I find it uncomfortable when I’m walking that line between “this is what you will be known for” and “you are predictable like death and taxes.” It makes me really happy to write about people feeding each other. And talking animals. And skin hunger. And found families.
I just worry that I won’t notice when I cross that line from variations on a theme to repetition ad nauseum.
I guess I should just be glad that I didn’t end up with a junk yard in three out of three stories. Sometimes my interests are so weird.
Biologists call a small male fish who darts in to fertilize eggs a “sneaker,”, a medium male who resembles a female a “female mimic,”, and a large aggressive territorial male a “parental,” to place a positive spin of his egg guarding. Both the sneaker and the female mimic are “sexual parasites” of the parental male’s “investment” in nest construction and territorial defense. The sneaker and the female mimic are said to express a gene for “cuckoldry,” as though the parental male were married to a female in his territory and victimized by her unfaithfulness. In fact, a territorial male and the female who is temporarily in his territory are not pair-bonded. Scientists sneak gender stereotypes into the primary literature and corrupt its objectivity. Are these descriptions only harmless words? No. The words affect the view of nature that emerges from biology.
Joan Roughgarden (2004) Evolution’s Rainbow: Diversity, Gender, and Sexuality in Nature and People, University of California Press, Berkley (via 420-catnip)
I don’t understand why this story won’t end. I don’t understand how I can write this much metal arm porn without, you know, any actual sex. I don’t understand why I am considering writing the missing porn. Everything is Sam/Bucky and nothing makes sense.
I have officially lost the thread of this story. Flirting? Awkward ex-soldier flirting with a side of misunderstandings and unhealthy ideas about repaying debts? I have no idea any more. Look, just, here. This is what I’m doing.