is how to mix cement, and this is why people stick pennies in them.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

The total lessons were so much more than that, and in so much complexity. Mark was teacher and father to his children. He pushed them not just to do their best, but to be their best. He led by example as well as words, teaching them how to work, how to stick to it with things that are hard. How to act and react with dignity when things go wrong. How to live, how to love. To respect others. To talk, and to listen.

How to teach, and how to learn.

Today Mark is 56 years old, and without him, I would be nowhere near the person I am today.

Happy birthday, Dad. And thank you.

Wuff? Pie if uh perfefctly fvvfalid brehfuff fuhd.

“To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.”
— credited to E. B. White

I’m not from Vermont, but eating pie for breakfast is definitely something I grew up with. I’m from the South Shore of Massachusetts, below Boston but Above the Cape, and from when I was a child right up through present day, if a pie appeared in the house for dessert, whatever was left over was totally going to be breakfast the next morning.

Only when I moved to New York did I discover that it was strange. Whereas I had never really been into the idea of pizza as a breakfast food, the first time I served myself a piece of pie for breakfast I got this look of confused horror, as if I were breaking some heretofore unknown rule delimiting breakfast foods and desserts as having no crossover whatsoever.

But here’s the thing about pie: it’s fruit. It’s grains. It’s a pastry with fruit filling. It is a filling thing, and it tastes amazing, and if it’s sugary and buttery and glazed, that means you have the whole day to work off the sugar high and the fats and the calories! It totally beats eating something like that right before you go get prone and still and unconscious for the night, don’t you think?

This pie, for the record, was apple.


There’s a story involving an apple in Nightmare Fuel! Have you read it yet? Curious as to how a fruit so well suited for filling in a tasty, tasty pie can become creepypasta? Click the My Books link up top to find out where you can get the eBook – or for a limited time, click the Buy Now button on the left to purchase a signed print copy.

Buy it and Bits of Bliss at the same time for a 20% discount off both volumes!

Pre-order: Signed Print Copies of Nightmare Fuel and Bits of Bliss!

Sound the horns and beat the drums – Nightmare Fuel and Bits of Bliss are now available in print copy format. Even better, they’re going to be available signed by the author. (That would be me.)

This is going to be a limited pre-order. It starts today, Wednesday June 13 at 6:30pm EST, and will run until Friday July 13th at 6:30pm EST.

See the top widget on the left, there? With the dropdown and the shiny, candylike golden button? That’s where you want to click, to order your copies. Choose Nightmare Fuel, choose Bits of Bliss, or choose to get them both with a 20% discount on your total order. Shipping should be calculated at checkout. Shipping is based on USPS rates and is currently available domestically and in Canada, the UK, and Australia. If you want to order internationally and are outside these preset areas, drop me a note at – I will happily take you money check the USPS shipping cost to your country and plug it into PayPal so you can place your order.

If you want me to include a little message with the signature, I can absolutely do that. 🙂

Please note that the shipping time you select will be how quickly it gets to you from when I ship it, not from the time of your purchased. When the preorder closes, I will be printing and signing and mailing as quickly as I can manage.

If you have any questions, contact me at that email address, and I’ll address it as quickly as I’m able.

More about the books below.


Cover of Nightmare Fuel - Volume 1

Nightmare Fuel - Volume 1

The Nightmare Fuel Project really began several years ago, when I started having nightmares. Not that I’d never had nightmares before, mind you – but I’d never had them one on top of another, ceaselessly, all night and every night for days and sometimes weeks on end. It recurred the next year, and the year after that.

It happened regularly enough that I began to refer to the fall as Nightmare Season.

Then at the beginning of Summer 2011 Google opened the invite-only beta of Google+. I was invited, joined (as Bliss Morgan), and managed to meet some really great people, and witness them doing some interesting things. In September, with Nightmare Season looming, I decided to (and posted that I would) write a piece of short horror fiction every day in October, in the hopes that getting the demons out of my head and onto a page or screen where I could see them would help alleviate Nightmare Season somewhat.

People thought this was a fantastic idea.

People wanted to join in.

I welcomed anybody who wanted to participate in any capacity, and set it up that I would post an inspirational image each morning, and anybody so inclined had all day to write something and post it. I was the only one that she felt had to post something every day. I ran it from October 1 to October 31. I had folks who wanted to write, some who just wanted to read and comment, and several who wanted to provide photography or other images.

From that project, I ended up with many short fictions, which I pared down to these fine twenty. I hope that you enjoy the Nightmares.


Bits of Bliss contains nine pieces of erotic fiction, ranging from modern times in familiar settings, to long ago and far away, with several stopoffs at strange and unfamiliar lands along the way – and every one exploring hot sex and its connection to our essential humanity and understanding of the world, each other, and ourselves.

