The dance of pain

Holiday weekends confuse me. Even though I'm not working, I have an inner sense of the pattern of the week that's almost physical. It's certainly visual. A holiday throws things off. I'm not sure where I'm standing.

What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.

I have my instructions.
Special preparations.

Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.

Place the flogger and the cane in the basement bedroom.
The flogger on the bed.
The cane in the closet.

The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.

Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.

The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.

He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.

But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.

Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.

Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because.
Because he needs to.

Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.

He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.

What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.

[dead air]

I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...

He likes to use that word.
Prey.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.

The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.

Remove your panties

Remove your panties.

An unexpected message from his cell phone.

I am home alone.
There is no bar to immediate obedience.
He knows I will obey immediately.

I feel so open
So accessible.
So vulnerable.
My shorts are loose.
Fingers could easily slip up a leg hole.
Fingers could easily slip into my pleasing pussy.

Get the chain.
Keep it with you all night.

I'm in the bedroom.
A few steps and the chain is off the hook in the closet.
A few more moves and it is looped around my neck.
I throw it back over my shoulders like a soft silk scarf.
But no river of watery blues and green and purples
wraps around my throat and flows down my back.
My scarf is hard and cold and unyielding.
Steel links of silver grey, squeezing my windpipe
and reminding me who I am.

I am aroused.
It hurts.
I tell him.
My pussy hurts from wanting him so.
I feel his fingers inside me,
fucking me hard, hungry and merciless.

You may touch it lightly with the chain.
That is all.

The chain is cold and hard and unyielding,
yet kisses my pussy tenderly, like a precious pet.
My pussy opens and weeps with desire,
yet wants nothing more.

He wants to do things to me.
His thoughts would probably scare me.

It's a constant, delicate dance with no set choreography.
What he wants to do to me.
What I want to give him.
What he tries to protect me from.
What I can't handle.
What he can't stop from happening.
What I can't stop from happening.

Neither of us wants the music to end.

He is training me.
Teaching me.
Teaching me to take the pain
to want the pain
to submit to more before I feel the pain.

To beg for it.

I learn very fast.
I wish I could learn faster.

I wish I could learn faster so very soon he could do all those awful things to me that he thinks about - and I won't come apart. There will be nothing but his pleasure and his pride and my gratitude that I can give him so much and - especially - that exquisite intimacy that comes as, giving and suffering, we share the pain.

Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 2 of 2

Being a continuation of my part of the conversation about my post My Master's mea culpa. You can read Part 1 here, which includes an introductory diatribe about how all relationships are different. Even D/s or M/s or whatever you choose to call yourselves because it just feels right. Long-time readers or people who have run across my comments cluttering up their own blogs will be quite familiar with my views on the subject. Still, many of you are masochists, so just might want to hear me say it once again.

Yesterday's post was much too long when I finally quit writing from sheer exhaustion, so I'm addressing the rest of the comments today. And I'm doing it in a post because most readers don't seem to bother reading the comments. Which is a pity, because they were long and meaty this time and sure to spark more discussion.

At least I hope there is more discussion!

That was my fantasy all along, you know. To be an aging but still outrageously sexy courtesan in her Paris salon, entertaining assorted smart and sexy (and at least slightly wild and artsy wouldn't be bad either) members of the kinky class. However you define kinky. Me, I rarely use the word. But that's me. I'm weird about words.

So please say things!

[she's begging now... she's almost as good at begging as she is at cocksucking...]

Now.
Down to business.
If I had an assistant she'd be handing me the first letter...
Oops! We already did the first letter.
Let's see now...
Ah yes.
This one.

Sexperts brought up a good issue:

I'd just add that, is the "damage" to a level you can handle it and heal from quickly? My dom is not quite so sadistic as yours seems to be via your blog, but there are times he has genuinely scared me or hurt me. Lately, when he says he is afraid to lose control, I always say, "But I healed. It took a few hours or days, but the trust came back."

The few times the fiend has gone too far - or at least too far for me to handle - the big issue has not been the physical damage. It was that I would have what I call a "bad reaction." And it would take a varying amount of time for me to recover. The bruises would be around long after my equilibrium returned, but once I felt better emotionally I loved my marks!

However, this next part does not - can not - apply:

Depending on what you want, it might be okay to let him occasionally lose control if you can still get the trust back. I'm not saying every time, but on the rare occasions.

That phrase "let him"?
Not in my dictionary.

And this was the only time I have come out of my submissive fog, my state of extreme acceptance, and started wondering if I might have to think of how to handle this. Precisely because it felt so different. It didn't feel like the beast running wild. It felt like abuse. Otherwise, even when I've been scared, like the time he had the knife against my naked belly, it never occurred to me not to submit.

