Other writers get it, of course: romance writers live in rosy castles and have crinoline dreams; science fiction authors are pasty-faced nerds with more love for science than humanity; horror pros keep bodies in their basement for research.
It’s natural for people to think that because you write smut … well, it’s pretty obvious that they think: thin, greasy mustaches, seedy domains, hacks, perverts – the clichés pop immediately to mind. But what’s really interesting is that this isn’t the toughest of occupational hazards for the erotica writer. After all, life is full of surprises: the romance author is a cynical young guy, the science fiction writer can’t balance his checkbook, the horror fan loves Fred Astaire movies, and the erotica writer is just doing a job.
Who cares what other people think: it’s what’s inside you that counts – and what’s inside erotica can be very unusual, sometimes almost traumatic.
The romance writer might fall in love with one of his or her characters, science fiction writers might be endlessly frustrated that they’re living in the past and not the future they love, and horror writers might look at the world through a serial killer’s eyes, but smut writers deal with very loaded stuff every time they pick up their metaphorical pens. Sex is powerful: it lives in the deepest parts of us, lurking in the brainstem right up there with climbing in the trees. It’s also very unpredictable. Sex isn’t intellectual; changing our sexual selves is like trying to change left or right-handedness. Despite what hysterical fundamentalists believe, sexual orientation isn’t something that can be cured – don’t even bother to try. In short, sex is the atomic bomb of the psyche.
When you write smut, you have to be prepared to be surprised. When anyone sits down to write fiction, they casually flip through their lives, loves, and experience to fill in the blanks. This character is white, this character is black, this character is straight, gay, tall, short, fat, thin, nasty, sweet … this character is (fill in the blank). When you write stories with a sexual focus, those choices can sometimes reveal deep sexual feelings – feelings that can emerge in unexpected ways.
One of the big decisions erotica writers have to face is a professional one: write what you like and what you know, or try to write about other orientations or practices. Stick to familiar territory and your market is very limited – but even if you stick to your own sexual neighborhood, you still can be in for some surprises. Write the same kind of story, even if it’s as broad as your orientation with no queer or S/M overtones, enough times and something is bound to emerge. Maybe it’s the location, the description of the characters, the sex act itself – something is going to pop up. A memory will emerge, a revelation of a certain sexual peculiarity will dawn on you – and you’ll find yourself staring at a blank page, shivering.
I’ve known writers who’ve found themselves unexpectedly aroused by a story that’s taken a dark, even horrifyingly sexual turn – or straight writers getting turned on by writing gay porno, and vice versa. I’ve had the experience myself, getting honestly disturbed by a story I’d been writing. While I definitely encourage writers to try new and unique approaches to writing, I also warn them about these surprises – they’re part of the game for being an erotica writer.
What to do about it? Like anything psychological, there isn’t a cure-all technique. But why should you try and cure it? It’s part of you. Maybe it’s something small, maybe something indicative of a larger issue, but it’s still part of who you are. Personally, I try to really look at what pops up, and how it makes me feel. Is it frightening, the emotions that came up during the writing of that one story, or is it a theme that I hadn’t been aware of? An editor of mine pointed out that a lot of my stories take place at dusk or dawn, between day and night. When I heard this, I was shocked and angry that I’d subconsciously used the same device over and over again, but then I realized that for me it was also a way of using a curtain between our walking-around selves and our sexual selves. Another friend of mine recently realized that most of his characters have a certain color hair and eyes. Not the end of the world, certainly, but still exposing something laying deep in the mind.
When the discoveries are more shocking, one thing I try and remember is what I call the horror hazard. Horror writers have the same visceral reaction to their work: thinking too much about how much blood a decapitation would generate, or the sound a hatchet would make cutting off a limb. It doesn’t mean they want to try it, but the images are too real … too vivid. Writers, remember, use their imaginations, and imaginations are made of jumbled experience and rearranged thoughts. It doesn’t mean that the wish is father to the action, it just means that you’ve managed to impress your own consciousness with your skill as a storyteller. You’ve surprised your own mind.
Good or bad, it is simply an unusual discovery or an indication of something deeper, something disturbing, and these things happen. Whether you decide to let it bother you, use it for self-exploration, or smile at the fact that your writing managed to arouse yourself – it is up to you. The best advice I can give is to remember two little things when it does happen: like anything to do with sex, you are not alone. We all have had our similar moments, the same fears and disturbing thoughts. The other is that you’re a writer, remember: a teller of stories, a professional liar. Your life, your dreams, your thoughts are fodder for your work, and that sometimes using the stuff that might scare you or make you uncomfortable is the best thing. In other words, when things are uncomfortable, try exploring further: write it out and see where it goes.
That’s an occupational hazard, but it can also be the greatest reward.