That’s right. Hot sex.

Bits of Bliss - Volume 1

Bits of Bliss - Volume 1

Heartscaping – F/F fic involving, of all things, plants. No, not garden vegetables!
Homecoming – M/? fic; home is where the heart is. Especially when you have a sentient house.
Hunting Hound – F/M fic; because this princess needs something more than the usual prince. Mild trigger warnings for (consensual) sexual violence.
The Spy Who… – F/M fic; a message comes in that needs to be revealed through a chemical reaction by the queen and her head spy, by unconventional means.
Everything But – F/M; Marriage can be truly transformative. Sometimes literally.
Fruit of Knowledge, Seed of Truth – F/M/?; a Snow White tale like you’ve never read it before.
Her Master’s Voice – M/F; what’s the dynamic when he’s in charge, and she’s a werewolf that could rip him apart?
Summer Nights – M/F; the man lurking through the summer parties at the lakehouses is not what he seems, and she’s not the usual type either. Of course they gravitate to one another behind the boathouse. Mild trigger warnings for (consensual) sexual violence.
Spaced – ?/F; Lost in space, losing heat. How else to feel alive?

I Am Antageddon

So, here’s the thing about ants. I hate them.

Don’t get me wrong. Out in nature, tooling around and being all industrious, building sandy tunnel nations and collecting food for winter and harping at the grasshoppers to get their ass in gear, that’s fine. Shine on you tiny diamonds.

But I have a problem with ants in the house.

When I was just a wee little Bliss, a Blissling if you will, no more than 7 years old, is where this all started. We’d only been living in the house I grew up in for about a year at the time. It was Easter, and my sister and I had very pretty matching dresses my mother had sewn for us. I don’t remember what color was mine, but hers was blue.

I was very excited this particular Easter, because not only was it the year the new Catholic Church was opening, for the very first time for that service, but because my mother had made a cake shaped like a bunny. She had used many colors of frosting and a star-tip on a frosting tube to decorate that bunny all over in many pointy starshaped dots, so it actually looked like fur. It was finished, and set on the counter with a plastic cover over it.

We went off to mass, and it took place out in the parking lot. I fidgeted a lot, and looked at the pretty hats and wished I had one, and got my father to promise to explain what a moar-gedj was and why everybody cheered when it was burned in that brass bowl. Soon, though not soon enough, we were on our way home, and my brain was filled with the though of that bunny cake.

I ran into the house, did a U-turn just long enough to wipe the dirt off the bottom of my plasticky mary janes, and then made a beeline for the kitchen. I was just tall enough to see over the edge of the counter, and reached out to lift the edge of the plastic cover to peek at the cake, eager to see those sweet points of white and purple and blue frosting.

I was greeted with the sight of a writhing black mass.

Ants, hundreds, thousands of them had found their way into the kitchen and up to the counter, where they’d been busily disassembling my Easter cake to carry off to their damnable little sandy holes. My parents rushed us kids in one direction into the house, and the cake in the other to get it and its terrible passengers outside. There was no special cake for Easter.

I. Hate. Ants.

So here I am, sitting at the table minding my own business, when I feel a sharp tiny pinch on my foot. I look down, and most of the floor is in shadow – the light in the room is only from the microwave behind me, and my computer. I turn on the light, and am greeted by the sight of a lost half peanut, surrounded by a busy little crowd of ants, and one little bastard freeclimbing across my foot.

I did what anybody in my position would do. I got the Windex and some paper towels. I sprayed them until they were flailing and twitching, from underneath the table all the way back to the spot where the crack in the floorboard disappeared under the radiator, and then I squished and wiped with the paper towel.

No quarter was given, and my floor is now quite shiny.

Bliss Walks Into An Alliance-Friendly Bar on U-Day

Posting about my exciting day – a long story made short, I have a new email address, because I got banned from GooglePlus.

I KNOW, RIGHT?! No, chillax a second, put down the pitchforks, because clearly, I am still here. As Deckard Cain would say, “Stay a while, and listen!”

I woke up at 8-ish this morning, rolled over, and grabbed my mobile to check my email. There were no emails newer than 1:30AM, not long after I went to bed, and my mobile kept insisting that I had my password wrong. WTFever, I’ll fix it on my laptop later, I figured, and switched over the G+ app. (You see how I roll? Not even out of bed and I’m looking to check in and make sure all y’all are doing good.)

