I’ve been out of the loop for a little while. I described it to one of my editors as ‘life hit, hard’. Between one thing and another I haven’t had the time, or the energy, to do much more than the work that puts a roof over my head (as opposed to the work that puts a damp patch between my thighs).
One of the things that turned up just before I went radio silent was this, from Oleander Plume. It was sort of serendipitous, in that one of my reasons for going dark was a reoccurence of my own PTSD symptoms, but also because I’d been explaining to my therapist about being an erotica author who was sobbing on the couch because sometimes unexpected sexual innuendo is triggering.
It seems to be something that other erotica authors get, but not all that many others.
I write porn, I write the things I write, because of the demons of my memory. Because the more I write, the less those memories can do to ambush me. What I write is the safest space of all, just me and my page, and nothing happens there without my consent. Sure, I have a great partner but he is not a mind-reader, he can sometimes, still, more than a decade in, stumble and then I’m shivering in fear on the edge of our bed wondering how I got there. I have gret friends but sometimes there’s a combination of words that makes the bile rise in my throat and my vision narrow to a point. The page though? With my hands on the keyboard?
That’s the safest space there is.
I’m resurfacing, slowly, trying to mend all the damage I did when I went under, but the blank page doesn’t even need that. I can just start up again without a problem.