Donnée Patrese reads an erotic story | The Dominant Teacher

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“You cannot be a good writer of serious fiction if you are not depressed.” ~Kurt Vonnegut Jr We all know the old stereotypes of the tortured artist, the alcoholic writer. They play into the belief that artistic creative types seem to be more depressed or are more susceptible to mental illness than the average person. Those old stereotypes may not have been too far off from many famous authors, poets and painters. When you think of Hemingway, Poe, Keats, Proust and Van Gogh, you don’t always think of their genius. More often than not you also think about their lives and how each one obviously suffered from some mental illness or depression. it almost makes depression seem glamorous, yet it isn’t glamorous to the person that suffers from it. I know from experience. I am not ashamed say that on occasion I suffer from depression. Okay…more often than that. It is something that has plagued me for quite a long time. As long as I can remember, I never understood it. When I...
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is for... Healing Healing is a hard process. Especially for someone like me. For years, I was known to hold a grudge. Since I was a kid I was a master at holding grudges. I had a friend from kindergarten whom I felt wronged me and I hated her for 7 years. Oh yes, I was the master of holding grudges. When I was 18, my cousin decided that I was not good enough to be a bridesmaid in her wedding even though we grew up together and were practically more than cousins, more like best friends and sisters. I was completely devastated by her decision and so completely betrayed. I held a grudge against her for 10 years. I held a grudge for a decade! Yes, I was a master at holding a grudge and I refused to let go of my anger and hate. I always felt like I was punishing them for the way they wronged me by avoiding them and not talking to them and dropping them from my life. In reality I was punishing myself. I didn’t get rid of the anger I just let it fest...
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I had written and scheduled a post for today for the Writers of Kern Blog challenge, but something happened this morning and I just had to write about it.   is for... Incomprehensible “You never know how quickly a life can be taken away until you see for your own eyes…” In 7 th grade I remember playing in the gym with my friends only to look over and see a 6 th grader sitting against a window alone. He looked really familiar and then it hit me. That 6 th grader looking so out of place was my uncle, Willie Cobb Jr. Born 4 days before me, he was the son of my Grandfather Willie Cobb Sr. (half black and Native American) and Dora Santana ( Mexican) I know it sounds strange but my mother’s youngest brother was my age. It was difficult growing up to see him as my uncle… but he was. I walked over to him and sat down. I ditched my friends because he was family and he was alone. He had just transferred to my school unbeknownst to me and I...
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