Here’s the keynote speech from this year’s Romance Writers of America Conference. The speaker is talking about the changes in publishing and what that means for romance (erotica!) writers
I had a really formal, serious, education in literature so sometimes when I’m writing erotic stuff it makes me feel like I’m godzilla smashing a dollhouse that’s full of tiny screaming academics.
“Oh shit!” they yell. “They’re talking about 50 Shades of Grey on NPR! Quickly! Sneer at it! Sneer!”
Then they sneer, but sneering at erotica is like trying to put out a grease fire with water. It just spreads it around and pretty sure their entire house is on fire, or the smutty novel is being made into a screenplay. That’s how people they know hear about it. Then they get curious and they buy it. Even when they try to ignore erotica it just seems to grow, swelling up, until it’s looming and impossible to ignore.
Sometimes I also feel like a masseuse. Typically I choose a certain kind of story because I think it’s exciting, but when I’m writing for seven or eight hours the excitement wears off. It’s not that I don’t like what I’m writing or anything. It’s just that there’s a certain point where it becomes physiologically impossible for me to be aroused. The experience starts to get more cerebral and I start to think about the people who are going to read it. I’m rubbing their shoulders making soothing cooing noises.
Sometimes, and most frequently, it feels like I can’t write fast enough because if I slow down I might lose focus. If I set something down and forget about it then I usually actually, really truly, forget about it and it’s practically impossible for me to get back on track.
Then it’s a lot like juggling a piece of burning metal. I don’t want it to fall onto the ground because then it’d get cold. I’m just trying to hold onto it; trying not to get burned.
I just finished writing a story where the male protagonist wakes up with a vagina and then becomes his boss’s personal sex slave. I think I got a little carried away writing it because I sort of prefer writing stuff with dudes in it. You can check it out right here.
Next up is a parallel story where a female protagonist wakes up with a dick and does all the things a lady would do if she suddenly changed sexes. I had a lot of fun writing it because the protagonist turns out to be sort of a predator and ends up physically and emotionally abusing her ex-boyfriend. (Don’t worry he ends up loving it.) I chewed off all my nails while writing that one too.
It sort of reminded me of the time a guy asked me out on a date who freaked out at me when I refused. Then I told him that if I ever grew a dick I’d be willing to fuck him in the butt. It didn’t smooth things over very well, but he wasn’t really my type anyway.
Print this out or alter it as needed.
If you’re reading this then I am dead and you’ve discovered my corpse while I was in the middle of writing erotica. Be very careful about your next move because if I am dead then that means I’ve flown too close to the sun and I’ve finally written something so toe-curling that it can kill people. Do not look at my computer or the crumpled pad of paper in front of me. Do not look through my journals. They contain writing that is physically dangerous to read. It might even be dangerous to touch. You are in great peril. Proceed with caution.
Get a trashcan and fill it with my writing. Cover your eyes as you do this. Take my computer and put it on top of the writing. There are flash-drives taped to the bottom of my writing desk. They are backups. Smash the drives. There is also a key there. It is for my storage locker.
Bring the can outside. You won’t need to use gasoline because my writing seems to burn well without the use of accelerants. Be sure cover the top with chicken wire or some kind of mesh. If scraps of burning paper get tossed in the wind then they could start smaller fires or worse – people might read them. Be careful. Keep a fire extinguisher next to you.
Next go to my blog. If you’re close enough to me then you already know the password. Delete every post. Go to amazon. Remove all the books. This is important. The lesser works are all seeds which could sprout into the bit of writing that killed me. They could kill you too. Get rid of them.
Next empty my storage locker. Burn its contents like all the rest. When you’re done following those directions don’t forget to burn this too. Do all of this in secret. Look behind you and lock your doors. You may be curious about my last story, but don’t be tempted and don’t tell anyone you found this note.
Hey everyone! I just thought that it would be really cool to write a story where a character talks about what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a serious pounding because, as you know, it’s always really hot to talk during sex. That’s why if you put in the coupon code AF75G for my title Listen Daddy then you’ll get it for free until August 8th 2012.
- Gaiman (Neil Gaiman.)
In the UK the word ropey (which I use a lot to describe cum. I.E. “His cum shot out in ropey bursts.”) doesn’t just mean long glutinous strands. It means shitty or ugly.
***** The more you know. *****