Serious --- #erotica #literature #amwriting

Image by PourquoiPas from Pixabay

 

My brother and I stroll along Wingaersheek Beach in Gloucester, whipped by the chill April wind. My decision to live overseas and his aversion to travel don't leave us many chances to talk face to face. Every visit becomes a massive attempt at catching up.

“You're such a great writer,” he comments. I glow at the praise, coming from someone so massively creative. He makes his living as a songwriter and musician, leaving me in something like awe.

“So I don't know why you don't write a serious book, instead of this—this erotic stuff.” He doesn't say it, but I hear “porn” in his tone of voice. My spirits crash land, though it's hardly news that he feels this way. I really want him to be proud of me and my accomplishments in the world of publishing. Instead, he fundamentally disapproves of my work. The graphic sexuality embarrasses and disturbs him. (“I don't want to get turned on when I read,” he told me once.) Despite all my explanations about power exchange, trust and consent, he still believes that M/f dominance and submission is sexist and abusive. In addition, I strongly suspect he views any sort of genre fiction as something less than worthy. We are obliquely related to a very famous literary author whose long shadow falls over all our artistic endeavors.

“My books are serious,” I protest. “Sex and desire are serious topics. We can't understand the human condition without exploring our sexuality.” I don't know why I bother arguing, though. I'm not going to change his mind. And after all, he's hardly alone in harboring these opinions. Scads of people would label what I write “trash”. Some of them would go further, calling my novels “obscene filth”, even “the work of Satan”.

I shouldn't listen. But it's tough to avoid being influenced by negative evaluations, especially when they come from people close to you. My sister is more polite and less extreme than my brother. Still, she's only read one or two of my books (which didn't include BDSM), and shows no interest in reading more.

They're both intelligent, thoughtful people. If they view my work as “not serious”, maybe they're right.

I didn't choose my genre, though. It chose me. Despite my illustrious relative (by marriage), I never imagined myself making a career out of being an author. (Lucky thing...) Still, I've been writing all my life. Nobody showed me how, or particularly encouraged me, yet I created poems and stories from the time I was six or seven. Writing seemed a natural extension of reading, which was an activity in which I indulged at every opportunity. Stories to read, stories to write: one catalyzed the other.

Meanwhile, as I matured, love and desire became my mirror for understanding life. My early sexual and romantic experiences, especially my first (and thus far only) BDSM relationship, profoundly affected my view of the world, my philosophy of life, my spirituality and my sense of self. I was writing about desire, love and sex long before I ever considered publishing my tales.

My husband is less judgmental than my siblings. He enjoys erotica, though he has no tolerance for kink or for homoerotic content. Still, every now and then, he suggests I should switch to a more mainstream genre. “Why not write a mystery?”, he asks. “Or a science fiction novel?” I love both these genres, when done well, but I know already that if I turned my hand to either, I wouldn't be able to avoid adding at least some sexual content.

What about so called “literary fiction”? That's what my brother means by “serious”, I'm quite sure. I'd love to have the talent and vision of Barbara Kingsolver, or Sarah Waters, or Haruki Murakami, but I have no illusions. I don't think I have the necessary depth. Mostly I just like to tell stories. Most of my stories have at least a passing concern with sex and desire.

So I guess that means I'm not “serious”, but I'm not sure I want to be either. A while ago, I read Our Tragic Universe by Scarlett Thomas, which I'd say is definitely intended as a literary novel. The main character Meg has a contract for a literary novel. Over the past three years, she has written, and then deleted, about 500,000 words. Every time she has a new idea, she builds it into the book. When she picks up the manuscript again, though, she finds she has lost all confidence in her original inspiration.

Meanwhile, she supports herself writing science fiction books so successful that they've been optioned for a TV show, as well as a wildly popular young adult adventure series that has turned into a franchise. Every year she runs training workshops for other authors who want to ghost-write “Zeb Ross” books.

Because she can't seem to finish her “serious” novel, however, Meg considers herself a failure as an author.

I write books that make my sister blush and my brother squirm, books that Amazon bans, books that mean I have to hide my true identity and can't share my publishing accomplishments with many people. I'd love to get some recognition, but I'm not willing to twist my creativity into unnatural directions. I'm willing to sacrifice possible fame and fortune—or at least the respect of my family—for artistic integrity. If that's not serious, I don't know what is.

Legacy

I'm not a great writer, and never will be. Please, don't object – this isn't false modesty, just realism.

I'm a competent writer, with excellent nuts and bolts skills. Give me a theme and I can spin a plausible yarn that will amuse or arouse my readers. My plots are for the most part believable and consistent, without the truck-sized holes one sometimes sees. My sentences generally read well. My characters might not jump off the page, but they're not cardboard either.

Still, I know I'll never win awards, never be called a genius, never write something that will change my readers' lives. I just don't have anything that important to say – possibly because I've lived nearly six decades without experiencing any great trauma or tragedy. My tales aren't mindless smut, but they don't have the emotional or moral depth of great literature. They're basically throw-away entertainment. When I die, I will not leave an enduring body of work behind me. Oh, I've got a pretty long back list, don't get me wrong, and I hope it will continue to grow, but I doubt that anyone will have heard of Lisabet Sarai ten or twenty years in the future.

That's one reason why I work so hard on behalf of other authors, especially those new to the publishing game. Maybe, just maybe, one of the authors for whom I do crits or whom I edit will turn out to be a truly Great Author. And then I'll feel as though I've done a bit to help make that happen. 

 

I'm better at mentoring and critiquing than I am at writing, and believe me, I realize these are valuable skills. I try to apply them for the benefit of my colleagues. I know a few authors whom I really admire, who truly have the GA Potential, but still have difficulties with grammar, or pacing, or coherency. I'm pleased when I can assist them in smoothing the rough edges of their jewels. 