Now the irony of it all is that what he had done just wasn't all that bad. He was slapping my face. Hard. And once a few times in succession. For no reason I could understand. And the full irony of this came home as I was exploring a section of Sexperts' blog today. She has turned up here only recently - or at least made herself known only recently - so I had only been over to her place once before. This time I looked at the section labelled Dominance. Then at an article called Places to Hit, Spank, Bite, and Where Not To! And there, to my great embarrassment, under hitting, was this:

I enjoy being slapped across the face (lightly at first, with full force if I'm turned on and we are being wild) and my Dom says he loves the look of complete shock and then lust that comes over my face when he hits me.

I feel like such a wuss!
Which, of course, I shouldn't.
Because, as I say ad nauseum, everyone's different.
Still, it did sort of put things in perspective.
And I really, really appreciate that.

He went too far.
That is very true.
But only for me.
My life was NOT in danger.

Next.

swan.
swan is a very wise and perceptive woman.
She is both sensitive and analytical.
And she has been dealing with an armload of difficult situations.

These words were exactly what I needed to hear:

I can only offer you a deep understanding and perhaps companionship on this road you are walking.

Then she speaks about being on the edge.

You can continue to choose for yourself to remain balanced on that edge. I hope, too, that at some level known only to you (and perhaps to him), that you retain the capacity to see the way off the edge if that becomes important.

Encompassing both potentials is the most delicate power balance of all...

Holding on to the capacity to see my way off the edge... and also gaining a better perspective as to how close to the edge I actually am. I think I err in both directions - both overestimating my safety and underestimating the danger.

jcn doesn't have a blog. Not even a blogger profile, though that should be remedied very soon. She's around my age and has been living a BDSM marriage for around 40 years or so. With the same man. She's been through a lot.

In Part 1 of this post, I quoted her very accurate statement about the advisability of faking my reactions to my Master's... um... ministrations. Applications of pain. Whatever. I don't need to say anything more about that. You all, of course, are welcome to say whatever you want about anything here or in any other post.

Anyway. Here's another excellent point she made, which is something I think some of you might tend to miss:

Your fiend is experienced, and clever, and has repeatedly demonstrated both his concern for your well-being and his willingness to rework his own plans for the well-being of the relationship. I think it's remarkable that he has taken responsibility, and I feel more warmth for him that I usually do.

As I've said numerous times, the man is a sadist. Not merely someone who enjoys sadistic play. And still, he wraps himself in figurative chains to protect both me and the relationship. I am always deeply touched by this. And for him to take full responsibility for what happened last weekend - when he could easily growl and say that I overreacted - that touches me deeply. You do need to give him credit. This isn't something you often get from an absolute monarch.

He can certainly be cruel.
He'd admit to that himself.

But he is not not not one of those people whom Sophia referred to in her comment on Part 1. He is NOT a "harsh, cruel and unloving master."

mamacrow is a sweetheart. Plain and simple. And English. With a houseful of children. She often makes me laugh, and my Master has praised her intelligence because she has said nice things about him. He does have a sense of humor, you know.

I have nothing more to add, except to offer this excerpt and encourage you to read the rest of what she says. The rest of what they all have said. And then give us your thoughts.

And I'm impressed by his mea culpa too. It takes a 'real man' and a lot of courage to do that. even if it IS partly a manipulation :)

Which leads into agog's comment. I just love the name of her blog, by the way. Bumbling Towards Submission. Very honest. Really, we all of us, no matter how long we've been at it, are still feeling our way. If we ever get to thinking we have nothing left to learn, then we might as well give up.

She starts off her comment with this:

The best manipulation uses the truth, in my opinion. Just because he was manipulating you doesn't mean he didn't mean everything he said.

Which is very true.
I know it's true.

Which I why I sometimes smile to myself when he growls about how he manipulates me.

Ugh.
It's actually already Saturday here on the East Coast of the US.
But I said this would go up Friday so I'm dating it as Friday.

I admit it.
I do stretch the truth some times...

Thank you all for joining the conversation.
Please keep talking!

Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 1 of 2

Really!
I'm not trying to be funny.
Well, OK.
I am trying to be funny.
But not merely funny.

A relationship is like sucking cock.
No one size fits all,
be it your parents' relationship
or BDSM
or teenagers just finding their way.
We can read books,
talk to our friends,
pore over advice columns,
but in the end
all we have
is us.

All you have is that cock in your mouth which could be much too long or unusually short or so fat you could choke on it or so thin it could wriggle down your throat like a worm. You can study all the basic techniques but in the end it's what he likes combined with what you can do and the fantasies you can trigger and your own sparks of creativity.

