Lisabet Sarai (who’s work you should check out) wrote a post over at the ERWA blog that I have been thinking about all weekend.
Over the let’s say 15 years I’ve been getting published on and off I have developed a tendency to not think about the sale-ability of my work at all. I’ve discovered that I do not function well as a writer when I concern myself with whether or not I can place a story when I start writing it.
When I was working really hard at trying to get all my erotica published in all the places, I tried really hard to write to the market directly. Back then, I wrote a lot of what I do now in a simpler way. A lot of man on man violent buttfucking, beatings, s/m, hard kink. At the time there were a couple of magazines really into that and then as happens the markets turned and I kept writing those stories and they didn’t have homes.
Over the years the erotica markets have waxed and waned as they do.
The thing I’ve learned that fulfills me as a writer beyond getting published is that, people who are into what I do will find my work or ask for it. Being that I write a lot of things that go in and out of fashion in the various lit ponds I swim in, it does feel good to know that after all of these years of toiling in absolute obscurity that, there are people out there who I don’t know who know my work.
As I’ve been ruminating on this, I realize I have reached a place where I feel good with my art just where it is. What I mean by that is that even while I’m working away at submitting and getting rejected, there is also a deep satisfaction as I mentioned in my previous post when I show the world the things that mean the most to me.
At one point about six years ago or so I “retired”. I stopped writing, I stopped trying to get published. I thought that since I knew that the chances of me landing the Big Fucking Deal were nil why bother?
I have to confess that the Big Fucking Deal and being taken seriously or even respected by the lit world at large have never been exactly important to me. Back then I thought this was obviously something wrong and that since I didn’t feel that particular push that I couldn’t be a “real” writer.
Not writing was a spectacular failure during which time I learned that writing helps keep me more sane, I discovered that I don’t write for the reasons I thought I did. To this very moment I am surprised that anyone wants to read my writing ever.
So there we have it. This is why I will probably never be famous or taken seriously in the big bad lit world.
I honestly don’t give a fuck.
What I do give a fuck about is the people who are into it get it and read it etc. Everyone else can go read other stuff.
I’m yammering now. I have shit to do.
Coming up I have some more in depth book reviews. I also will dedicate a whole post to my first reading as a grown up author. This will be the first time I’ve read words I’ve written in public in about fifteen years. Also it’s not angst filled baby queer love poems. So yeah, I’m nervous.
I’ll also be adding more authors to my blog roll there and probably talking about some of them in a fangirly kind of way that I should find embarrassing.
And that’s all for now. I have work to do.
OH no wait.
In honor of Samhain, my anniversary with my partner and all things smutty I will be putting out a free little collection of my first attempts at Lovecrafty flavored erotic flash size pieces. YAY.