Squash, Stitches, and a Scared Doctor

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That one time I got into the squash championships, almost lost an eye and threatened my doctor.

Not only was I a big old nerd when I was in high school, but I was also a bit of a tomboy. And growing up in the ‘80’s, living in a small dustbowl of a town in the middle of the Australian desert, you need to make your own fun lest you go insane, turn to drink, or think it’s a great idea to build a house out of recycled tin cans. That, and my hyperactive constitution, my parents forced me into as many activities as they could because I’d probably burn down the house experimenting with my Chemistry Set. (Though I did burn down the neighbour’s car once – but that’s another story.)

So I was signed up for T-ball and swimming as a kid, but then graduated to horse riding and squash. The latter I got pretty good at, and while vying for the Town’s Junior Squash Championship, at a tied match point… I know this is the tense stuff of cinematic legend, and I am not embellishing… my partner was about to miss the ball and I’d become the victor! But as luck would have it, he decided to run backwards and leap into the air to spike the little black ball. However, in his back swing he managed to collect my eye.

My eye! Argh, I was scarred for life and probably blind. That effer! I’m meant to win this game. And you’re not meant to hit girls! Squash is a non-contact sport!

That’s exactly what ran through my head the seconds before the world went black and white noise filled my ears.

When the world came rushing back, my eyes wouldn’t open, but I could feel lots of warm stickiness running through my fingers. It’s still a bit fuzzy, even to this day about what happened. A lot of people were talking at me. Guiding me. A cold wet cloth pushed to my face. I was in the car one moment. And the next at the doctor’s surgery. Sometime in the car my face muscles had unclenched and I was able to open the unaffected eye.

There was a lot of blood. A hell of a lot of blood. I panicked, thinking I must be holding my eyeball in my skull. My skin must have been half ripped from my face. This is not a good place to be. I guess it looked bad enough to get to see a doctor immediately, which turned out to be a tiny, soft spoken Asian man. I’m no wilting flower, tall, fit, and vocal. This medical professional only came up to my armpit, but Mum assured me he was the best doctor to help. I was terrified. I mean, my eye!

Squash, Stitches and a Scared Doctor Pic 01 by Casey CarlisleThe worst part was the Doctor told I’d need stitches. And I am more needle-phobic than the regular person. But practically crushing Mum’s fingers in a death grip, I had to suck it up and suffer through the procedure. Only, at the worst possible moment I opened my eye to see a giant needle coming straight toward my eye. Having it so close, it looked like a nuclear missile with a metal pike about to slam into my head. And I don’t care how okay you are with needles, wave something in front of your vision, and anyone would flinch. My reaction was to push the doctor across the room screaming “Touch me with that thing and I’ll deck you.” I was such the well-bred young lady.

I don’t know how she did it – maybe some Mamma Bear determination – but Mum calmed and encouraged the skittish doctor, and despite being half my size, splayed her body over me and pinned me to the operating chair, directing the doctor to “Just do it.” A completely different take on the Nike catch phrase.

I survived. My eye hadn’t fallen out. But I did lose the squash game. Junior Champ Runner-up. And a lovely scar that took seven stitches to mend. Nearly invisible in the crease of my eye. A gnarly black eye, that when I returned to school caused my partner to get harassed no end. *grins evilly*

When the eye completely healed I’m not sure if I was relieved at how invisible the scar was, or disappointed that physical proof of my ordeal was so miniscule. The guy who won the Junior Championship never spoke to me again. In fact, he avoided me like the plague. And after that my parents stopped trying to force me into activities. I returned to my nerdy ways and avoided needles with even more vehemence.

I don’t know what happened to the kind Asian Doctor, maybe I rattled him so much he quit the Practice and moved to a place where young girls didn’t threaten to bash him into a bloody pulp. Or my photo is on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk with the words ‘Banned For Life’ in big red letters. I never got to thank him. I waited a week longer than necessary to get the stitches removed – because you know – terrified. But in the end a portly nurse in a pale blue uniform removed them by distracting me in conversation, saying she was just cleaning the area before starting… and the next moment – all done.

And that’s the story of how this geek-jock lost the Alice Springs Junior Squash Championships sometime in the ‘80’s and managed to get a doctor cowering in a corner.

