|Ground Control to Major Tom...|
I want to use the message-in-a-bottle metaphor to describe what it feels like to write my stories and upload them to Amazon without the benefit of a publisher or an editor. Instead of lobbing my bottles into the ocean, I feel as though I am throwing them into the cosmos, hoping that they will hit something--anything--before they disappear into the great expanding hereafter.
Which is why I am so glad to see you here. Thank you for visiting me. Let me introduce myself.
I have been writing erotica as a hobby for about six years now. I've sold a few stories, most notably to cleansheets.com. According to the website:
Founded in 1998, Clean Sheets is a weekly magazine devoted to encouraging and publishing quality erotic fiction, poetry, and art, providing honest information and thoughtful commentary on sexuality, and fostering an ongoing discussion of sexuality in the lives of individuals and in a global society.The work on Cleansheets is phenomenal. I hope you check them out.
Why erotica? I've always loved the naughty bits of novels. That salacious moment when, for example, a chaste narrator ignites like a torch in sexual awareness. A first mad coupling on the moor, clothes in disarray.
And I hate sexual line breaks. You know, when things like this occur:
"I can't stand being without you, Fifi," he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. "All of this waiting and wondering if you were all right--it's driven me bonkers. I'm not quite myself."
She melted against his chest, boneless and brainless with wild desire. "Oh, Reginald," she whispered. "I've thirsted for you. I've hungered for you. Take me now, you steaming hunk of man-meat."
They tumbled into bed as if through a portal into another world, one where a viscount could love a lowly medical examiner. One where nothing mattered but their passion for numismatics and their insatiable desire for each other.
* * *
When Fifi awoke the next morning, the fire had gone out. She stretched her legs languorously and licked her lips. It took five minutes of lip-licking before she realized that she was covered in a substance that looked suspiciously like Palmolive...
That stupid sexual line break.
Now, I know that as soon as a writer describes a monster in too much detail, the monster ceases to be as scary to readers as when the writer said nothing specific about it at all. (The movie Cloverfield comes to mind. That monster looked like a baby bat.) But sometimes, it's best to forgo mystique. Sometimes, a reader just wants to read the really, really dirty sex part. When it's done decently, the book provides a new level of satisfaction. But when it's done well, the effect can be sublime.
I began writing erotica because I wanted to give readers that sublime experience, to combine intellectual stimulation with sexual stimulation. To hell with "classy," I want to read about Elizabeth getting banged by Darcy in every room in Pemberley. Limber up, Lizzy!
This blog post is getting silly. Before it gets much sillier, I will sign off and say, thank you again for visiting. Hope you like the stories.