Fluffy Seme (dot cooooooom)

I found this cool, fledgling writing website the other day. It has a concept that I'm infatuated with, but not quite enough buzz about it to really get it off the ground.

This website is a product of F.S. Publishing, and it is called, as my title would suggest, Fluffy Seme. It combines statistics with readers to give you a good, solid idea of who's reading your stories, which passages were skimmed or skipped, all this concentrated good stuff. There's the option to give comments, either on the entire story or on a certain paragraph or line or section, whatever you want.

The point is, you get a better idea of who is and how many people are reading your story, even if they don't leave a comment.

It's neat. It could turn into this whole, interactive thing where writers can actually see the readership and who their novel is most appealing to and what bits need work, rather than having twenty comments spurting about how much they LOVE your BOOK please WRITE MORE right AWAY why aren't you WRITTING.

(I've always wondered how these people think writing has two Ts. It never has, and I genuinely doubt it ever will sprout an extra, T-shaped limb.)

I just feel like we need to get the ball rolling on this one. It's a fantastic idea with very little hype, and I don't understand why that is.

Check it out for yourself.

And, if you're into this kind of thing, you could go look at the story I have up there and use it as a guinea pig (she says totally altruistically), to get an idea of how the whole rating system works.

In fact, because that last sentence didn't do the proper amount of indecent whoring I was aiming for, here's a brief excerpt of the book I have up there, All the Gods, and if it tickles your fancy, you could go read. If you want to. (Please.)

(I love you.)

(Don't tell anyone else, but you're my favorite person. I don't even care if anyone else reads this blog, just that you are.)

...right, All the Gods, here:

The dreams were back again.

They were knotted in Mortimer's hair, smeared on his ceiling, on the dawn-grey walls, between his sheets. They hummed behind his eyes, snapping and popping briefly as Mortimer blinked away sleep.

Wincing at the aftertaste of another bad night's sleep, Mortimer rolled upright. The clock read 6:57. Mortimer stared at the winking red letters, rubbing absently at the ache in his shoulder. His stomach twisted up.

In the kitchen, Richard and the tea pot whistled tunelessly.

Mortimer padded out of his bedroom, down the narrow neck of the apartment's hallway. He arrived in the main room, which was an awkward conglomerate of kitchen, sitting room, and altar space resting on a patchwork of tile and rug.

Richard, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a robe, shut off the burner.

"I did that thing again," Mortimer said.

Richard glanced at him. "I think you're just trying to pull a practical joke, and this was the best you could come up with. I also think it's the crappiest, least practical practical joke I've ever seen. You want some tea?"

Read more? :D

I think I'll do a real, beneficial post tomorrow. Or sometime in the future.