Casey's Childhood Banner by Casey Carlisle

© Casey Carlisle 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Building my own library

Dream vs reality in creating that perfect space to read and show off your book collection.

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For those who didn’t know, I’ve had a couple of brushes with death. Cancer nearly claimed my life twice, and I had a long and painful battle to get a life back. But there is more fight in this old girl yet *I jump side to side like a boxer pumping my fists.* That has taught me to dream big and make sure my experience on this planet is a happy and fun one. So I keep a bucket list, try to tick off big goals and little ones as often as I can… One of the more personal, but materialistic items has been around my reading and writing life. Who doesn’t like a nerd-mecca in their own house!

Building my Library Pic 04 by Casey Carlisle.jpgI’ve had a fantasy of my own library, whiling away hours sequestered in a cozy reading nook. Collecting pictures of my dream library and window boxes for winter reading. Even couches lit by gorgeous floor lamps, decorated with fur throws and cable knit cushions… It’s all in the ether of my brain, percolating until I get to build my new home. Yet those plans are still a pipe dream at the moment. But getting the blueprints down is step one. C’mon Lotto – I need a big win!!

In the meantime, I’ve settled for reconditioning some antique bookshelves. I found them online for sale by a neighbour’s Estate sale. The aim is to strip them back, fix the cracks and some of the joinery, and then give many coats of white paint and wooden curlicue applications to accentuate the French Provincial feel I want in my work room. It’s where I write, read, and come up with all my ideas. Time to get crafty, pull out the electric sander and dance to girl power music in the garage.

There’s an old chaise lounge I’ll endeavour to get recovered in a romantic regency brocade, either in sliver and pale blue tones, or go bold with red and gold. The space is about half-way there. The wall and ceiling painting has been completed, new white office furniture and floor rugs for ambience. Then it’s about all those other small touches to bring out personality and style. Something about a chaise lounge says ‘I’m classy and important,’ besides the fact that is looks like a normal lounge where one side has melted in the sun.

Building my Library Pic 03 by Casey CarlisleI steer towards more of a white, open plan workspace. I find too much colour or clutter makes me feel claustrophobic in the creative process – especially if I’m frustrated with a writing challenge. Plus that decorating pallet helps to highlight the books lining the shelves. It’s not the grand style library I’ve dreamed about, but it’s inexpensive and looks bright and stylish. Something about being in that room is inspiring in itself. I’m most likely at least half a year away from finishing as the restoration work is intricate work, and the massive bookshelves are tremendously heavy and I only have friends over on weekends to help me move the shelving. The furniture reupholstery is going to cost a bit too; so I have to save.

But is should be a marvellous Christmas present to myself if I can get it all done by the end of this year. I could get it finished much sooner if I dropped everything and worked hard, but I’m trying to focus on writing this year, and completing projects. I started way too many last year and feel like I’m not making much progress because I stretched myself too thin. But I’ll share some pictures of my workspace when it’s all completed.

In the meantime, I have various study nooks to work in. One overlooking the coast from the window at the front of the house; one in a sunroom under a canopy of trees overlooking a natural spring where there is always plenty of colourful rainforest birds and purple waterlilies; or in my big white office with heaps of desktop space to spread out on. Or, if I’m feeling adventurous, there’s some great restaurants close by to spend an extended lunch in luxury (and they’re not as loud as café’s); and if the weather is right, me and the dog can sit on the beach. So many great places to cop a squat and read or write. I’d love to spend a day in the underwater aquarium, but the cover charge is hefty and there’s not much space to lounge without interruption – and I get the feeling the staff there would ask me to move on ☹  Though I’ve been thinking that a fish tank would be a fantastic addition to the study… if I don’t spend hours staring at it hypnotised.

What make your ideal study spot or reading nook (apart from bed)?

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© Casey Carlisle 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

…the one where my girlfriend was peeing in the bushes and the cops showed up.

Some memories of high school still make me roar with laughter.

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Picture this: Alice Springs, a small outback town in the middle of the desert, nineteen eighty something.

