Tamara Shoemaker's Blog, page 5

First, I haven't blogged for awhile. I've been so caught up in vomiting story material into my first draft of my current work in progress, that I haven't given myself pause for at least three weeks.

Second, if I was going to blog, it would be about this, because this hits home. So, so much.

Third, since my friend and fellow author wrote it first and put it much more eloquently than I could, I will post his link here, and tell all of you, especially you fellow writers, to go read it. Do it. It's really good.

Harry Kraus: 3 Men Walk Into A Blog

I'm an alto. I'm probably a second alto. My voice breaks when it moves from an A above middle C to a B above middle C. After that, it's all in my head voice. For you non-musical folks who are reading this, that means that my singing range is only a little higher than someone like James Earl Jones (Darth Vader from Star Wars) or Benedict Cumberbatch (Smaug from the recent Hobbit, Desolation).

I grew up in a perpetual state of mild jealousy of the sopranos around me. I wanted to be a leading soprano. Why? Because leading sopranos could get actual speaking parts in school musicals. Since school musicals obviously are such an important aspect of the average middle and high schooler's life, I let myself get depressed every time I was passed over by much higher-ranged voices for the parts I wanted.

I remember the first time I really tried to listen to an alto line. I was singing Trust and Obey with my mother in church, and since she is a second alto, I honed in on the line she was singing. It was one note through most of the song. I leaned over and whispered, "Alto's really boring, isn't it?" She leaned back and said, "No, it's what makes the soprano pretty."

Today, I was thinking about personalities. I've heard it said that almost all personalities will fit one of the characters in Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne. Some people are energetic, vivacious, exciting, go-get-'em. Kind of like Tigger. They live their lives in a crazy circle of activity and social whirl. 

There are the wet blankets. The Eeyores. They have a perpetual half empty glass sitting on their desk, and more often than not, find themselves comfortable in their gloominess.

Kangas are the caretakers. Piglets are the shy ones shrinking behind their curtains, afraid that anyone will notice them. The Owls of the world are erudite, studious, oozing gray matter like there's no tomorrow. Rabbits remind me of a shrew, nitpicking the thread of life until it comes unwoven and picked apart.

And the Poohs bumble their way through life, not really making much fuss and bother, not really letting themselves get upset by anything. They take life as it comes, ebbing and flowing with the tides around them.

It takes all kind of people to make a world. If we had only the sopranos, wouldn't the music we make as we go through life be kind of flat? One-dimensional? Even a little boring? If we add an alto note or two, or a tenor, or a bass, or all of the above, voila, suddenly we have depth, beauty, mystery, undertones.

I see some of Tigger in me, and some of Piglet, and some of Pooh, and a little of Kanga. Owl, well, no. Eeyore, only if I haven't had any chocolate for a week.

Over time, I've come to appreciate the depth that makes life interesting. I will always admire the leaders: the Type A's that take charge and get things done. I'll always admire the lead singers in the musicals who can belt out Climb Every Mountain or Angel of Music without much seeming effort. 

But there will always be someone in the back behind that curtain that makes sure the actor is on stage at the proper time with the necessary props and the make-up in place and the lights on and the music cued up.

What would life be like if there were no stage managers among us?

I think my favorite quote ever (or almost ever) is Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."

Phil Robertson has a stage. The Duck Commander had a stage on the A&E network before they fired him for voicing his beliefs in an unrelated interview (but that's beside the point). Before he had a stage with A&E, he had a stage simply by being a walking/talking person who carries on relationships with other people.

In all the brouhaha that went on yesterday in relation to A&E's hit show, Duck Dynasty, it slowly began to dawn on me that this is just a drop in the bucket. At this precise moment in time, sure, Phil Robertson made the proverbial splash in the water, with perhaps a few more ripples than the average person, but since the day he's been born, he's made ripples because he's a living, breathing human being.

I may be slow on the uptake (freely admitted), but I suddenly realized yesterday that I have a stage, too. We all do. Every single one of us. My stage, sure, is considerably less large than Phil Robertson's, but that doesn't mean that it has to have any less impact on people than his does.

Every thought, every action that I put in front of people, my husband, my children, my friends, my readers, complete strangers, will be judged in some way, shape, or form, just as I form my own judgements when I see what goes on around me every day. 

