Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Check out my latest interview at Eden Fantasys, where I discuss writing, blogging, Mitzi TV, erotica, my new book In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales, the publishing business and, of course, being a social media maven! There’s even some advice for aspiring writers.

“Mitzi Szereto is best known for writing which mixes classical elements with current trends. How does combining the past with the present inspire Mitzi’s creative process? How does she see the erotic genre evolving in the future?”

Click here for full text of the interview.

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Let me just say that rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

It was like a scene from out of an Agatha Christie whodunnit: an old manor house, a howling wind blowing in from the raging sea, mysterious and menacing creaks in the night. Whispers of “Let’s kill the erotic writing tutor” could be heard emanating from dark corners – corners where hands might jump out at any moment to wrap around your neck.

Or rather MY neck.

Six women and one man, all locked up for Literotica, an erotic writing weekend on the Isle of Wight. Sure, they looked so innocent and friendly on arrival. So who would suspect that beneath these civilised veneers lurked a bloodthirsty desire TO KILL? I myself suspected nothing. (Mind you, I rarely do.) I conducted my workshop just as I’ve always done, imparting a bit of professional and personal wisdom, and inspiring participants to write freely, to strive high, and to leave behind their erroneous assumptions that erotica is nothing but poshed-up porn. I could see I was winning the battle. These people were actually creating work that would have been equally at home in a respectable literary novel as it would in a respectable sexy novel. “Get rid of the top shelf!” I cried. “No more one-handed reads!” I cheered. And the crowd roared back, hanging on my every word.

So why should one of these nice people wish to kill me – and to kill me in one of the most slow and agonising ways possible – by poison? Was I too hard on them? Did I give too much homework? Did they take offence at my bear’s critiques of their work? Or indeed, was it even one of the workshop participants at all? Perhaps the mild-mannered Greek proprietor of our windswept country house was behind it. Now I’ve heard of not wanting to pay someone for services rendered, but come on – isn’t this taking things a bit too far? (Actually, I did kind of wonder why that plumber’s van hadn’t moved out of the car park for the entire weekend.)

I admit they were clever. They waited until after I’d signed their copies of Getting Even: Revenge Stories-(Christ, I knew I shouldn’t have brought that one along) – and The New Black Lace Book of Women’s Sexual Fantasies. Just think how much these copies would have fetched on eBay had their sinister murder plot actually come to fruition!

It’s hard to believe that the people with whom I’d enjoyed a friendly Saturday night pint at the local pub could, within only a matter of minutes, turn on me like that. I was fine up until then. Had they put poison into my untended pint while I nipped to the loo? Had they coated the rim of the glass with some deadly nectar so that when I raised it to my unknowing lips, I’d ingest the substance? Had someone truly NOT enjoyed reading their copy of Getting Even? I mean, everyone kept saying how they couldn’t wait to get stuck into it, especially the story I wrote. So what gives?

I suspect the physicist. As the only male in a group of women, he was already anticipating the worst from before he’d arrived on the island. Yet I did my best to make him feel welcome and comfortable. I even spent extra time with him chatting about such things as parallel universes and cloud computing as we sat drinking cups of milky tea. What more could I have done? Hey, was it MY fault that someone said (no it wasn’t me!) that all men are crap in bed? Okay, so I nodded to be polite. I mean, wouldn’t you have done the same if you’d been in my shoes?

As you can see, I survived the weekend, albeit quite the worse for wear. And yes, I’m booked again for yet another erotic writing workshop weekend next November. I wonder though if someone might be trying to tell me something. For on the final leg of my journey home, the man seated behind me on the train kept singing about Nosferatu.

Hmmm… I have been looking rather wan of late.

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“You JUST couldn’t write this stuff!”

As a writer (or even as a non-writer), have you ever said that to yourself or to someone else? I know I have. Many times, in fact. I’ve seen and experienced things that are so unlikely, not to mention so outright ridiculous that if I’d written them, I’d be putting myself at risk of failing to suspend disbelief in my reader. Usually it’s the kind of thing you’d never dream up in a million years, not even if you’d raided the shelves at your local pharmacy.

Last week I received an email from a television comedy writer who had a big hit series on the BBC some years back. Apparently he was looking out his bedroom window the other morning, only to discover that his front gate had vanished. Certain he hadn’t misplaced it, he got dressed and promptly set off to search for it, eventually finding it in the next street over, leaning against somebody’s front door. The homeowner, who appeared in her dressing gown looking none too pleased at the intrusion, didn’t take kindly to my friend’s claim that it was HIS gate on HER property. She proceeded to interrogate him, demanding to know how he knew the gate belonged to him in the first place – whereupon he drew her attention to the fact that the gate had his house number on it. How did the gate get there? He concluded that the local lads had stolen it as a drunken prank.

A hit comedy writer for the BEEB, and even he had to admit that he could never have come up anything this bizarre in one of his television scripts.

I know exactly what he means. Only last night I attended a drinks do at a pub in Islington (one that wisely supplied my Belgian strawberry beer on tap, I might add). It was a bon voyage-slash-fundraiser for one of my friends, who’s setting off this weekend to bicycle from London to Lourdes to raise money for the Glanfield Children’s Group (https://www.bmycharity.com/V2/cycletolourdes08). I assumed it was going to be the usual piss-up at the pub kind of evening, replete with a mob of Irish Catholics suffering no guilt whatsoever about imbibing as many pints as the Vatican will allow. And that’s exactly how it started out.

…Until the guest of honour’s girlfriend brought out the waxing strips.