When there isn’t a lot to do in a dust bowl of a town like the one we were fortunate to grow up in, you make your own fun. And this night it happened to be in the form of ‘cruising around.’ Where hapless teenagers would drive from the Truck Stop to the Golf Course, to the Speedway or Drive-In on an endless loop, hooting and hollering at other kids from the same school indulging in the same activity. Aimlessly wandering the streets in a car said that we were free! To have a car was a massive status symbol… and my Mum’s Mercedes Benz was the biggest statement of all – especially filled with a four-pack of gussied-up teenage girls.

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We call it cruising around because not only did we partake in the automobile activity, but it was usually accompanied by Vodka Cruisers, Goon-bags of wine, or in our case, West Coast Coolers. But before you get your fingers out to waggle at me, I was the designated driver, so no alcohol for me. If my parents had gotten a sniff of trouble, or I so much as sullied the shine of the Merc, my car privileges would be revoked until I was a hundred years old. That meant no freedom, no flaunting for boys, and nights filled with lame video marathons and grumpy parental chaperones.

As it sometimes happens when you’re driving about with a car full of four buzzed pubescent girls, someone needed to pee. Real bad. And we were ages away from the nearest facilities. Being Alice Springs, it’s just a case of pulling over on the side of the road and you can sneak into the bush to do your business – So that’s what we did.

I had to angle the cars lights off the road so my friend could see where she was walking, and while she ventured into the scrub we turned up the radio and proceeded to dance in the headlights – as you do when you’re feeling the chemical rush of half a West Coast Cooler in the middle of nowhere.

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Just as we bust a move, hear the trickle of pee splash from behind a shrub, a cop car pulls up. Great!

One of my friends freaks out, dives into the car and is desperately shoving our coolers under the seats – yes, we were drinking under the legal age. She’s a bit of a goody-two-shoes, so to say it looked like she was in the throws of a heart attack is an understatement.

I’m a little shocked and dumbfounded to see the men in blue show up in the most deserted place in Australia, one friend gyrating in the headlights, another hyperventilating inside the car, as another stumbles out of the bush yanking up her jeans. What must they think?

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They do what cops back then did – posture a little, have us line up and invade our space… no doubt trying to detect a waft of booze on our breaths. Luckily we all managed to pull it together long enough for the boys in blue to believe our story that we only pulled over for an emergency toilet stop. I didn’t know it at the time, but they had actually suspected that we’d stolen the car and were out joyriding (another activity of the local youth in this armpit of a town.)

Just as they were about to leave, headquarters radioed them back, a check on the licence plate number had yielded a result, and wouldn’t you know – my parents hadn’t paid the latest registration fee.

Needless to say the night ended with my father coming to collect us, screaming at the cops because they wouldn’t let him drive an unregistered car. But like hell he was going to leave a luxury car sitting on the side of the road waiting to be stolen. My friends were dumped home, and, like ninjas, my parents collected the car in the shadow of night while I kept a lookout for the police as we sneaked the car home.

I don’t know when they found the bottles of booze under the seat, the next time I checked, they were gone. But I didn’t get into trouble, or have my car driving privileges revoked… thankfully they were too embarrassed at having my friends and I hassled by the police for driving an unregistered car.

That’s what I call a lucky break! And that’s how we roll in country towns 😉

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© Casey Carlisle 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Fit for Writing

Ever since I took the plunge and started taking my writing seriously, long hours at the keyboard have resulted in an expanding waistline. Now, the imaginative prose I churn out have thickened into a spare tyre around my mid-section.

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So I started exercising, not only to keep my body fit, but my mind fresh and pumped full of endorphins – only it didn’t work. The pounds kept creeping on. I was starting to feel like I had been cursed. *shakes fist at the sky*

I eat healthy, exercise regularly and felt I was doing everything to keep that trim body, but it just wasn’t happening. The same thing I used to do in my 20’s and 30’s has stopped working. After speaking to a doctor and then a fitness trainer, I discovered women of a certain age (I hate that phrase) go through a major hormonal shift, and weight gain happens to be a consequence.

Great. But what if I don’t feel comfortable with the extra weight, what if I’m concerned about an increased risk of diabetes or other health issues? I can learn to love jiggly bits, as long as it is not at the cost of my health and lifestyle.

All is not lost. With this shift in metabolism and body chemistry, I’ve been told I need to change tactics – cardio will no longer help shed the pounds alone. I need to be doing some weight training. It works, but be warned – it’s much harder to achieve.