Before someone blasts me for using the word "judging," please let me explain. I make judgements every day. 

Car coming. Is there enough space for me to cross the street before he gets here and I splat like a bug on his windshield? No, I think I'll stay put.

What's five more bucks for this cheap DVD that I've been wanting to have? No biggie, right? Except we've been over the grocery budget for two months running. Maybe not this time.

That girl just called my daughter a name. Should I go over and tell her to back off or let my daughter fight her own battles?

We all judge each other every day. No matter what side of the coin you're on regarding the whole Phil Robertson thing, every one of us has made judgements concerning him. 

So my point is, if people are going to be watching me on my stage, passing judgement on every action or word that leaves my mouth, I had better make good and sure that what I put out there is worth the refining fire. 

When all the fluff, chaff, and dross get burned away from my actions and words, I hope a few gold nuggets come into the light. It may be wishful thinking, but one can dream, right?

I'm 6,788 words into my newest novel, the second book in a young adult urban fantasy series about a young girl caught up as the centerpiece in a political revolution such as the world has never seen.

Only 93,212 words left to go. In this book. And then, there are the next two.

George R.R. Martin, author of The Game of Thrones and subsequent sequels, once famously said, "I don't enjoy writing. I enjoy having written."

I won't necessarily completely agree with him. I do enjoy writing. I enjoy it a lot. Mostly, however, I enjoy writing snippets. A title here, a prologue there, even a chapter . . . or two. But when I stand at this end of the book, and gaze at that end of the book, I feel a bit like a clown fish would feel if I were released from the relative safety of my tiny Petco saltwater tank back into the Pacific Ocean.

It seems overwhelming and daunting.

Daunting: adj: tending to overwhelm or intimidate

My thousand-words-a-day rule is my thread of hope that I cling to every day. Every day, I sit down during my kids' nap times and peck out a thousand words minimum on my laptop. It may not make much sense, it may not even add to the storyline. But it's a regular discipline that I maintain stringently. I don't miss a single day. It's not a lot of words; I read blogs from other authors who write ten thousand words in a day and send off manuscripts to their publishers every month or two. 

At this stage in my life, I can't do that.

But I can write a thousand words. So I will. Eventually, I will stop the story around 100,000 words, look back and say, wow, I did it.

Baby steps.

Sometimes, I throw my hands up in the air, and wave 'em like I just don't care...

Trouble is, I do care, but I've pretty much given up. Every time I give up, I think, I'll try just one more time, and then I give up again, and I throw my hands in the air again, and wave 'em like I just don't care... again...

It's a vicious cycle.

So what's this all about?

The process of training one's masculine offspring to urinate/defecate in the proper receptacle instead of into the offspring's own raiment, thereby promoting maturation and cultivation of the offspring, ushering him from infancy into the proper development of an older child.

In other words: potty-training.

I've lost count of the times I've thought, I think I finally did it! I think he's finally trained! And then, like an evil imp that comes back to mock its audience, he sinks back into wet jeans and wet underwear... one more time.

Sometimes, I feel like a bull-dog, sinking my teeth with stubborn tenacity into an issue that refuses to be resolved, never letting go, never seeing hope of a solution.

Charts: check.
Prizes: check.
Encouragement: check.
BIG Prizes: check.
Cleans up his own messes: check.
Alarms every hour: check.
Alarms every half an hour: check.
Privileges taken away: check.
Pull-ups: check.
Regular underwear: check.

Success: nope.

I don't know. I've said it before and I'll say it now. When he moves out to go to college or wherever, he's going to start changing his own diapers.

Understandably (for some), I started struggling with my birthdays as they rolled around each year ever since I hit 27. I was frying chicken on my 27th birthday, and I remember the sobs wracking my body as I forked the cutlets into a pattern and flipped them in the hot grease. My poor husband, who couldn't understand what was happening, but was perhaps afraid that I would soak his super-yummy-smelling supper, tried his best to figure out what was wrong. Between gasping, choking gulps of air, I managed to wail, "I'll be thirty in three yeeeeeeaars!"

