| Welcome to the Website of Author/Photographer J L Foster |
| Site Page - Editing Excitement |
| Editing Excitement with Crystal Ordonez |
| BLURB Laura Primm is a tired, worn school teacher with a yearning for something new. When she receives a copy of a hot new author's book of erotic fiction, she finds hope that maybe she has come across that fresh new window she had been searching. Instead, she finds an unedited manuscript, filled with ghastly and unsightly grammatical errors. Deciding it best to contact the author and inform him of the errors, she sends him a concise email, unaware that he lived so nearby that if she tried, she could smell him. The heat begins to build as the author pays the school marm a visit, and the two slowly and sensually begin Editing Excitement! EXCERPT |
| Laura Primm looked both ways as she checked her mailbox. She pulled the package out and practically ran back into the safety of her small house on Spooner Street. She slammed her door as if someone was chasing her, and then she looked through the door's curtain to see if anyone had seen her. A car passed by and her heart stopped. Blue! Principal Wilson's car was blue! But she remembered it was a different shape. She hoped that it was a different shape. She heard girlish laughter. Was that little Sara Hanson? No, of course it wasn't. Sara lived on the other side of town. Laura put her hand to her chest and hit herself in the nose with the book. She squawked in surprise and stared at it. t was in a simply manila envelope. The proverbial plain brown wrapper. The return address showed no company name. Her address was printed in Times New Roman on a plain white label. She frowned down at it. There was no comma between the city and the state. Laura was somewhat soured by this. She was a teacher... an English teacher. Typographical errors annoyed her. Tearing the package open, she ripped the book from the brown paper and stared excitedly down to the cover. "Sensual Excitement" was the name. It was a collection of erotic short stories by a new, much talked about author, and Laura had been dying to know what the fuss was all about. Underneath the title of the book, a sole pair of red lips stared back at her, tickling a plump cherry with the tip of a tongue. Shivering in queer excitement, she clung the book close to her chest and breathed deeply. This would be the first time she had been able to sit down with a book in a long, long time. More so, it was the first time in an even longer time that she thought she might just get some pleasure out of the reading. Dickens, the Bronte sisters, and Hawthorne were all fine and dandy, but every once in a while she needed a break. This, she thought, was the perfect break! Settling down in her comfortable recliner with a hot cup of tea at the table by her side, she folded a blanket over her legs, placed her sharp-rimmed glasses at the tip of her nose, and licked her lips as she softly lifted the hard cover. She processed each word as the succulent it was. She understood now what the fuss was all about. The writing drew her in. By the end of the first story she was feeling warm in places she hadn't felt any sensation in years! She began the second story and was just beginning to look forward to what the male would do to the female... She gasped. Homonyms were easy for her first graders to get wrong. But for a grown man to confuse 'to' and 'too'... It was unacceptable. She sighed deeply as she frowned down at the page. Could the pleasant reading experience she was having be recovered? Could she care about what this man did to this woman as he lowered his lips 'too' her? She shook her head as if to clear it. She was not the author's editor, although if she was, her face would have been bright with the shame for allowing such a simple error to go unnoticed. She took a deep breath and finished the story, but it was suddenly dry and terrible. All because of one extra letter 'o'. She went on to the next story and found herself warm again as she read each perfect word. She could only dream of a man doing something like that to her – the old stereotypical school marm. And the nest was even better... She was unaware of how many times she licked her lips in anticipation as she lived vicariously through another woman's erotic experiences. The fifth story was one of her personal fantasies. She read eagerly as it was fulfilled. She was now aware of how warm she was under her blanket, but still she considered slipping a hand under it and finding even more warmth growing. And then she saw a comma. Not a semi-colon - a comma. Damn stupid punctuation errors! Incompetence! That was the only word she could think of to describe this. The next sentence - too - she found an error. Instead of the word "slit," the author had put "clit!" What was this "clit" that he began mentioning over and over again? How could someone rub fingers over a "clit?" They ran them over the slit... Rolling her hand underneath her blanket, she clenched the cloth of her dress in her hand and sat the book down on the table. Placing two fingers beneath her panties, she found her "slit" and rubbed against the odd warmth. Then, she moved down to her clitoris and squeezed it gently. "Of course," she whispered. "A 'clit' is a clitoris! I'll never understand these modern writers...!" Content that "clit" was simply a slang-abbreviated word for "clitoris," she pulled her damp fingers back and lifted the book again to read. It was only a page and a half later before Laura discovered the next series of errors. Present tense 'moans' instead of past tense 'moaned'. The word 'rithed' instead of the properly spelled 'writhed'. And the word 'cum'... Laura frowned down at the page. "What is that supposed to mean?" she growled softly to herself. She was only a few pages from the end of the book now and swallowed hard as she used every ounce of energy she possessed to finish it. There was a section – 'About the author' – and she saw the grainy picture of the handsome young man who had allowed his collection of stories to be mangled by a copy-editor who obviously needed to be slapped. Her eyes fell on the sentence. "Feedback is of course always welcome." No comma; just the sentence. And an email address... She licked her lips again. She could have enjoyed the book had it not had those errors in it. It was a good collection of stories. She should let him know of the errors. Give him a chance to correct them... She stood and walked to her desk, where her computer sat cold and silent. While the computer started, she tried in vain to talk herself out of writing this author. But she sat and pulled up her email program as soon as she could and began to email the address on the last page of the book. "Dear, Sir," she began, speaking the words as she slowly typed them. "I would like to let you know that I thoroughly enjoyed your collection of stories, however..." The letter was long and complete. She had somehow remembered every error that she had come across, and she informed him of each of them and how to correct them. "Cum..." she said aloud, shaking her head slowly. "'Come' is not a hard word to spell!" Clicking on the send button, she watched the email fold up into a paper airplane and fly off into cyberspace. The author would be happy, she assured herself, to have someone be gracious enough to help with his editing. Most probably, no one else has been kind enough to inform him of the mistakes. It was quite possible that he did not know that "come" was spelled with an "o" and not a "u"! Looking around her study filled with antiques, globes, and books, she wondered how anyone expected to get anywhere in the world with bad grammar. Just who did this man think he was, anyway? That was a very good question. Remembering that a web-address have been included on the final page of the book, she decided to do a bit of research on the author. Thumbing back through his collection of erotica, Laura located the website URL and softly typed it into her search bar. The website showed the same picture as was at the end of the book, but in full and vibrant color. Laura's breath caught in her throat as she looked at the face. He held his chin in his hand and he looked at the camera with a serious expression. Of course it was serious, she told herself. His eyes were dark and piercing and seemed to be looking directly at her. His hair looked as dark as his eyes... She swallowed hard and brushed aside the flutter in her heart that came whenever she saw an attractive dark haired man. His biography said he was a gay man, twenty-nine years old and lived ... She gasped. He lived in the town just down the road from her! Her heart in her throat, she turned the computer off with trembling hands. She comforted herself. He couldn't find her. The company she bought the book from was very discreet. Yet, it took two cups of tea before she convinced herself that she would not get a visit from an angry gay man who took exception to her giving a little constructive criticism. |
