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Are you stuck writing your next Blockbuster. Nothing is appearing in your mind? Burned out on the Fiction? Jump start your writing. Write some erotica.

Artists have known for centuries, creating art from the nude human form usually gets creative juices following again. So it is with writing, sometimes all I need is a little inspiration.

She Liked to Stand in the Window

“They move around.” She said.

Her head was nestled on my shoulder. I smell the fragrance of her hair. I smell the fragrance of all of them, all my lovers. I will always smell them. Those smells are the reasons for my creativity.

“You’re getting hard. I want to stand in the window, I want to be on display, I want you to take me from behind.”

The honey bees are busy fliting from flower to flower, collecting the nectar. They are compelled to do it, unthinking, compelled to do their work. Endless work every year, when the earth smells of the same sweetness as her hair.

I write these words as I sit near the flower garden. I have a table and an easy chair in a shaded spot.

A casual observer would see a man reclining in front of his typewriter, his fingers moving gracefully across the keys. They would never suspect his manhood moved randomly between his thighs, or that he was thinking of her, the woman in the window.

I cannot write or create my little pieces of art without being aware of her. The awareness is the power keeping me moving to create. It is this desire to claim something that I will never posses that is at the heart of my art.

I am troubled that I keep producing little bits-and-pieces. I don’t to get down completing the big job. The big job of the big novel, satisfying my Grand Plan, getting that illusive thing, possessing completely the woman in the window.

A bee moves from flower to flower, like me, collecting little bits and pieces. The bee is unaware of a Grand plan. It doesn’t care or need to know, it is compelled to collect the nectar as I am compelled to create the little-bits-an -pieces.

Eventually the nectar collected by the solitary bee, the little-bits-and-pieces, join to feed the hive. Just as all my little-bits-and-pieces combine to make my life. DHW

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