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So I’ve begun the new regimen… it’s still too early to see results, but I can tell you, those aching muscles during the two days after a workout are a killer. I mean it. I hobble around like an old woman in pain moaning and groaning. Having to sit down and get up is particularly challenging…and don’t get me started on climbing the stairs. I went to the toilet and felt like I was going to have to call for a crane to lift me up and down. I’m really starting to hate exercise. How long will this pain go on? I think I’d rather keep my added padding and forgo the torture. That is, until I get dressed and my clothes are hugging a bit too tightly.

I swing from depressed, to feeling ugly, to determined and motivated at the flip of a coin lately. It’s hard to write when your belly hits the table, constantly reminding you that it’s time to trade in your wardrobe for the next size up. Or your friends are worried you’ve fallen pregnant ‘at your age.’

Sheesh. When did I get so worried about the way I looked? Where is my female empowerment?

fit-for-writing-pic-03-by-casey-carlisleIt’s really got nothing to do with other people finding me attractive, or fitting into a certain dress size, or hitting a particular number on the scale. It’s about being able to bend over and tie my shoe, being able to step easily into my nickers, and not have them ride up uncomfortably to unmentionable places, wedged in by slabs of cellulite. It’s about feeling vital and young, about that headspace that is clear of doubt and a nasty voice calling you fat and ugly. It’s about me.

That’s half the challenge –getting over your own crap. Finding the motivation to keep going. Even though it’s getting harder, bit by bit you can get there. Soon the clothes will fit, you’ll feel better and productivity will rise because you are happier. But you could be happy as you are without losing the weight, if you can change your attitude. Though it is hard when society’s beauty standards are thrown in our face every second in a modicum of ways.

There is so much wrapped in my head in trying to shed these pounds.

The other part is time. If I am a writer, I should be spending the bulk of my day writing. But daily chores, marketing, blogging, socialising, and of course, now exercising, keep demanding attention. It adds further frustration and impacts on my frame of mind when I stare at a blank page. Who needs this typhoon of detritus spinning in their mind when they are trying to focus on their manuscript? Not me. No sir. It’s enough to turn me to drink. Another champagne thank you!

I’ve written a few articles on health and fitness, and a few about time management – all focused around my headspace, wellbeing, and time for following my passion. And let’s face it, I’ll probably still drop an article here and there on the same topic, because the problem will still be here. It’s a part of life, and we can’t write it away. Though writing about it does help release some negativity, remind me what is important, and keep the issue in perspective. I choose to never give up, keep striving for that balance. For that fulfillment. Sometimes it’s hard work, but I’d rather keep my eyes on the horizon than stare at the ground around my feet and go nowhere.

So, to all of my fellow writers out there who stumble across roadblocks, stay strong!

Stay Calm and Keep Writing!

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© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Good writing doesn’t equal good speaking

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Chasing my dream as a writer has lead to some unforeseen side effects – my conversational skills have turned to mush.

Writing is a solitary endeavour. I spend days on end alone at my keyboard tapping away. Ideas flow and when I’m typing out sentences and if I can’t quite think of the word I want to use, I can type “?????” and come back later when the word pops into my head, or when reviewing with the aid of a thesaurus.

It doesn’t work so well in real life. You kind end up resembling this…

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The looks I get. People stare at me in tortured delight, like I’m having some kind of seizure. It’s like my brain is on auto-correct as I search for the perfect word to convey my desire. So I simply stop mid-sentence. A prolonged pregnant pause. Or start listing synonyms like in the thrall of Tourrets.

And thus begins the start of a long list of things which jump up like road blocks – just to make my conversation a little more interesting…

Good Writing does not Equal Good Speaking Pic 04 by Casey Carlisle.gifAt times, especially if I am particularly nervous, I’ll catch on a certain word, like a CD skipping, in a weird stutter of half pronounce words, desperately trying to catch up with my train of thought before I realise I sound like a Martian. I almost hear my Grandmothers voice reminding me “elocution darling. Use your words.” Thanks Grandma, it’s not like I’m not freaking out enough at the sound of my own voice, bringing the attention to the fact I can’t string two English words together isn’t helping. Go tell Grandad the magpies are stealing his cherry tomatoes again and leave me alone.

