***INTIMATE PSYCHOTHERAPY***
I’d like to be able to stand on a mountaintop with my
electrified staff raised high and yell, “I AM HOPE!” to all of my dearly
beloveds. But in order for that to be taken seriously, I’d have to have some
kind of god complex. Because I’m a writer who makes mistakes often and isn’t
afraid to talk about them, I can’t afford to have a god complex. Part of the
reason why I continue to fuck up from time to time (aside from being human) is
because all of the romantic tropes from my favorite movies, books, and TV shows
don’t work to my advantage the way that I thought they would. Manic Pixie Dream
Girls? Gone. Changing other people through romance? Out. Damsels in Distress?
Only if the trope is subverted somehow, which I guess could be said for any
tired old trope.
But we’re not talking about those today, no, no, no, no.
Today we’re talking about something even more controversial: Intimate
Psychotherapy. You might know this better as the “sex cures everything” trope.
Are you feeling depressed? Have some sex. Are you feeling anxious? Conquer your
shyness and then have some great sex. Victim of sexual assault? Never fear,
because the good sex will make you forget you’ve ever had bad sex. Well…to
quote Theory of a Deadman, “All those flavors of the rainbow, too bad that shit
don’t work, though.” I can’t confirm this due to my own virginity, but great
sex releases an assload of endorphins in your brain. Masturbation does that
too, something I have a little more direct experience with. But does this rush
of endorphins cure everything? Hell no, not even a little bit. If you’re a
victim of sexual assault, the “great” sex won’t erase your shitty experience.
It’ll trigger you to where you can’t function anymore.
So where did I first hear about Intimate Psychotherapy? I do
have a clear answer, but I don’t want anybody to misinterpret it as the sole
reason why. Keep in mind that I don’t know the meaning of the term moderation.
Every piece of creative fuel I absorb, I take to the extreme without questioning
it. Not questioning creative fuel was my first mistake, especially since that
fuel came from a movie called The Sessions. In this movie, a sex surrogate
played by Helen Hunt is hired by a physically disabled poet to help build his
romantic confidence via sex. Sex surrogacy is a legitimate practice, but when
interpreting it as creative fuel, it shouldn’t be blown out of proportion. Yes,
exposure therapy has benefits. Yes, being exposed to great sex can help awkward
people overcome their fears. But is it a one-size-fits-all solution to
everything? No!
If I, a socially-awkward schizophrenic, flew out to Reno, Nevada
tomorrow morning (Corona Virus be damned) and visited a legal brothel to lose
my virginity, I wouldn’t also lose my mental illness. It’s not like I could
bust a nut and then suddenly flush my meds down the toilet. Remember,
masturbation has the same benefits as far as endorphins go. If masturbation
doesn’t cure mental illnesses, great sex won’t either. I’m sure there are
prostitutes out there who have crippling depression. I’m sure there are
strippers who have severe PTSD. I’m not saying every sex worker hates their own
job, but what about the ones that do? You think they’re finding healing in what
they do? What about victims of child trafficking? Now, we’ve gone too far down
the rabbit hole, but hopefully everything is clear to you by now.
The Intimate Psychotherapy trope in its most extreme forms
could be disproved over and over again and there would still be instances of
books and movies carrying on the misinformation. I will admit that it makes for
a tempting story, albeit a misleading one. Sex can be enjoyable. Masturbation
can also be enjoyable. The prospect of sex on its own can be very alluring to
any consumer of media. Yes, I know Intimate Psychotherapy doesn’t work in the
real world. Yes, I know how offensive it comes across in fiction. But what if
there was a way we could subvert a trope or otherwise make it fresh? Don’t say,
“This doesn’t work.” Ask, “How can we fix this?”
What if you’re writing a fantasy story and the white mage of
the party a.k.a. the healer used sex as part of the magic? What if there’s an
alien race in a sci-fi story that has medicinal properties in their semen? What
if prostitution was seen as a vital part of the healthcare industry and the
prices of which were jacked up to phenomenal proportions? You know, just like
in the healthcare system we have today? What if sex was used as a truth serum?
What if condoms were laced with healing salve? The possibilities are as endless
as your imagination. The trope can work as long as you don’t blow it out of
proportion and as long as you put your own spin on it. By itself, it’s
offensive as hell. But under the watch of a truly creative soul? Wow…
Isn’t that how we should be looking at old tropes to begin
with? Don’t get rid of them altogether, just put your unique touch on them.
Manic Pixie Dream Girls could be femme fatales in a heartbeat. Or there could
be an opposite of a femme fatale, where the seducer brings the mark to
greatness and healing instead of danger and death. What about Damsels in
Distress? We’ve seen that trope hundreds of times, but what if the kidnapper
was a female and the victim was a male? Or what if the damsel was a dead body
with a restless soul? The key word in creative writing is creative. If you
recycle the same shit over and over again, your audience is going to notice.
But if you freshen things up with that old creative fuel, they’ll notice it
even more and might even love you for it. If they love you enough, they can
cure your Impostor Syndrome with Intimate Psychotherapy! Just kidding! Or am I?
Hmm…
I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the
daylight!
***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***
Prior to writing this blog entry, I wrote chapter ten of Beautiful
Monster and I didn’t have nearly as many problems doing so as I did chapter
nine. The writing process went fairly smoothly. Maybe not so much in the
beginning, but it didn’t take long at all to find my grove again. And by the
end of the chapter, a slave-trader’s head was blown to bits and her brains were
scattered all over a wooden stage. This message was brought to you by the Smoke
Wagon XT, the same gun that was used to murder the slave-trader. Why does it
have an XT at the end? Who knows? Who cares? Orphaned acronyms are a thing. But
where does that leave chapter eleven? Well, after all the hoo-ha in Devon Bay
dies down, Windham
and Tarja finally get a room together. Shut up, that doesn’t mean what you
think it means. Although sex is indeed a theme in this chapter, there’s nothing
romantic or hot about it. It’s disturbing as fuck. It’s the reason why the
story is called Beautiful Monster. Ugh…
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away
from the pain that you drive into the heart of me. The love we share seems to
go nowhere. And I’ve lost my light, for I toss and turn, I can’t sleep at
night. Now I know I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away. You don’t really
want anymore from me. To make things right, you need someone to hold you tight.
And you think love is to pray. Well, I’m sorry, I don’t pray that way. Once I
ran to you. Now I’ll run from you. This tainted love you’ve given. I give you
all a boy could give you. Take my tears and that’s not nearly all. Tainted
love. Oh, tainted love. Don’t touch me, please. I cannot stand the way you
tease. I love you, though you hurt me so. Now I’m going to pack my things and
go. Tainted love. Touch me, baby, tainted love.”
-Soft Cell singing “Tainted Love”-
