When you have a piece of erotica accepted for publication, whom do you tell?
Unseasoned as I am in the world of lubricious lit, I had the rather thrilling impression that I was joining a pseudonymous coven of secretive storytellers lurking beneath the respectable facades of our respective towns in a David Lynchian kinda way. Since then, I have read a few blogs that completely give the lie to this - writers who are quite open and happy to share personal details along with snippets from their books. So is erotica writing - gasp! - respectable?
I cannot imagine telling either of my parents about my forthcoming print debut - particularly my dad, who has smoked 40+ a day since running away to sea at fifteen and doesn't really need the additional strain on his cardiac muscles.
And besides, I like the idea of keeping myself veiled and partially obscure, perhaps beneath something like the black lace mantilla my overdramatic twelve year old self liked to wear to Mass. Black lace! Was it a portent?? Erm, no. I have precious few opportunities in life to be enigmatic, and I find I enjoy it.
This is me, for the time being...