Revelations

Revelations are not always fun.

While I was doing the word count and editing the piece of erotica I wrote this afternoon (4669 words, 2 hours), it occurred to me....

What if this is all I'm really good at writing? Maybe I can't break the block with the fantasy story because I'm afraid I'm really going to suck at it, and I'll be relegated to "that erotica writer" for the rest of my days?

And if I were relegated in such a fashion, would it be the end of the world?

Maybe.

But only because I want *more*.

I'm not a one dimensional person. Oh, look, I know 90% about sex here, and that's by design. But there is more to me than that. And while I am very grateful for the gift for words that I have been given - I'm very thankful for having been published in magazines and other web sites and my poetry book - there's more to me than that.

It took a long time for me to cop to the fact that there was more to me than "Screamer". I lived, breathed, wrote, ate, slept and fucked Screamer for nearly 12 years before I finally was able to set her aside and start looking at Jill through a new lens. Part of her are very much still alive. Parts of her are at my core.

But again, there is more to me than that.

So I started writing fiction that wasn't based in female submissive/male dominant design. I broke that wall. It was hard, but I broke it.

But what if the wall between fantasy and erotica isn't breakable?

It won't be the end of my writing. I could never stop writing all together - THAT is truly at my core. It's what I do. It's my creative outlet. It's my soul.

But I am so much more than Kanthra Adaire.

In high school, I had a friend who also fancied himself a writer. For an entire school year, he and I traded a series of notebooks back and forth. We wrote a story together. He would write a couple pages, give me the book, and I would add to the story. It was absolutely exhilarating. Many years later, when I was married to my first husband, we began anew. We started with a new idea, a story told from two viewpoints. He wrote one, I wrote the other. We traded ideas, pages, letters, plot design. Neither of those stories contained one iota of sex. They were based on plot, characters, life stories of people that we grew to love and care about. With the second one, I went so far as to have another friend of mine take me out into the country, find a railroad bridge (that was in the story). We found one. We spray painted it as was done in the story. I took pictures.

I still have them.

So I know it's in there. I just have to break that wall down.

Where did I leave that jack hammer at? /wanders off