My Master trained me very carefully before he allowed me to start sucking. Clear descriptions of what he likes, suggested exercises to practice by myself, very direct and directive feedback on my performance - and for his pains, he has the services of one of the best damn cocksuckers in the world.

For him.
And his other subs can probably say pretty much the same thing.

But only for him.

I was good before we met. Before the training started. I could give you testimonials. Now I'm even better. But I would never claim that any other cock would experience the same level of satisfaction as his does. Especially not the first time round. When he brings his friends to fuck me, to use me, which is definitely under discussion, I will work very hard to please them as much as I please him. But I'll have to do a lot of experimenting. Improvising. Reading the signs. Listening to their grunts.

Learning to suck cock is not like studying an arithmetic textbook.
There is no one right answer
and there is no one right way to get there.
Same thing with relationships.
All relationships.

Which brings us back to BDSM.
And what my long-time readers are probably sick of hearing me say.
D/s
M/s
S & M

It's pure BS if you think you can say
a Master is like this,
a sub must do that,
a slave is one who,
a Dom has to be.

A D/s relationship (for example) is still just a relationship.
What matters is how the parties see it.
What matters is what works for you.

There.
Got that out of the way.

There were some lengthy comments in response to yesterday's post: My Master's mea culpa. I really like lengthy comments. I like the thought that goes into them, and I like that people care enough to take the time to write that much. I'm very grateful for everything that was said.

But I also know that most people don't read the comments. And I only ended up replying to the first one. So 1) if you follow the link from the title in the previous paragraph, you'll get the post with all the comments in full; and 2) here are excerpts from each one, with some measure of response from me. I do hope that the conversation continues! I don't claim to be perfect. I don't claim to know all. I certainly don't claim to know what's right for the rest of you. But I have been serving the sadist for just 2 months shy of 3 years, and while obviously neither of us has all the answers I do think I know a whole lot about who and what we are.

Still, I can always use some help. And writing and discussing here, as well as some private conversations, have been a great help in getting me through the last few days back to feeling grounded again. And I do feel grounded again. I see it in perspective. I am not walking away. What we have is too good, and we have worked too hard for it. We'll get through this and keep on working to build on what we have.

And now, the comments.

Sophia Anne is a sub and a relative newcomer to this space. This was her first comment, and I really appreciate her speaking up. She started off with "perhaps I have no business posting this comment when I don't know your full story." Everyone is free to comment, but it's true that some sorts of comments are more appropriate when you know more about the people involved. She warned me abut the danger of abuse, which is a good and fair warning. What I was aware of at the time was exactly that. It didn't feel like sadistic behaviour that was too much for me to deal with. It felt like irrational, drunken abuse. And that scared me. But note that this was the first time in nearly 3 years that I have felt like that.

She then went on:

Safe and loving doms channel their sadism into ways that will not cause serious harm and in ways that are also beneficial to the sub, i.e. meeting her masochistic and emotional needs without going too far. In other words, they practice self-control.

As I said in my direct reply, the sadist, my sadist, has never claimed to be safe. In fact, he has warned me again and again that he is not safe. This has always been a very serious warning, and is testament to the way he treasures me. [I'm deliberately not using the word "loving." Not every dom(me) loves his or her sub, but they can still be caring and responsible.] The fiend is not just sadistic. He is a sadist. A real one. I do know this. He has never claimed otherwise. He cannot always completely control himself but continues to work very hard to protect me. You cannot imagine what this entails. It's far more serious than my swearing off ice cream because I'm on the edge of being diabetic. And damn, it's summer and I really want some ice cream!

Also, while he does meet my needs far more than any other, safer person I've ever been involved with, including my 2 ex-husbands even when things were good [were things ever really good with #2?], the ultimate focus of the relationship is to serve his needs. Period. Luckily for me, building up my self-respect and self-image, teaching me that I am beautiful, and encouraging my creativity all serve his own needs. I have grown and healed in very real ways in his ownership. I am very, very fortunate. These were my real needs. To be given structure. To be directed. To be appreciated. I am not in fact a masochist, although he has been teaching me about pain, and the beautiful intimacy that comes from the shared experience of causing pain and suffering it.

I am not trying to "have my masochistic needs met." If that's all I wanted then yes, there are plenty of people who would oblige me. Who would "play with me." But we do not play. This is not a game. It is a serious, exquisite connection with a man who has been training and guiding and using submissives and slaves for decades. Longer than some of my readers have been alive. It does feel as if your comment was meant largely as a general statement. But it's a good idea to do a little research into a specific circumstance before implying that someone has not earned the right to call himself Master. The ones I really worry about are the ones who demand you call them that right away, long before the relationship warrants it. I also worry about one-size-fits-all doms, who expect every "sub" and "slave" to serve them in the same way, who have the same expectations of each person in their care, without bothering to learn what it is they have acquired and then respond to the unique capabilities and characteristics of their property. You shouldn't try to make a Mini Cooper perform like a Jaguar.