Good Writing does not Equal Good Speaking Pic 05 by Casey Carlisle.gifBut a much worse malady occurs far too often – the nervous giggle. Only because it’s infectious, spreading like a virus through the room as other people chime in with return laughter. Before you know it, everyone has devolved into fits of laughter – which doesn’t bode well for me, because I have two types of laugh: the silent scream, where I look like I’m laughing, but someone has hit the mute button; and then the donkey bray, a wheezy shriek punctuated with a snort. Not the most elegant of chuckles. And of course, people laugh at my laugh, which makes me laugh. And the cycle continues until one of us has to pee, passes out, or begin to cough and choke. Believe me when I say this is no exaggeration. It really happens. I’m a great trick you drag out at dull and boring parties to get people in the mood.

Good Writing does not Equal Good Speaking Pic 06 by Casey Carlisle.gifDon’t get me started on nervous scratching, constantly playing with my hair or shuffling paper. My hands just won’t stay still. In the past I’ve had to grip on to the table or sit on my twitching fingers so I don’t look like I’m currently high on ADD medication. If I’m more relaxed, it’s great… if you don’t mind me channelling some Italian old man, sentences running over each other in increasing volume, punctuated by arm waving, flapping and pointing. Yes, conversational semaphore. Clear all glasses and breakable objects from the immediate vicinity, I’m a clumsy excited dope.

Good Writing does not Equal Good Speaking Pic 03 by Casey Carlisle.gifAnd finally (thank goodness it’s only happened once – and I learnt my lesson) unintentional displays of magic. Note: when clearing breakable objects, remove all vacant chairs around me as well. While giving an oral presentation at high school, I was so nervous, I ended up sitting back on the teacher’s desk to try and calm down as I spoke. Boy was I wired and felt like I was about to explode. Starting my speech, everyone seemed wrapt, but felt it was going well. I kept my eyes glues to my cue cards, and powered through. Until people began twittering. Had I said a joke? Then it happened again, more sniggering. Oh crap! Was there food on my teeth, did I leave my fly down? What in tarnation was going on? Cue the fidgeting, stuttering and giggling… until the teacher called a halt to the torture and informed me of what was so funny: I’d hooked my feet under a chair in front of me and began to lift it up and down. Behold this magical levitating chair! I seriously had no idea that was what I was doing. Did my legs get possessed ‘Evil Dead’ style in dastardly a plan to send my English grade point average plummeting?

I was a bit of a legend in high school for that magic trick.

Fast forward four years and I’m back in the classroom as a teacher. Still just as nervous, but learned to cope with all the ticks I’ve just listed. But now that I’ve been out of practice, apart from the occasional conversation with my dog, my skill have waned. Once again those annoying habits are appearing, and it may sound funny, but it seriously damages my credibility. I’m supposed to be a well-educated professional writer, and there I am pausing, glitching and breaking things wile I laugh nervously… not something you want to be doing in front of your publisher. So thank goodness for the digital age where I can conduct most of my business via email and blame the freeze in conversation on skype as the signal dropping out.

In the meantime I might have to get some teddies set up along my couch and practice – but make sure the web cam is off. I don’t want to go viral as the crazy lady having a teddy bears picnic.

Who else suffers social clumsiness while trying to speak in public? What’s the worst (and funniest) case of ineptitude you’ve had? I love amusing stories: it lets me know I’m not the only klutz in the world.

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© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Week Away (which means no NaNoWriMo for me)

Old high school friends visiting that I’ve known for years, an underwater walk with sharks, and venturing across the tundra at Australia Zoo.

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I was thinking about scheduling some posts for my week away from the keyboard, but it turned out I was too busy getting the guest house ready for visitors – my place was like an episode of ‘The Block.’ I was running around buying styling items, painting, assembling furniture, covered in all manner of dirt, dust and hues of paint. And I never knew my body odour could get so bad… peeeyouuu!

But the space looks fantastic and I’m very proud of the effort.

