The writing on the wall

Reading and writing

When I was a little girl I used to go with my Mother all the time to both the local library and the independent bookshop in the high street. (amazingly, despite being in London that book shop remains one of the few independents left in the capital today). My memories of it are as a place of wonder and adventure. Behind that inviting shop front lay exciting worlds to be explored. When I was small my Mother regularly bought me books there, although the library was a big feature too as we were definitely on a budget, but as I got older I would save my pocket money and birthday and Christmas money and pretty much spend it all on books. Sadly the shop is much changed now and the little children’s books section that had mini shelves that hid you from the rest of the shop and little chairs to sit in have gone in favour of a more open plan layout that makes it feel rather cramped. However I digress. It was in that shop that my love of book shops was born and it was the books that I bought there, my greatest treasures and trusted companions (I was a loner and still am in many ways) that made me want to be a writer.

School pretty much convinced me that was an unobtainable dream. I loved reading but when it came to writing well I got distinctively average marks and dropped English the moment I was allowed to because it was boring. I think it shows how the curriculum missed the mark as both the reader and the writer in me struggled and even worse was often bored. Everyone knows you can’t be a writer if you have not studied English and so I gave up on that dream and did other things. None of which I particularly enjoyed either but I didn’t give up reading. That passion stayed with me and just like in childhood they were my faithful companions and worlds of adventures that I would never really have myself but in books I could be and dream and that was something wonderful.

First filth

I wrote my first filthy story on a very ancient word-processor in my mid 20’s. My intention was to print it out and send it off to one of those porn magazines that printed Reader’s Wives stories. I did print it out but I never sent it. I had no one to proof read it for me, I never shared it with my husband as he was not exactly known for championing my abilities and so that belief that my writing wasn’t good enough meant it never left my house. I kept it hidden in my bedside draw for ages though and would get it out and read it from time to time and have a wank but eventually it grew old and I threw it away.

It was another 10 years before I wrote another one.

That one I did eventually post, not in the letter box but on a website called the Lusty Library that was a bit like Literotica but with a way better chat room. Much to my surprise and delight it got fairly good reviews and so I wrote another and then another which got picked as story of the month. I was hooked.

The blogging years

18 months later I made an account on wordpress.com. I was enjoying writing but was finding that finishing work was a problem and that I felt very disconnected from my stories once I had published them on this site. Yes they were attached to my profile but what did that actually mean really? I wanted to keep them and share them at the same time. I know that probably doesn’t make much sense but it did to me. Having stumbled across some sex blogs it seemed like starting my own one was the answer.

I had no other real plans for it apart from that. I optimistically called it Molly’s DAILY Kiss believing that would help discipline me to write something every day. I realised fairly early on that was never going to happen but the name still worked, after all there is always a kiss waiting for you whatever day you come by and see me. I was very excited when 20 people visited my site in one day and super excited when it was 100 and then 500 and so on. After 3 months I posted my first self portrait, after 8 months I bought my domain name and 6 months later moved to a self hosting packing. I am just about to complete my 9th year of blogging.

I am a writer

I have written 1638 posts here, averages out to roughly 15.4 posts a month and 3.8 posts a week and that is just here. That doesn’t include the stuff I wrote for D/s Life or the posts on Sinful Sunday and Kink of the Week. I have no idea how many words that might be but if you go for an average of 500 words per post then that is 819,000 words! Some of them are better than others I grant you but that is definitely a number a number to be proud of and on top of that people actually pay me to write for them and yet despite all that I still struggled to write that sentence above, “I am a writer”. The imposter syndrome continues to lurk within me.

What next?

I have no idea. As I said when I started the blog I never had a plan or a scheme for things. I just wrote and see where it took me and pretty much that is still what I do. I just keep going and rolling with whatever comes my way. The one thing that continues to allude me though is writing a longer body of work. I have numerous ideas for a anthology series but I never seen to move forward with them and my head is full of untold stories but unlike short stories I have no confidence when it comes to longer pieces. I see other bloggers writing series on their blogs and it is something I want to do but I was hugely unhappy with the one small attempt I made at such a thing that makes me wonder if maybe I am just not cut out for longer form and yet there is a part of me that doesn’t want to accept that is the case because if I do that little dream to write a book of my own that started in the corner of a book shop when I was a little girl would be dead forever and I am not sure there would be any point in writing any more if that ever happened.