 

Sometimes I fantasize about winning the Pulitzer Prize. Hey, I'd be thrilled with an EPPIE! My identity isn't tied up in those dreams, though. I've always written, but I never envisioned myself as a Writer with a capital 'W'. So honestly, it doesn't bother me – too much – to acknowledge my limitations.

If one of the authors I've worked with, though, won a prize, I'd be over the moon. I imagine their work, becoming classics, receiving the accolades they so justly deserve. If that ever happened, well, that would be my true legacy – not the slick and superficial novels and stories I list on my website.

And honestly, I'm okay with that. I don't need fame to be happy – luckily, since I'll never be famous. The knowledge that I've contributed to the creation of something with lasting value is enough.

Boogie Night (#celebrity #porn #writing)

I live in a foreign country where porn is seriously illegal. I'm here by the grace of a government that could kick me out at any time. So these days my husband and I no longer indulge in the porn we used to watch occasionally, back when we lived in the U.S. -- back in the days of video tape cassettes. That's okay. Back then, most of the movies we sampled were rather boring and stereotyped, with buff, bulging, heavily-waxed protagonists who looked like plastic and “plots” so flimsy they didn't deserve the label. I don't find purely physical sex very erotic, in literature or in film. So much of the time, our porn experiences were rather disappointing. (Fortunately I had my resident stud to console me in the face of this disappointment!)

It looks as though the adult film industry may have matured, especially since so many women have joined the directorial ranks. Every quarter, when I write the Erotic Lure newsletter for the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, I survey the Best in Adult Films pages and pick out a couple of titles that look appealing. I'd love to have the chance to check some of them out, to see if my intuitions are correct. Alas, that's not really practical.

I love my adopted country, but I do feel rather isolated. I have to keep Lisabet Sarai strictly under wraps here. I don't get the chance to hobnob in person with my fellow erotica authors. I've known several of the Grip posters for nearly a decade, but I haven't actually met any of them in meat space.

Before we moved here, though, for one short period, I was part of the New York City erotica “scene” and it was a heady experience indeed.

Picture this: the dim, brick-walled basement of a funky bar in the Bowery, well-known as a venue for erotica gatherings. I'd attended several events there hosted by Rachel Kramer Bussell, doyenne of the New York erotica community. Now I'm hosting a release party myself, for not one but two new books: my third novel, Ruby's Rules, and the BDSM and spirituality anthology Sacred Exchange, co-edited by me and S.F. Mayfair.

The room is not exactly full – I've always been terrible at promotion – but the modest crowd includes both strangers and dear friends. One of the authors represented in Sacred Exchange has come all the way from western Pennsylvania to participate and to meet me. My closest girlfriend has driven in from New Jersey. Rachel is there, with her current flame. A small but appreciative group sips red wine or martinis, chats, laughs, and waits for the reading.

I am wearing a tight burgundy velvet cocktail dress with a halter neck that accentuates my cleavage. Underneath I'm wearing very little – the costume won't allow it. Despite the horrible pronated arches that usually keep me in flats, I've donned the highest heels I own. My hair is a wild mass of curls. I've exchanged my glasses for contact lenses and I've done the best I can with the unfamiliar eyeshadow, mascara and blush.

I climb the two steps to the podium in the corner, nervousness fluttering in my gut like a trapped bird. There's a spotlight trained on the pedestal, which is fortunate because otherwise I never would have been able to see the pages of my book. A hush comes over the crowd as they notice I've moved into position. I purse my lips around the mike and try to sound husky and sexy. I begin to read from the first chapter of my novel featuring the brilliant, ruthless and irresistible Ruby Maxwell Chen:

My silence is making my unfortunate guest even more nervous.

I lean forward slightly. Under the desk, I smoothly part my legs and spread them wide. Mr. Dalton’s eyes grow round and his mouth falls open at the sight of the black lace garters against my pale skin, and the jet triangle of hair framed between them.

“Well, Mr. Dalton,” I say finally, “I need time to consider the details of your proposal. However, I am confident that we can come to some understanding.”

“Uh...I...” He is rendered incoherent with confusion, embarrassment, and, I can clearly see, lust. I delicately part my silky fur to expose the damp pink folds of my cunt. I have been planning this for the past ten minutes, and I am wet with anticipation.

“I believe that you have said enough, Mr. Dalton. I will give you my answer shortly. In the meantime, I would appreciate your removing your jacket, your trousers and whatever you have on underneath.”

He wants to run, but my eyes hold him, my eyes and that moist, inviting chasm between my thighs. “Now,” I say, allowing a hint of sternness into my voice.

He complies, as I expect. My eyes give him no respite as he awkwardly sheds his clothes. He wears tight blue briefs that highlight every detail of his straining cock. The showy underwear is a present from his girlfriend, perhaps; he is too caught up in his ambitions to have a wife.

A blush is spreading over his fair complexion, and he hesitates to remove the briefs, though they hide nothing. I tap my pen on the desktop, feigning impatience. In truth, I love the suspense, the gradual, reluctant submission, the slow exposure of vulnerable flesh.

I continue for ten or fifteen minutes, losing my anxiety as the story takes over. I can feel the gaze of the audience. I am Ruby's voice. Though I'm two decades older and far less gorgeous than my heroine, I identify with her as I read. I am transformed into an object of desire.

The bar is silent when I stop. Then comes the applause: not thunderous – there aren't enough people here to thunder – but enthusiastic. I realize that my pulse is racing. When I excuse myself to go to the ladies' room, I discover that my panties are distinctly damp.

I return and the crowd closes around me, offering me copies of my books to sign.

For one moment in time, that one precious night, I felt like a star.