But even the best driver occasionally goes too fast.
And cracks up the car.
Even a treasured car.
So you check yourself and the vehicle for damages,
berate yourself,
patch both of you up,
and learn from your mistakes.

I'm going to jump over the next couple of readers and slip ahead to Master Roger. He is Sophia Anne's master and can be found writing on the same blog.

He wrote:

This may or may not help but I suggest you improve your acting skills. Try reading "An Actor Prepares" by Stanislavsky.

You say that inflicting pain gives your Master pleasure, but what aspect is it that pleases him the most?

Is it doing actual physical damage to you or is it hearing you scream and cry and beg?

If it is the latter I believe you could save your skin and increase your Master's pleasure by becoming more verbal and expressive when taking his punishment.

Don't wait to be in extreme pain before you protest. Pretend to be in more pain than you actually are.
Yes, you are acting, but the purpose of your performance is to give your Master the experience he seeks without more harm than necessary to yourself.

Actually, having been trained in the theatre, I have read Stanislavsky and studied his techniques. As far back as high school, which was a long time ago.

As for the suggestion that I fake my suffering, I'll let reader jcn have the first word, as she put it so eloquently:

Master Roger suggests feigning pain, but all that I understand of the fiend, all that is written about him here, screams that he would have an unholy fit if he thought you were FAKING shit! And despite the fact that I'm a pain slut, I wouldn't want to be around the sadist when he was having a fit!

My Master always knows when I am lying.
Or not even full out lying.
I don't lie.
But fooling myself.
Thinking I understand something, or feel it, when I don't yet.
He is a true Master of what he does.
He has an uncanny ability to read people.
So he would know if I were acting.
And there's no way he would accept it.

However, Master Roger is right about his wanting to know that he is hurting me. But he wants the truth of it. Because - again - we're not playing. It's not just ooh, lets have some hot S&M sex and I'll whack at your butt and it'll make me hard and I'll cum with a bang.

It's the intimacy of it.
What flows between the sadist and his victim.
And sometimes, all it takes is the smallest thing.
He takes my nipple between two fingers
as I give him my eyes
and he sees what happens in those eyes
as he squeezes
just enough
to cause the merest amount of pain.
It doesn't take much with me.
I'm not a masochist.
And he sees the change in my eyes.
Something flows between our eyes.
We both open
and I give him everything and more
and he takes everything and more
but oh...
I get so much, too.

Never has a cock fucking a pussy achieved that level of intimacy.
Never.

You can't get that if you're acting.

This is way too long for one post, so I will finish tomorrow. And I do owe you guys a sex toy review! But here is one more quote from Master Roger:

Your role as a slave is to please your Master. Being a good actress is merely on [sic] more skill a good slave should have to facilitate pleasing her Master.

This gets back to my opening statement and my constant insistence that there is no official policy as to what defines any sort of BDSM - or any - relationship. No one has the authority to say this is what a sub or slave is or is supposed to do.

My role as a slave is what my Master says it is.
The skills *I* need as his slave are what he demands of me.
It's a question of who I am,
what my special talents are,
what desires I raise in him,
and what is between us.
What our unique relationship is.

I would be out of his life pretty fast if he thought I was acting.
Our relationship is based on honesty.

I'm sorry if it sounded as if I was picking on either of you, but the areas you both hit are things I feel pretty fiercely about. For my relationship. With my Master. On top of my general aversion to the idea of BDSM having set rules and definitions. As I said to Sophia Anne, there is no kinky Bureau of Standards to say how we may use certain terms and how we must conduct our relationships.

All relationships are hard.
Everyone fucks up sooner or later.

The emotional pain I suffered at the hands of my second husband without his ever striking me was far worse, and far more destructive, than anything my truly loved Master has ever done to me. And ex-hubby #2 never apologized. He didn't care at all. He barely noticed me.

Who was the real self-centered sadist?

I'll address the rest of the comments tomorrow - and please add new ones!

Meanwhile, please forgive this last bit of self-indulgence.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

My Master's mea culpa

There are things I haven't said about our long night together. There are always things I leave out, of course. But this I left out deliberately. Because I wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

I'm still not ready to talk about it.
But it comes down to this.
He is always fighting his desire to hurt me.
It's a constant struggle.

