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Author Archive: "Rory Freedman"

To Write Or Not to Write?

In my experience, people who are voracious readers often want to be writers. And I'm here to tell you, if you want to be a writer, go for it! I'd never written anything before. When I decided I wanted to write Skinny Bitch, the first thing I did was read a book called Writer's Market. I didn't know the first thing about literary agents or what you had to submit to them or any of the business surrounding writing. Writer's Market was helpful, digestible, and literally the only resource I used to get an inkling of the business. But there are some things they don't tell you about being a writer. Now, I haven't been one for very long, so I'm still learning the ropes. But here are some things I've learned to love and hate so far about being a writer.


1. I work from home. I've worked in an office before. And it nearly killed me. All the noise. The constant interaction with other human beings on days you simply ...

Nothin’ Sexy Here

I was invited to blog on Powell's because I'm a writer. And for the last three days, I blogged about this strange, quasi-sexual experience I didn't have while on my book tour in San Francisco, even though my books have nothing to do with sex.

Because let's face it, orgasms are a lot sexier than factory farming and slaughterhouses .

The truth is, I'm not really a writer. Yes, I currently have #1 and #2 NY Times bestsellers, and yes, I wrote both books. But I never set out to be a writer. I'm actually an animal rights activist.

Now before your brain goes to that dark place of what that means — "animal rights activist" — just wait a second. I, too, used to conjure up "tree-hugging hippy meets wild-eyed, paint-thrower." Until I became one — an animal rights activist.

Just so we're clear, I was not raised on a commune and my parents were not hippies. I was, and still am, like most everyone else on the planet.

One day, ...

Extended, Full-Body Orgasms (Part 3)

(Continued from Monday and Tuesday's posts.)

Skinny Bitch in the KitchI didn't do it. I didn't do it.

As I told him, casual encounters aren't really my thing. (Notice the "really" in there, just to leave an opening in case I change(d) my mind.)

But we did wind up making out in the restaurant. Mortifying on so many levels. For starters, when I arrived in the restaurant, I was alone, I was seated alone, and I ordered alone. So the girl who greeted me, seated me, and took my order knew that the guy who I was making out with two hours later was a complete stranger. (I wonder if she's reading this now, and nodding to herself, thinking, "Yeah, I thought that was kinda weird.") She definitely noticed our makeout session, but surely it didn't matter to her one way or the other. (Regardless, I wish I didn't pay by credit card.)

So beyond being embarrassed that the waitress may be judging me, some other little shards of shame crept up later that night and the next day. I noticed that night, at dinner


Extended, Full-Body Orgasms (Part 2)

Skinny Bitch in the KitchContinued from yesterday's post.

So he said something along the lines of, " women extended, full-body orgasms." And I felt angry, offended, weirded out, and slightly violated. This total stranger who joined me for lunch and who seemed like a nice, normal guy was suddenly trying to bait me into A) a conversation about sex, or B) having sex with him. I immediately went into a few dark places: "All men are pigs." "Why does this always happen to me?" "What am I doing that attracts deviants, perverts, and fiends on a regular basis?" (I feel compelled to say here that I am not a man-hating, sex-loathing prude. I just don't appreciate having random men toss their sexuality on me, uninvited, in the middle of lunch.)

When I got over the initial shock that he said that (and I acknowledged that I did nothing to encourage such a statement), I felt better. I knew I was safe and that he wasn't out to harm me. I knew that he was just being himself, that he was attracted to me, and


Extended, Full-Body Orgasms

Skinny Bitch in the KitchThis is hard. I've never blogged before. I feel like, "What should I talk about here?" Truth be told, after two weeks of book touring, I'm a little sick of talking about my books. I'd rather talk about some observations I had while traveling, but then I feel like, "Who am I to ramble on about my observations? Does anyone give a shit about my points of view or assessments of people and life?" Regardless of what I talk about, now I feel vulnerable, like I'm coming across as neurotic and crazy. (And I feel like I can't stop saying "like," so in addition to sounding neurotic, I also sound like a valley girl.) I could delete this whole thing and start over, but I'd just be back at square one. At least now, I've got some words on the page and something to show for the time I've been sitting here trying to figure out what to blog about. Blog. What a weird word. I don't like how it sounds. Blog. Say it. It's kind of gross. Blog.


"Whatever"? ...

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