Posts Tagged ‘wickedsexytalesoflegendarylovers’

Interview with Mitzi Szereto

Wednesday, April 14th, 2010

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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Get Your Tractor Off My Lawn!

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

soup mix

“I have to go on Facebook to find out you’re sick???”

Throw in an “oy vey” and yup, we’ve got mega Jewish Mother Syndrome at work here. (I knew there was an explanation for all those food parcels containing Manischewitz Matzo Ball Soup Mix.) This is pretty much typical of what I get on a daily basis from South Florida. Oh, the joys of social networking sites! Not only does the entire universe know your business (including stalkers, potential stalkers, serial killers and hapless suitors), but you get your mama nosing around to see what you’re up to. Not that I’m ever up to much of anything, but…

I actually posted a status update saying that I wished my mother would stop spying on my Facebook. And guess who saw it? Yeah, my mother. Just as I knew she would, which is why I posted the status update in the first place. It only took a few minutes and there she was, posting a maternal retort on my page, saying “you thought I wouldn’t see that?”. Well, of course I thought she’d see it. That was the whole point!

It’s all my fault. I’m the one who turned her onto Facebook. I’m no better than a schoolyard dope peddler. (“Hey kid, wanna get high?”) And what do you think mummy dearest does to thank me for my social networking kindless and generosity? Steal my friends. Not only that, she donates a bunch of her friends to me as if I’m some Facebook Johnny No Mates (hell, I’m almost at the 5,000 friends limit!), only to later ask who’s that crazy Hungarian woman who keeps poking her or who’s that lad in Moscow who wrote on my wall? – to which I have to remind her that SHE was the one who gave these people to ME! And if that’s not enough, I’ve even seen several of my friends go over to her camp. Then when I ask her about it, she goes all innocent and claims they sent friend requests and since she saw they knew me she accepted their add. Hmmm…

I’m now wondering if it’s only a coincidence that she got bounced off Facebook at the exact same time I did a few months back. That was when the site was changing over to their new security system, resulting in disaster for a number of users, myself included. Between the two of us (and a slew of Facebook friends I’d recruited for this purpose) we were launching email tirades at every Facebook employee we could find to get our profiles back up and running again. I’m sure there are photos of us on the walls of their Palo Alto headquarters that have been made into dartboards. In fact, I’ve heard Mark Zuckerberg‘s got a full-length one of me in his office – and I won’t even tell you where he aims his darts. (Let’s just say that if I ever do another volume of Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers, he won’t be one of the legendary lovers.)

As for my mother and her keen interest in my Facebook goings-on, I’m certain I’ll catch hell for this blog post, but in the words of former Prime Minister John Major, “Get your tractor off my lawn!”

♥♥♥

Seriously, you have GOT to play this video: http://www.youtube.com

And give this one a listen too: http://www.youtube.com

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Facebook: The Anti-Social Social Network

Friday, November 14th, 2008

You know that expression “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”? Well, how about “Hell hath no fury like a social networker scorned”?

A couple of weeks ago I had my Facebook account disabled with no warning or explanation. I’d been online in the evening and had left the page open while I took an overseas call. When I returned to the computer – BANG!! No more Facebook. Needless to say, I was not amused. I figured it was yet another of their multitudinous technological glitches – the very same glitches that have prevented me from accessing many of the applications I have loaded. I mean, I can receive Poke Pros, but I can’t seem to send them back out. What’s the world coming to? I figured this time something truly major had malfunctioned. However, when my bear was able to get into his Facebook account, I realised that things were definitely not kosher.

For several days running, I sent copious emails to copious Facebook email addresses, as did many of my Facebook friends, who wished to lodge their protests over my apparent and tragic assassination. I hadn’t done anything I could think of to bring the wrath of the Silicon Valley gods down upon me. My only consolation that it had all been some dreadful mistake was down to the fact that on the very same night my account went missing, so too did my mother’s. Now this was truly bizarre, especially since she uses it nowhere near to the slavish and fanatical extent in which I do. I smelled conspiracy. And I was out for blood. There was more at stake here than simple social networking. I had things on my Facebook of great sentimental value to me – and perhaps this was what hurt the most: losing them forever.

To say that I was ready to recruit any surviving members of the Weathermen (or those not still in prison) to come with me to Palo Alto and do some major sorting out would not have been an understatement. (I should add that I’ve been told I look pretty hot in khaki too.) Had I actually boarded that flight to Northern California, well… let’s just say that Mark Zuckerberg (can we think of anything that rhymes with “Zuckerberg”?) would have been wise to pack up his cojones and head for the Mexican border. This was NOT how The Queen of Facebook should be treated!

When I received an email containing a Washington Post link from a friend about what can only be described as an indiscriminate cull by Facebook against its users, I really freaked out. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but there definitely appears to be a discriminatory policy in operation here. My bear has been the victim of it; so too have a number of his mates who, like him, don’t qualify as sharing the same species as you and I do. Having said that, I know plenty of homo sapiens who have likewise been treated unfairly, having their accounts randomly and bizarrely disabled for reasons known only to some anonymous entities hiding behind a computer screen whose sole source of social interaction is derived courtesy of their own hand. Bad enough to get scolded for adding too many friends or joining too many groups, but where will it end? Delete accounts of people who have a big schnoz? (Guess Babs Streisand will be shit out of luck on this one!)