Obviously, I survived the debacle, and as any 34-year-old would do on their birthday, I decided to make a list of 34 things that I feel have shaped me into the 34-year-old that I am. Because that's what 34-year-old's do, right? ;)

1.) I once put orange juice on the All-Bran my mother forced me to eat when I was young. Not only did it instill an even deeper hatred of the cereal into my sensitive soul, it also solidified my empathy with my own children, who decidedly do not. like. All-Bran. We are a Cheerio family. :)

2.) If one of my fingernails tears, I get shivery-shivers up and down my spine. I've recently noticed that it's not just a personal thing. If I see a torn fingernail on someone else, I get the same shivers. If I don't have a pair of fingernail clippers to offer them, I drive myself batty with irresistible impulses to run to the nearest store and buy a pair to deliver to them. Which is ridiculous. But never-the-less a part of who I am.

3.) I like peanut butter and mayonnaise. Together. In a sandwich. Or on a banana. Whichever.

4.) Busch Gardens has become a second home to me since I've married my husband. Family tradition on his side dictated that we visit there at least two or three times a summer. I've discovered that I kind of like knowing how to get from Point A to Point B without a map.

5.) Along the same vein, I love kiddie-coasters. They're more my speed.

6.) Some people struggle with their in-laws. I am one of the blessed individuals that is probably just about as close to my in-laws as I am to my own parents. I love this.

7.) Reading is my own personal paradise. A book, to me, represents a journey, a vacation, an adventure, a happy dream.

8.) Which is probably why I love to write, because those dreams don't want to live only in my head. They want to crawl out and give life to other people's dreams as well.

9.) I grew up watching my daddy put aside other priorities to make time for his wife and children, so in turn, I married a guy that spends time every evening when he comes home playing hide-and-seek, or coloring, or Candy Land or baseball or soccer with the kids.

10.) Consequently, the shrieks of "Daddy's home!" that ring with joy and gladness through the house when his truck comes up the driveway is perhaps my favorite time of day.

11.) There should be an intravenous method of injecting chocolate straight to the blood stream. Although that would take away the taste, which is, of course, the best part. So never mind.

12.) I find it inexpressibly sad that Jane Austen never knew what an iconic hero she created when she wrote about Mr. Darcy. Or perhaps she knew, because she created his character, but she had no way of knowing that he lives on in the thoughts of people in the 21st century, and probably will continue to for years to come.

13.) I didn't read Harry Potter until I was twenty-three years old.

14.) I have a secret wish that I had received my owl-post when I was ten years old that invited me to live out my education at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, I'm just a Muggle. Sigh.

15.) I admire people who listen quietly. And then they produce this jewel of thought at some point in the conversation. It's clear and lucid and beautiful, and it's obvious that they've been shaping it and forming it for awhile before they produce it for inspection.

16.) Me, I just vomit words in a never-ending stream, and then wish I could erase half of what I said.

17.) The longer I walk this path called life, the more I realize how little I matter in the grand scheme of things, and the more I am in awe of how much God matters. The diminishing of my own importance is actually a good thing, I think.

18.) When I was in first grade, I had an imaginary giant pet dog that I named Blackie, and he was my friend. He brought me enormous comfort, because as a shy child, I didn't hang out with many other actual humans.

19.) I graduated to imaginary pet horses by third grade, and I named them Tornado, Cyclone, Sun Raider, and Firestorm. They ran in front of our car whenever we went anywhere, and I practiced "driving" them with imaginary reins. It was loads of fun.

20.) Once in first grade, I signed "Nobody" at the top of a paper that I was supposed to hand in. For kicks, I guess. I remember terrible embarrassment and agony when the teacher held it up at the front of the class and asked, sternly, who had done this. No one confessed - that would have been horrific - and I didn't realize that she would have found out by process of elimination anyway. She never scolded me for it; maybe she sensed my shrinking soul.

21.) Out of all the literary characters out there, the one with whom I identify the most is Anne Shirley. And Tim is my Gilbert.

22.) I gain no end of satisfaction from the fact that I was close friends with Tim before we ever started dating. He's a man of few words, so I think if we had started dating without the solid friendship there first, I would have tried and failed to fill long periods of stilted silence. As it was, those silent stretches were comfortable and easy, like pulling on a favorite shoe, each curve of the sole fitted exactly to the heel and toes, and no rubbing and consequent blistering.

