I’m writing erotica. It’s hard.

Which is to say that writing erotica is difficult; not that, um… You know. Anyway, I’m finding the process more difficult than I anticipated. Every time I write something, I imagine my parents, or one of my many nieces and nephews reading it. Then I blush furiously and stop. This is proving to hinder the writing somewhat.

On the bright side, I’m learning a lot about myself. For starters, I’m learning that I embarrass a lot more easily than I thought. I’m also learning that while doing something may come naturally, writing about it fluently and with skill isn’t something I can force to come quickly. By which I mean, that I’m not a steep learning curve; not that, um… You know. I’m also learning that while a woman may happily indulge you wandering around the house choreographing fight moves so that scenes of violence flow naturally and realistically and may even be willing to throw a mock punch or two in order to help; under other circumstances asking for help with choreography will be met by a withering stare, a sarcastic comment or two, then a facial expression which seems to say “Do you really think I’m falling for that old chestnut?”. By “old chestnut”, I mean a clichéd  request; not, um… You know.

My only option is to keep grinding away until something comes. By which I mean I mean keep writing until I write something good; not um… You know. If I keep going, putting one word after another and trying to ignore my natural tendency to feel embarrassed about the subject matter, then hopefully very soon I’ll have something to submit.

God damn, but this is hard! By which I mean, um… I have an erection.

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