It occurred to me that I should pop in here and reassure you all that I am still alive... Which I am. However, I am being worked very hard, with an eye towards maximizing and structuring my creative output. I have to construct a schedule for when I will write (obviously I may spend more time than what I allocate), set goals for what I will write, prepare a damn outline (!), and set milestones of progress along the way.
Some of you may suspect that this is not at all the way I normally operate.
I do not deny that this sort of imposed discipline is good for me and will, once I get used to this way of working, make for increased production and better quality. It does not deny me the option of flashes of inspiration, but it requires that I apply myself beyond that.
It scares the hell out of me.
I worry that I can't live up to his expectations.
But I don't really think I have a choice.
I have to try it.
I have to do it.
You may also suspect that the imposition of this structure on me is horribly arousing.
I feel as if I am being caned.
Not so much for punishment, but for correction, for direction, for making it painfully clear that he is quite serious and will not tolerate any shirking on my part.
I can envision him coming by daily, dragging me down to the dungeon bedroom, ordering me to strip and take the position up on the bed which offers my ass for a beating.
And then beat me he would.
Not for long.
A few firm strokes of the cane.
Perhaps 4 on each cheek.
Reminders, reapplied each day, that I must take him seriously.
He owns me.
I am his poet whore.
And just as I am required to suck his cock with all the skill and concentration and devotion that I can muster, so am I required to produce poems and stories with all the talent and intelligence he claims is there.
And thus I will.