What I got was an inability to log in; instead, I got a message saying there had been unusual activity with my account, and I needed to verify either by text message or voice call. Me, voice call? Pft. I’m rarely a phone kinda girl. I went with the text message, and logged in, and hit my notifications. The very first one I saw was from +Tejas Richard wondering why he couldn’t plus me at all, or see my posts, or profile, or anything. Was I banned? Had something dire happened to me? Here’s the #BringBackBliss hashtag! He wasn’t the only one, just the one I saw first.

Confused more than anything, I got up, started Thing One on the getting-ready-for-school routine, and hit the laptop – where after a little searching I discovered that my May I? erotica prompts page was suspended. One of the images, you may recall, got flagged last week. It was a great image, too, a pair of lesbians shot from above, one in a wedding dress and the other… well, most of the way under it. Committed relationship sexytimes! That kind of thing is hot, IMO. As is safe sex, which is why I was so stoked about the image I found to post yesterday, which involved two men in flagrante delicto with a prophylactic most definitely in use. Love, sex, responsibility, safety – HOTNESS!

But I guess someone didn’t agree, or several someones, because the May I? page was suspended. The page I’d made specifically so that people had to know it and go find it to participate and see the images. The page I’d made so as to entirely avoid accidental sexytimes showing up in the streams of the folks following me who don’t want to see sexytimes in their stream, because right now there are not any good SafeSearch type filtering options in place for stream viewing, and I RESPECT the people who choose to follow me who don’t want to see certain things, or who may want to see such things but not while at work, or with small people around, or whatever their situation and desire may be. But despite this effort I made, someone or someones flagged it out.

The interesting part is that the suspension notice on the page specifically states: This suspension does not affect your personal Google+ profile, any other Google+ pages you may have created, or other Google services. This is proven to be untrue. I couldn’t get to my email, even, until I’d verified.

This made it quite clear to me that I needed some non-Google contacts. My IMs are now listed in my profile, and my other contact info is there as it always has been. (Please don’t call me, I really hate phonecalls I’m not expecting. Texts are fine.) I also, with the help of the fantastic Adrian Hawkins and the amazeballs Adrian Colley managed to get my website-related email up and running through Thunderbird. (There shall be from this day forth an official Adrians Day in Blisstopia, every May 21st!)

It’s – please, send me an email so that I have your contact info. Add my IMs.

This morning I nearly lost all contact with the people who have kept me sane, encouraged me, given me hope in myself and the world, and made me realize that by believing the best of people, that folks are intelligent and worthy of my respect… I will discover it to be true, that people are intelligent and worthy of my respect. I have been and continue to be honored to have such an entrenched place among so many amazing people, but today I saw how easily that entire (and significant) piece of my world could be ripped away. The more I think about it, the more irrationally terrified a part of me becomes.

I don’t want to lose you.

So please, email me. This place is great in part because of the gadgets, but mostly because of you. I don’t expect anything like this to happen again, but then I didn’t expect it in the first place. If somehow it had to happen, I could live without the Google services. I don’t want to have to live without all of you now that I’ve found you.

And seriously, stow the pitchforks. It was a fair cop. What Google needs is not rage and ranting, but a better system by which people can dynamically filter the content in their streams, like SafeSearch does on Google text and image searches. I strongly encourage you to send them feedback to that effect. Not only will it give users more control over what they see, and when, but it’ll take a load off their admining because they won’t have to spend nearly so much time dealing with people flagging content that’s legal, but that they simply don’t want to see.

Also, if you were following the May I? page… please comment here or contact me privately so I can get you into my May I? circle for the rest of the month’s prompts.

Oh right, look at me being all seriouscakes. Here, sex and nightmares!


Call For Submissions: Under Cover of Darkness

Deadline: Aug. 15 2012.

Every rebel has his or her galactic dictator. The gallant young gentleman has his moustache-twirling railroad binder (not to mention the sweet thing tied to the tracks). The cheeky highwayman and the corrupt sheriff. For every good guy we root for, there’s a villain. And some of us have always found the villains sexier than the heroes. How many villains are really evil–and how many are just trying to change the status quo, a la Doctor Horrible? Maybe they’re just misunderstood. Or maybe they are evil, but hey, there’s always someone getting gooshy for the bad boy, even if it’s just for one night. Or maybe one knight. We’re looking for stories that show every dichotomy has TWO sides, and it’s time for the attractions and enticements on the villain’s side to be examined. Circlet Press welcomes sex-positive stories of all sexualities and preferences.

Length: Our preferred length is approximately 3500 to 7500 words, but we will consider the range from 2000 to 10,000 words. All submissions must be made via email to Andrea Trask, editor, at the following address:

Deadline: August 15, 2012

For further info on guidelines and acceptable, see the CFS in its entirety on the Circlet Press Website.