So instead of creating prose at the computer this week I’ve been staying up late with a glass of champagne reminiscing over high school days, giggling at our antics, and catching up with each other’s lives until late into the night. The days have been filled with wildlife. Sea Life Mooloolabah is a huge favourite of mine – my Marine Biology roots express themselves and my friends and family get a personalised tour through the exhibitions, regaled by my stories of encounters in the wild. I may or may not embellish for artistic and humorous purposes… that’s just the way I roll. Australia Zoo (Steve Irwin’s brainchild) was fun, and attending in the off season, means no lines, plenty of time to stand gazing at the wonderful animals without getting jostled for a prime viewing spot from pushy tourists. Its open plan, ornate gardens and massive statues give a great ambience to the zoo experience. There are no cramped cages and unhappy animals here. Most are rescued or unable to be released into the wild due to being bred in captivity – not that I’m a stout activist, but it is reassuring that the animals are benefiting from care here rather than being abducted from the wild for our amusement.

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Today we just got back from a rainforest walk to the local waterfalls, which was great to spot all the kaleidoscope hued tropical parrots and parakeets and a chance at glimpsing some platypus in the wild (lil’ buggar was too fast for me to snap a quick pic). The only down fall – my hayfever and being covered in sweat from a muggy day – I so wanted to “accidentally” fall into the water at the falls, but forgot to bring a towel and wasn’t about to treat other bushwalkers to this winter padded body.

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After life in the city, moving up into the mountains dotting the coastline has left me with a renewed appreciation for flora and fauna and is always a peaceful and inspiring backdrop for writing.

So if you were wondering where my regular posts were this week – I’ve been renovating, and then got lost in nature. I’ll be back to regular posting in the next day or two, refreshed, revitalised and feeling greatful.

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© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Naked Man Covers

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Shirtless men, hot men barely dressed flexing muscles… when I see them on book covers I get a small amount of titillation – but also get turned off…

Romance, erotica, and contemporary novels have become inundated with pictures of buff young guys in various states of undress (or completely starkers.) And while I appreciate the male form and get some A-grade eye-candy, or some fun from an occasional oggle. It puts an ironic smile on my face to see them adorn my favourite things.

While sometimes the attractiveness of the cover model will entice me to peek between the covers. (What am I looking for – a naughty look under his clothes? Saucy firsthand knowledge of his lovemaking skills?) Most of the time it’s when I’m browsing online. I’d never pick it up in a book store! That’s way too embarrassing. It might label me as the needy girl who only reads erotica… how dumb is that?

naked-man-covers-pic-02-by-casey-carlisleAnother aspect to the scantily clad musculature of the male figure decorating literature is the fact that it practically yells “BUY ME!” Like a desperate attempt to get you to reach into your purse and fork over the money. Like you bought the guy all for yourself. There’s a word for that…

So now, after such over-exposed collection of title after title, I get turned off pretty man covers. Maybe I’ve been desensitized?

It’s a little embarrassing, and a lot insulting being barraged by so much skin as a selling point. This objectification is mostly romance, erotica, contemporary and some YA. Ultimately, if the cover art has become the most unimaginative way to market a book. And this girl ain’t buying.

Can’t we find some more artistic photography? Or symbolism? Or Typography? I don’t want to sound like a snob, but this types of cover art feels a bit low-brow and does little to convey the concept of the plot within its pages, other than one of the protagonists (or the love interest) is a hunky guy. I want more than that from my reading material.

I’m not having a rant, rather just observing trends in the market. I’ve seen other covers that are stunning which do not have a parts of the male form, airbrushed, adorning the dustjacket. Usually they depict something intrinsic to the plot, something that makes me pick up the book for a closer look. Books that are character driven and not a collection of scenes of intimate encounters. I like a ‘hot-damn’ moment as much as the next girl, but I want a build up of ambience, some tension, angst, wooing. As well as an interesting storyline.

Naked man covers, while sexy and alluring, don’t scream “intelligent plot and interesting characters” to me. Oh my gosh – am I becoming an elitist! Shoot me now!

What’s your take on overt sexuality on book covers – is it getting too much or can’t you get enough?

It might be great with the objectification of men rather than women for once, and I do enjoy a hottie now and then, but shouldn’t we mix it up?

Food for thought – something to think about when you purchase your next novel – what part does the cover play in adding it to your shopping cart…

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© Casey Carlisle 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Casey Carlisle with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.