He didn't do very well on Saturday night.
He scared me.
And other things.

I've been struggling with it. And as the visible bruises have slowly healed, the inner ones have... well, not quite healed, but they were no longer hurting all the time.

And then tonight, he spoke directly to what happened for the first time. Because he's afraid for my safety.

We go through this periodically.
We're not just talking someone who has fun with Dick & Jane & spanking.
My Master is a full-fledged sadist.
He has a compulsion to cause pain.
And he has a special compulsion to hurt me.

Even as he wants to protect me from harm.

So every so often he advises me to get out while I can.

I'm a little more inclined this time to give his advice serious consideration. Except I just can't. I can't walk away. I think of safety measures we can initiate, circumstances under which we should not be together. I think of what we are like together, what we do for each other, what he has done for me.

I think of how empty my life would be without him.

Sure, he has manipulated me.

I don't need his admission to know that.

But I can also feel what is real.

So I can't give up trying.

Trying to find a way to continue.

To keep me from being seriously hurt.

To keep him from being too frustrated.

To keep us from giving up something very special.

He gave me a gift, though.

He gave me a gift tonight.

He admitted that things got out of control Saturday night.

And he took full responsibility.

Something he very rarely does.

In fact, I'm not sure he has ever said it was all his fault.

Of course, my Master is very good at what he does.

His mea culpa could just be another attempt at manipulation.

If so

[she sighs helplessly]

he succeeded once again.

PS - there's a bit of a lively discussion going on in the Comments. Do check it out - and join in!

Secreterial services

Sometimes, you have to make a special effort to provide the kind of service that a hard-working businessman requires. Sometimes, you have to perform tasks for which most secretarial schools do not provide training.

Luckily, I received my training at an academy with exceptional course offerings.

Today, I served as my Master's table.
Or perhaps, to be more accurate, his desk.

He arrived early.
Shortly after 10 am.
He arrived early, with work he could do from here.
His satellite office.
He checked his e-mail and worked on Excel
while I fondled his cock.
He made phone calls and sounded professional
while I sucked his cock.

He did surprisingly well. I tried very hard to distract him, but somehow - I don't know how - he stayed on topic and managed not to groan while I sucked his cock and he talked on the phone.

Then he ordered me into position on the floor before him, as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair. With my delectable, already pink butt facing towards him and as close as possible, I went down on the carpet on forearms and knees. As instructed, I wiggled back closer still, with my legs under the chair and my irresistible butt angled up higher. I remembered the feel of the champagne running through the channel on my back, and his soft lips as he slurped the tiny tingling bubbles off my skin.

But that was last Saturday.
Today I served a more prosaic purpose.
Today I was no more than a table,
holding his notebook computer as he read and typed.

I was a table.

I thought of the old joke:
"Make me a malted."
"Poof! You're a malted."

I thought of the old folksong.
Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor.
But I wasn't a pallet.
I was a desk.
I was a table.

The rounded perfection of my butt cheeks, normally such an asset, were in this case a bit problematic. My Master made note, but didn't really complain. He did his work.

Then I sucked his cock.
And served his pleasure in other ways.
After which I served him lunch.
And then,
finally,
after a good three hours of my ministrations,
he allowed me to make him cum.

Which he did.
Most enthusiastically .

The blog as poetry, not documentary

He doesn't remember saying them.
Those three magic words plus one.
Which doesn't surprise me at all.

He certainly didn't say them as if it were some big admission. He didn't say them as if he expected a huge emotional reaction from me. And he didn't get one. Even after, I haven't been obsessing over it, although I was curious what his response would be when I told him that I'd heard it.

And he didn't remember.
Which is no surprise.
Given the amount he drank that night.

So don't make too big a deal of it.
Cause I'm not.
He's fond of me.
That's enough.

I'm amused more than anything, with no expectations of flowers and chocolates. Definitely not chocolates, given the diet and diabetes issues. Though eventually I might be allowed an occasional small square of of super dark chocolate. Yum...

Something you all should keep in mind.
Mainly, I write this blog for myself.
It's good for me to write regularly.
And talking and writing is how I process things.
Sometimes I figure things out as I say them.

But sometimes I write mainly for you.
To amuse you.
To entertain you.
At times deliberately to arouse you.
And at times to feed your romantic streak.

So I might present things through trick glasses that fill the scene with hearts and flowers and moony eyes. The view you then get is to some extent mine, and very little his. I've given the warning before, that you need to remember that I'm a writer. I select, I edit, I embellish, I leave things out.

And I'm a poet.
I do things with words.
My life is my raw material.
My blog is not a photograph.
It's an impressionist painting.

Even so-called reality shows have writers.