A Confession

Okay guys, I'm about to confess something.

I'm getting old. 

Or maybe stodgy. 

Or both.

But I am not hugely comfortable with x rated writing.  I'm NOT talking about romance, or the average sex scene.  Sex is a part of life.  None of us would be here without it.  What people want to do in the privacy of their own bedrooms (or on the kitchen table, shower, floor, or washing machine with the drapes drawn) is none of my business.  No, what makes me uncomfortable is the very detailed and very sensual, multi partner, multi-creature, whatever.   I'm okay with consenting adults doing what they want and have negotiated between them.  But I don't want to read about it.

So sue me.

I don't care how brilliantly you write (in fact, the more brilliant you are the more uncomfortable I'll get -- consider it a compliment if you will).  It's not my bag. 

LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS of people love that sort of thing.  I am happy for them.  They are not me.  So while I have friends and acquaintances who write brilliant erotica, I don't read it.  Love them.  Wish them good things.  But their work is not going to be on my bookshelves.

There are people who think that to be wildly successful you have to be seriously erotic, that it's what the audience wants.  It's what part of the audience wants.  But I think there are plenty of folks out there who skip past the sex scenes to get back to the plot.  I could be wrong.  But I don't think I am.

I am not meaning to be judgmental.  There are other things I don't read too.  Frankly a lot of "literature" bores me out of my mind.  I am the girl that, when forced in high school to write a report on something written by Nathaniel Hawthorne (because the modern book I wrote my first report on was considered too "easy" by my teacher,) I read 4 (yep) 4 Nathaniel Hawthorne books because I couldn't find one I didn't loathe.  I wound up writing a report on The Scarlet Letter because I ran out of time and it was the one I hated least.  I still remember clearly not being able to FIND the first chapter in one of the books because the prologue was so long.  One (possibly the same, I've blocked the traumatic memory from my mind) went on for four or six pages about the fabric (green velvet) in the drapes in the room, so that I had to page back and find out what the character had walked into the room FOR.  It was an exercise in frustration which I don't care to repeat.

Everybody gets to have their own personal preferences.  If we all were exactly alike the world wouldn't run right, and would be a very boring place indeed.  I am religious.  But I don't think that's the issue.  It's a matter of taste.  I like broccoli, I detest spinach.  That sort of thing. 

I do hope that this is not going to lead to a lot of hostility.  But I figured I'd be up front about this.

Have a wonderful day.

Cie