What kind of love are you on?

I noticed this is my one hundredth post on Dita's Den. I'm celebrating it with news of rejection. The quickie I wrote to get away from my Brothers Grim was not an Ellora's Cave Quickie, as my editor pointed out, and you bet I'm kicking my own butt right about now.

Lesson one: Don't assume anything. Wrote a book that got published? Congratulations! Think everything else you do from then on is golden and greeted with open arms? Wake up. Instead:

Lesson two: Do your homework. If there are house rules, abide by them. Learn them by heart. They are the guiding light, they exist to make your life easier, your writing super focused.

Lesson three: It's not them, it's you, or in this instance, me. It really is and there's nothing else to it. Decided not to follow that guiding light but do your own thing instead? Go back to lesson one and do not assume anything.

After Alex Rising got reviewed by Night Owl Romance, I wrote them a thank you mail with a few notes on the book and my writing. I wish I could post the answer I got. I remember saying I doubted I'd ever write a simple romp. I also remember saying "but never say never."

Hell froze over and I ended up writing that simple romp. Just not simple enough, intense enough, tight enough for EC, and that is no one else's fault but mine. It got me thinking. If it wasn't a simple romp I was comfortable writing, what the hell was I doing trying to write one? (Except assuming it was golden even when I hadn't done my homework properly.) What was I out to write Romantica wise anyway?

I'm still mulling over that but initial reports indicate it can't be just sex, all sex and nothing but with plot enough to hold the edges together. I'm not dissing anyone writing strictly sex driven stories or readers who enjoy them, absolutely not. These are insanely hard to write because of that tight format and focus and I just failed royally at it. Because I wanted there to be more to it. Because the premise was fun and I had fun with it, my way, not the EC way.

It's not an Ellora's Cave Quickie but it just might be a short for some other publisher. We'll see. And I need to have a serious discussion with myself about what kind of love am I on, Romantica wise; spell it out, clear, crystal. High time, wouldn't you say? It would make my writing life that much easier, to say nothing of targeting those queries and submissions. Maybe I wouldn't feel like such an idiot after being rejected, either.

The name game

There are probably as many reasons for choosing to use a pseudonym as there are authors donning one. This is mine.

I have never been and never will be a writer to write one thing only. I wouldn't even want to. I'm too restless for that, too scattered in my interests and too undecided in my tastes. It would never work. I'd go mad and drive others up the wall so I could pace the floor like the caged lion I become when someone flashes too short a leash. If variety is the spice of life, give me a herbarium. I yam what I yam, I second that certain sailorman. I don't deny it, but how to play it smart, now that was the question when I queried Ellora's Cave. 

I started this blog while taking part in The Seventy Days of Writing Challenge under the same pen name (which I didn't know EC might veto, which they didn't). I'd put up an email account for yours truly. I was up and running and chocking on humble pie. I felt I'd made a concession going in with a nom de plume. All because I had written erotica. All because I had been warned I might start receiving unwanted messages and attention. 

I wanted to say I didn't care, that I could distinguish between fact and fiction, between what I write and who I am, and to hell with those who can't and get confused, or those for whom sex is not a dirty word, it's dirty period. The warnings annoyed me. Gigantic period. I got angry thinking I might have to choose between censoring what I wrote and disguising who wrote; caged seeing that leash offered up to me; upset the fantasies and intolerance and misapprehensions of others played a role in what role I assumed or chose not to. 

Imagine your child bringing in the mail and handing you a postcard inviting you to be the guest of honor at a group sex session. Spotting a picture in the trash of a naked man palming his pride and joy, another invitation. Imagine receiving obscene phone calls on end, a package containing someone's sperm donation. These are real-life examples from the lives of young women who write erotica or whose writings include passages with explicit sex. 

As surely as crime writers should all be arrested for murder, science fiction writers...what planet are they from anyway, and fantasy writers have lost contact with reality, erotica authors must be either oversexed or going without and gagging for it. Could we make a deal, right here, right now: If we are, we'll let you know, okay? Send out invitations to our orgies, or post a call for one. Until then, just...don't. 

I can resist being labeled. I can ignore the hang-ups of others. And I will fight for my children's innocence and peace of mind for as long as I possibly can. They don't have to learn to put up with whatever may be slung my way even if I'm prepared to. They can't choose, so I chose for them; what I hope is the lesser evil, the smaller concession, the longest leash. Humble pie. It's an acquired taste.