23.) When I was a child lying in the darkness of my room at bedtime, I used to pray with intense fervor, "Please, don't let me see an angel," as I stared at the black walls. I'm thinking I thought it would be like seeing a ghost. Maybe it would have, I don't know. One never appeared. 

24.) I've always had a sensitive spirit. So much so, that I remember going into my mother's bedroom one time after I was supposed to be in bed and telling her, "Mommy, I feel guilty." She put her book down and asked, "About what?" I shrugged. "I don't know. I just feel guilty."

25.) Summer camp should be a significant part of every child's experience.

26.) The fruit of the Spirit that I have the most trouble exhibiting is self-control. Particularly when there is chocolate in the room.

27.) I look significantly different than I think I look when I run or dance.

28.) I'm pretty sure I was born in the wrong time period. Victorian era is much more my cup of tea. And then just when I am in danger of grave era-envy, I remember things like out-houses, and no air-conditioning, and layers and layers of underclothes and petticoats in the hot summers. And chaperones to go anywhere. It helps vastly with being content in the 21st century.

29.) Tim and I make adorable babies.

30.) Psalm 37:4 "Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." Since I was a kid, I've wanted three things more than anything else. I wanted a husband. I wanted children. And I wanted to write. Today, I am married to my best friend. I have three adorable children who make my life crazy and beautiful at the same time, and I have the ability to stay home and write my imaginings onto paper (or a hard drive, as the case may be). I am feeling mighty blessed.

31.) I am surrounded by quirky friends. This makes me feel better about my own quirkiness.

32.) There is an in-between-ness about my piano skills. I passed the Mary-Had-A-Little-Lamb stage years ago. But I never quite got to Mozart level. That is, I play Mozart's works with bumbling non-precision. I'm sure he would hang his head in despair if he could hear me.

33.) Friday is my 9 1/2 year anniversary of marriage to my husband. We've had our ups, downs, and inside-outs, but we've never lost sight of each other through it all. Neither have we lost sight of the One who brought us together. When I was a kid, I did loads of planning how my white dress was going to look and how I was going to do my hair on my wedding day. I didn't think a lot of what would happen after that. So I can't say that it's like I expected, because it's not. It's a whole lot deeper.

34.) Thirty-four is a whole lot more than I thought when I started this post. Took me awhile to wrack my brains for some of these. To close, here's a quote I put on my "About Me" section to the side of this blog, but it resonates deeply with me. "I may not be the best at what I do. But what I do, I do the best that I can."

I don't know about you, but when I was a teenage girl growing up, I loved to go back to my mom's bookshelf in my parents' room and pull out a Grace Livingston Hill book. Anyone familiar with Grace Hill? Let me sum up. 

Grace Hill wrote the same book with about a hundred different book covers. Exhibit A. Perfect girl. Exhibit B. Perfect boy. Exhibit C. Evil girl. Exhibit D. Evil boy. Plot line. The good girl ends up with the good boy, and the evil girl and the evil boy end up broken somewhere.

So. I loved those books, I truly did. I read Crimson Roses, The Christmas Bride, Brentwood and Cloudy Jewel at least fifty times. Each.

But as I grew older, and my taste in fiction developed, I began to nurture a hunger for characters with whom I could identify. This girl who struggled not with the vileness of sinful nature in these books? She was a stranger to me. One-dimensional. Flat, dull, tasteless.

Enter Francine Rivers into my literary world. Ah, the power of books like Redeeming Love and The Atonement Child. I began to find characters that, like me, struggled with sin, hate, loss of self-control, other abominations that God finds displeasing. 

The redeeming quality in all of her characters? Grace. Specifically, God's grace. Just like in my own life.

I met Mary Ball on Goodreads, and per further discussion, agreed to a blog switch with her. Below is her blog she sent me. I was impressed with her commitment to creating realistic characters in her inspirational fiction. I believe she will touch many lives through her fiction because she creates characters to whom each of us can relate. 

Enjoy her post. Happy reading! :)
Tamara Shoemaker
********************
One Author's View on Christian Fiction


I love to read Inspirational/Christian fiction (most of the time). I want to read a Christian novel that highlights the characters as real people who kiss, have doubts and often befall temptation. After all, none of us is immune to troubles.