To make the situation even more bizarre, only a few weeks before my enforced disappearance from my favourite social networking site I received an ominous message from the Facebook gods that a photo I’d uploaded had been removed due to a “violation of terms of use”. Now that puzzled me. What could I possibly have posted that could even remotely have violated anything? A photo of me at a book launch? A photo of me at my mother’s house? A photo of me with my bear? WHAT? Hell, I’ve seen stuff on Facebook that’s downright pornographic, to say nothing of the kind of groups they allow to proliferate – groups which should only be allowed on a subscription porn site, not on a mainstream social networking site. Hell, I’ve seen profile photos of women who look as if they’re plying their dodgy wares on a street corner. But who gets a threatening message about violating terms of use? Me! So I combed through my various photos, trying to figure out which one had been excised out of existence. And guess what? It was the book jacket for my anthology Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers. I nearly fell off my chair. Okay, it’s got nudity, but it’s artful and subtle nudity, not pornographic nudity. You see raunchier stuff on a postcard from Miami Beach. I couldn’t help wondering who in my circle of 4,000 plus Facebook friends would have complained about the cover of a book I’d done, especially if they were interested in having me as a friend in the first place! Ironically, Wicked has been and still is being sold by major booksellers – and placed out on the front tables, not relinquished to some unreachable top shelf in the rear of the store next to the toilets. Clearly, Borders and Waterstones have no objection to the book jacket. Go figure.

Anyway, my story has a happy ending… at least for now. I’m back online at Facebook and, I am pleased to say, was apparently sorely missed. In fact, I received a number of messages and wall posts from people I’d never even spoken to before, welcoming me back and saying that it had been really boring without me. Gosh. Perhaps there is something to this social networking gig after all. I mean, a little bit of mass adoration can go a long way.

And who knows? That random poke you receive might develop into the love of your life! (If it doesn’t lead you into the arms of a serial killer first.)

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Three Essex Boys and a Loft

Sunday, November 9th, 2008

How many eligible single women out there can claim they’ve had three Essex boys in their loft? What about how many eligible single erotic-fiction writing women? Bet you can’t even think of one!

Well, please allow me to introduce myself…

And, while I’m at it, let me introduce my three official loft men: Dave, Stu, and Steve.

Any time I need a suitcase down (or for that matter, one putting back up), I send off a text or email, and invariably someone bites. Even my landlady’s boyfriend has bitten. Hey, someone needs to negotiate that folding metal ladder and the multitude of suitcases and boxes and miscellany I have stored in my loft just waiting to come crashing down through the ceiling. I think I even have an old laptop stored in there. I can’t really be sure though, since I’ve never ventured up, preferring to leave this rather precarious task to others. For all I know, there might even be some Polish builders living up there. Thankfully my flat is only seven years old, or else I’d be worrying about the Germans too.

It’s becoming quite a competition, this loft business. In fact, I’m concerned there might soon be bloodshed. These lads are getting very possessive of my loft, grilling me as to who was in there before, and when. I mean, it’s MY loft, and what I choose to do with it is my bloody business. But no, I’ve got these guys asking me all sorts, as if expecting me to slip up and admit to some wild orgiastic scenario. And it got worse when Steve appeared on the scene. You see, I needed a suitcase down in a hurry, as I’d made last-minute plans to leave the country. I first texted Dave (whom, it should be noted, my loft lost its cherry to), but he couldn’t give me a definite answer and frankly, I was starting to panic. So I emailed Steve – who just so happens to be my landlady’s boyfriend. He’s usually the one who comes by my flat to do minor repairs that need doing, plus he works nearby, therefore I reckoned he was my best bet on this occasion. Well, Dave was none too happy when he found out that Steve (who’s a West Ham supporter) had been tinkering about in what he assumed was his territory. Then there’s Stu, who’s not exactly over the moon about Dave (and he doesn’t even know about Steve!). The other day Stu came by to take me grocery shopping and to sort out my suitcase for my upcoming residential weekend erotic writing workshop on the Isle of Wight. As he stood balancing precariously on the ladder, he quizzed me suspiciously as to when I’d last had Dave up my loft, seeming visibly relieved when I admitted that it had been awhile. Guess I’d better not tell him that Steve was just here this afternoon. It might be more than he can take.

Now don’t go getting any crazy notions that I make a habit out of collecting loft men, particularly loft men from Essex. But can I help it if I have three Essex boys all battling to get into my loft? I mean, it’s a nice cosy loft, so perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that so many want to get into it. Plus it has good insulation, which is a real perk in a cold country like England. I admit it’s a tight space, not to mention a tad dark up there, but hey, that’s what torches (flashlights) are for! And no, it isn’t all wham bam thank you ma’am either. I don’t have that kind of loft – and my loft men know it too. Why, it so happens that one of my loft men has even proposed marriage to me – and more than once, I might add. (And no, it wasn’t my landlady’s boyfriend! You think I want my rent raised???) The last time he (my maritally minded loft man) came by, he brought me an early Christmas present: an ice cream maker, the plan being for me to use it to make some Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream (or a bastardised version of it anyway) whenever my little heart desired. Last Christmas another of my loft men brought a gift for Teddy in addition to the ones he brought for me. I tell you, when you’ve got loft men trying to impress your bear, you know they mean business.

Maybe I should consider doing a new version of my book Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers, altering it to Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Loft Men. Or maybe I shouldn’t.

Oh, well, an eligible single American erotic-writing lass in Blighty can never have too many loft men, can she? 😉

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