Undressing from the waist down to a pair of black bicycle shorts, her boyfriend bravely leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. In true Murder On the Orient Express fashion, one by one we proceeded to have a go, stripping the virgin hairs off this poor lad’s calves, knees, and thighs. He was even forced to lie facedown so that the backs of his legs could be attended to. Much maniacal laughter ensued, along with yelps of pain from our victim, as both video and photographic evidence were collected on mobile phones and digital cameras – all of which will likely appear on Facebook. Save for a few glances in our direction, the other patrons sharing the mezzanine area with our little group carried on as if nothing unusual was transpiring within a few feet of their pint glasses. And perhaps this was true; perhaps men having their legs waxed in a pub is common practice in north London. Thank god nothing else was being waxed, that’s all I can say. Indeed, I was told more than once that this could be the inspiration for my next erotic story. It’s always nice to have your mates support and encourage your creative endeavours, isn’t it?

(Now in case you’re wondering if this waxing was initiated in order to appeal to the passions of the rural French he’ll be meeting on the way to Lourdes, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Its intended purpose was far more practical and far less erotic: if our bicylist ends up sustaining an injury to his legs, his wounds will be easier to clean and treat without all that manly hair getting in the way.)

Since the evening was supposed to be a fundraiser as well as an excuse to drink, a member of our party decided to round up a nearby quartet of women to have a go, afterward informing them that they must now pay for the privilege. Upon hearing this, their drunken giggling faded in volume, however, they did open up their generous hearts by depositing a pound coin on the table as blood money. After the waxing strips had finally been exhausted, our charitable bicyclist was left with a patchwork design of silky white skin and brown fur on his legs. Little red bumps had already begun to appear on the plucked flesh, and he rubbed some soothing lotion onto them which had been thoughtfully provided by his girlfriend who, in case you’ve forgotten, is the same kind soul who thoughtfully provided the waxing strips. When he finished, he put his trousers back on – an act which seemed to generate far more interest from the other patrons than the act of his depilation. We quickly downed the last of our pints and headed out into the night, all of us secure in the knowledge that we would never show our faces in this pub again. The last glimpse I had of Mr. Sexy Legs was of him being dragged across the road to a curry house.

Which brings me right back to my original statement: You JUST couldn’t write this stuff!

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Well, it was yet another lovely week at the University of Wales in Caerleon – my third time at the Writers’ Conference. My erotic writing workshop attracted a diverse group of men and women of all ages and persuasions, and a surprising amount of talent. Some excellent work was produced in a short amount of time, ranging from the poignant to the downright hilarious. I don’t want to play favourites by mentioning specific pieces, but yes, I did find myself moved by several of the works presented on the final morning of the course. What is always rewarding to me is when people tell me how I’ve changed their perspective on erotic writing and that I got them to do something they never believed they could do – and to be comfortable in doing it. One participant even wrote a charming little ditty about me and Teddy (my bear, if you’ve not figured that out yet!). And yes, it’s suitable for those of a more delicate persuasion. I should add that this wasn’t part of the homework I’d assigned, but rather a … well… dare I say, “tribute”?

One great thing about the conference is that I got fed and fed and fed some more (I don’t like to cook). I partook of two desserts a day; anything with cream was fair game – and I was prepared to fight till death for it too! Of course, having Teddy with me tended to put anyone off violence at the dessert section. I doubt I gained any weight though; the region is extremely hilly and after schlepping back and forth to the village enough times (no one in Wales seems to know what “schlep” means), not to mention on the campus itself, I probably ended up losing weight. And yes, everyone kept asking me where I put it. I do hope they were referring to the dessert.

On Monday evening, Teddy and I went along on the pub crawl (though I’d already been in my favourite pub the night before – The Hanbury Arms – where Alfred Lord Tennyson apparently went on the piss and where I had my toes bitten – and I’ll leave you to ponder that one). On Tuesday I paid yet another visit to the Roman ruins, which has the remains of an amphitheatre. It was a perfect day, the clouds were threatening overhead, a drizzle had begun, and I stood in the centre of the arena no doubt looking very peculiar. I also wrote something on a stone (using another stone as pen), but I’m not going to tell you what it was. It’s personal. On Wednesday afternoon I went on the excursion to Hay on Wye. Well, if you’re really into mouldy musty old books, this is your Mecca. Everyone ran off to find their treasures; as for me, I found some ice cream and a pair of one-of-a-kind earrings in an artsy little shop. Or at least I think they’re one-of-a-kind. Our coach driver was a roly-poly fellow from Brecon who made a lot of sheep jokes. All I know is, I’ve been to Wales many times, and I’ve yet to see any kind of dodgy activity with sheep. Mind you, I did notice a cow walking a bit funny.

Moving on from the profane to the sacred, the highlight of the week was definitely the Thursday evening appearance of the Cwmbach Male Choir, a cheeky bunch of Welshmen who performed for us and then as is customary each year, continued in the bar for another two hours till midnight, downing pints and singing everything from Elvis to weepy Irish ballads. When they left (threatening to kidnap both me and Teddy), a disco ensued, but it featured so much Abba that I was finally forced to seek refuge in the computer room to check messages and return pokes on Facebook. (I don’t care what anyone says: I am NOT going to see “Mama Mia.”)

Sadly, I couldn’t stay forever in that lovely land and had to return to London right at the Friday evening rush hour. The tube quickly jolted me out of my Welsh tranquility with its delayed trains, trains that didn’t stop where I needed to stop, and trains that just sat there because there was a backlog of trains. One can’t help but wonder how Britain actually ran an empire when they can’t even run a transportation system. But I’m not going to get all political here. I probably should stick to writing fiction. It’s easier.

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