I don't enjoy namby-pamby novels. If the characters are too good or holy, I can't relate to the novel. I think Christian fiction should show flaws, while bringing the characters to the understanding that the Lord is their guide and can see them through.

Inspirational novels needs to encourage ways a person can survive in the everyday world, not in a fairytale land, with soft green meadows, of "I never have a problem" plots.

I need stories to proclaim a faith, which flows from the spirit and a hope for a better tomorrow. These personalities need to have things happen, same as everyone. The only difference should be the way the characters cope with life and temptations in the real world.

The focus of a Christian novel should be to show how people could become stronger; seeking out a better life with the Lord's redeeming mercies.

I scribe stories with characters that deal with unpleasant things, but somehow find a way to forge ahead, while developing a relationship with God.

Each of us handles situations differently. The way we react to things certainly depends on our outlook of life, but if I can use my writing to open up a new way of thinking or to strengthen someone's faith, then I've done my part.

I create Christian fiction to show ways of escaping the bad things that happen, regardless of the effects it can have on us.

If you're a Christian writer, then I believe that no matter where you are in the author pool, whether you're with a major publishing house or small company, you probably started out with a desire to share the Lord's grace. After all, showing the world a gentler life is important.

I remember a book signing I attended; a man approached my table and asked about my novels. I replied, "I write inspirational fiction. My characters go through everything we do, but if they didn't know the Lord, then they would find him by the last chapter."

He laughed and said, "I didn't think God was lost."

I smiled, and then answered, "No, He's not, but a lot of folks think He is. It's like misplacing your keys, and then you find them later. They were on the table the whole time you were searching. You just didn't see them."

That's where Jesus is, right at the end of our fingertips if we reach for Him.

********************

Mary L. Ball is a member of ACFW. Her fiction novels, whether suspense, mystery or Christian fiction will always come entwined with a bit of romance.

She has two published novels by Prism Book Group, Escape to Big Fork Lake and Stone of Destiny. She recently submitted her third fiction novel, which she dubs Redemption in Big Fork Lake. This novel will take the readers back to Big Fork Lake for a visit.

Connect with Mary: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Inspira...
https://twitter.com/inspires4mary
Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/Mary-L-Ball/e/B...

Her novels are available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online stores.

So I know what the fourth wall is. I know the "wall" between an actor and his audience, and I know the mortification of a director if one of his actors shatters that wall (unless, of course, it's called for in the script).

In the world of writing, I wouldn't have thought we'd have a fourth wall. After all, we don't act and perform and strut our stuff in front of an audience three, four, five nights a week. We don't prop one foot on a fake "hill" of green foam and pensively enunciate to the gathered masses: "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more."

Or do we? Do we not write and write and write our aspirations and plot points and daydreams into printed words and weave them into a grandiose work, then fling that work out upon the pages of society? We do our best, then cower in relative obscurity as we ponder what the world thinks of us.

Once upon a time, it used to be that a novelist would write a book, but the only feedback they would receive would be from their publisher. Then after a bunch of years, novelists were more aware of feedback, but the only method of contacting them and communicating your pleasure or displeasure in their work was through their publisher.

Enter Facebook. And Twitter. And LinkedIn. And Instagram. And Google+. And a million other social media groups, chats, forums, websites, etc. Suddenly, that fourth wall is broken, and people can communicate directly with the authors.

Today, on my Facebook newsfeed, I read an article about Indie book publishers, and how they can better market their books. The first comment on the article was from one Stephen King. I clicked on it, and it took me to his professional page; it was the real Stephen King.

Aside from being a little star-struck (since I am of the opinion that Stephen King is one of the better writers ever to grace this earth, even though I'm not necessarily a fan of his most common genre), I was amazed. With the touch of a button, Stephen King suddenly became "accessible" to the hundreds of people who would have accessed that article in their newsfeed.

Suddenly, he became a real person instead of a name on a magazine cover or the binding of a book. He connected, however lightly, with the outside world, and in return, people connect more with him as well.

This has been an ongoing discussion with my editor: how much do I connect with my readers? Do I throw my books out there on the market, then seclude myself while the critics have a hay-day? Or do I reach out to my readers and gain their insights and perspectives on my work, perhaps gaining from my interaction with them?

