The many action figure faces of Marie Curie
Without meaning to, I have made Marie Curie my ultimate erotic superhero. The subject of one book, the upcoming Marie Curie Saves the Titanic, I have already begun a second book, Marie Curie Raises Atlantis. No doubt there will be a third and fourth.
All of this has been unintentional. Marie Curie is not by any means a glamorous, exciting figure in the history of science. She wasn't eccentric and mysterious like Tesla. She didn't have a gold nose like Tycho Brahe. She wasn't lusted after by Marilyn Monroe like Albert Einstein. And she wasn't a massive brain in a wheelchair who had an affair with his nurse like Stephen Hawking.
Marie won two Nobel prizes in physics and chemistry. She pioneered research in radiation and radioactivity. She was married to Pierre Curie, who also won a Nobel prize in physics. They had a daughter. Both died from the complications from radiation poisoning. Her notebooks and equipment are too radioactive to touch for the next 1500 years. She had held radium in her bare hands.
Bernie Sanders was the easy choice: I discovered someone is attempting to Crowd Source an action figure. You can see it above. Action figure erotica requires its main characters to have been made into action figures. It felt like happy fate.
Anne Frank? Seriously, Anne Frank?
There are two obvious, immediate problems: taste and lack of sexual interest.
Vision satisfies both problems. My vision for the story.
The story became sensitive to me. Not because of the romantic elements, but because of Anne Frank.
I had to imagine what the aftermath of being in a concentration camp would feel like. I imagined what could happen to Anne in the camp which would make her distrust and dislike intimacy with men.
I'm quite medicated. I don't have the massive, supernova bursts of creativity that I had had in high school and college. I get normal sleep so I can't stay up all night working. What I used to call "inspiration" which got me through 200 pages a month doesn't exist anymore. Yet I struggle still to focus.
Coffee is a wonderful help, but it does only a fraction of what it used to do. My psychiatrist told me what I thought used to be good work done at the height of mania wasn't really. I couldn't do my best in that state of mind.
My psychiatrist also told me not to tell people I'm bipolar. Because people assume that women with bipolar disorder drown their children.
I'm bipolar 2, by the way. More depression than mania. Only I used my depression as a form of energy. So my quality must have been really poor. I don't know.
It's difficult to know what's good and not. What is real energy and what isn't. I worry that I'm too lethargic and can't write anymore. Yet I do, though it's difficult. I feel like I've lost my superpower.
I'm Lady Ristretto, writing under a pseudonym. My pseudonym has a pseudonym.