I have been writing for a long time. And not just smut, although my mind easily wanders there. I love words, and I have always been fascinated by sex.
It’s not the pleasure of it. In fact, I’ve often been too in my head to enjoy the raw physicality of sex. For me, sex really begins and ends in my mind.
It’s the psychology of it. Why do people like what they like? The other night I got incredibly turned on telling someone a tale I have absolutely no interest in my “real life.” But hearing his reactions was titillating, to say the least.
But writing. Writing is a dangerous act. More dangerous than sex, assuming you’re taking the proper precautions.
Sex is ephemeral, but writing lives on forever. Like sex, you can’t take it back. But unlike sex, once it’s there on the page, or the screen these days…Well, you can’t get rid of it. That’s why people will tell you never to put down anything in writing.
Writing gets you into trouble. It is a subversive act—at least most of the kind of writing I like to read. And write.
You can be boring all you want. Hell, I am often, unintentionally. But the kind of writing that attracts reading? Well, it attracts critics too. And that has always been the difficult part for me.
You’d think I’d give it up. If I’m too thin skinned to take it. But, for me, it would be like giving up sex. Giving up that itch that always wants to be scratched. Giving up that delicious feeling of having written. Seeing all those luscious, sexy syllables sinuous on the page.
I just can’t quit it. It’s my forever lover. My most exciting. My most enduring. The one that gets me wet, throbbing with excitement. And I suppose I am an exhibitionist, because it’s simply not as good if no one else gets to see it.