The weight of our conversation by far has fallen on the side of connecting with readers. Hence, the blog. Hence, the replies to certain reviews on my Amazon pages. Hence, every opportunity I have to break the fourth wall. 

It may be too early yet to tell if it's doing any good or not. But, with that fourth wall shattered, I'll probably let you know. :)

I recently had a conversation with someone regarding authoring books, specifically fiction. This person seemed to be under the impression that being an author was a bit like playing with puppets. You dangle your characters on the end of a string and jerk the paddles, making them dance or twirl or walk or collapse on the stage.

You know, that would be pretty cool. If I didn't like someone, I could just toss them off a railroad trestle or send them on a looooonnnnggg boat trip to Antarctica. If a character felt superfluous, they could suddenly contract Hepatitis B, which would progress much more quickly than doctors would anticipate, and voila, no more character.

The longer I write, though, the more I'm finding I'm not as much in control of my characters as what I would have assumed. I find that they don't like their feelings/emotions/characteristics messed with.

As an example: one of my characters in a book I recently finished is a loyal, wonderful young man. He's tenacious to his goals, and he refuses to give them up, even when the odds seem overwhelming. Switch to me, who knows the ending of the story and of the series, and realizes that this young man will have to walk through fire before it's all said and done, and all his efforts may yet be for naught.

I want like everything to smooth the road for him, to lead him along a path blooming with daisies and roses, and let him step into his happily-ever-after, and who cares about the consequences for everyone else that his ending affects? I seriously considered scrapping the ending and letting this young man and his compatriots have their perfect, albeit fluffy, ending.

But as my mind went over the character I'd worked hard to mold in him, the loyalty, the never-say-die attitude, his idealistic world view, I found I couldn't do it.

Sure, I could force his character into a jello mold and make the story come out sunshine and roses for everyone, but in so doing, I would lose the best part of this young man.

So as sad as it makes me, I will watch his character walk through the fires of his future, knowing that even though it's no fairy tale, his character will stick with me, in my thoughts, in my future writings, maybe even for the rest of my life.

There's a valuable life lesson we could all take away from this. But I won't spell it out. I think, if you really think about it, you'll figure it out. ;)

I think perhaps I'm in the minority.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to play piano for the worship team at church. I always enjoy doing this; it's sort of a creative outlet for me to be able to let my fingers dance on the keys in harmonious collusion with the other instrumentalists on the team. Slow. Fast. Soft. Loud. Getting Louder. (Or the equivalent Italian terms which are far too difficult for me to spell.)

One of the songs we led yesterday was a favorite of mine. It was called "How He Loves," and one of the lines in the song is "Heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss, and my heart turns violently inside of my chest."

Beyond the rest of the lines in the song, which are excellent and meet some deep point in my soul as I belt out the words, this line in particular resonates with me. I've actually heard lots of people talk about how that line makes them cringe, and I suppose there are opinions, and then there are opinions.

When I hear that line, I see my two-year-old daughter toddling up to the couch where I sit, working. She climbs up, her eyes wide and her voice insistent. She wants attention, and reluctantly, I put aside my agenda for a moment and curl an arm around her. She raises one pudgy, dimpled hand and pats my cheek. "Mommy," she says in her clear, indistinct toddler voice. "Wuv, Mommy."

I smile and say, "I love you, too, Darlin'." She pushes herself closer, her knee digging painfully into my thigh. And she kisses me on the cheek.

It's wet. There's some saliva involved. It's no chaste peck, dry and barren. This is a kiss filled to the brim with love, and it spills over, leaving a large, glistening circle of drool on my cheek. It's sloppy.

To me, that is love in its truest form - pure, innocent, completely without expectations. She doesn't require me to kiss her back (though of course I do; how can I help it?). She doesn't ask me to give her food, clothing, shelter, a paycheck, and then she'll kiss me. Then she'll show me her love.

She loves me simply because she does.

God loves me simply because He does. I could never in a million years earn that kind of love, but God gives it without a price, without me even asking for it.

Just like a sloppy, slippery, saliva-filled, juicy, wet, thoroughly love-filled kiss.