I can’t write fiction to save my life. Everything I write here is true.
River has encouraged me to try fiction. We’re the only guests at a small remote motel. She suggests maybe I could get something going with the innkeeper’s shy Asian wife. There’s no eye contact. Maybe a fleeting glance from her while I take in her small tits, diminutive figure, and ageless face. Or maybe it’s just my wishful thinking. Does she know I’m staring? Probably. Is it creepy? Or complimentary? Later, she reveals that she’s not so shy about some things as I thought. And we don’t need to speak the same language.
But I can’t get it to hang together in a smoothly cohesive whole. Truth always hangs together. Even when things fall apart.
Then there’s the time I was working out at the YWCA. Years later I imagine what it would be like, walking into the locker room and finding a woman alone in the men’s shower, casually oblivious to being in the wrong room. When she turns around, scoops the wet hair off her face, and sees me, it becomes apparent that she’s not as oblivious as she seemed. And there’s a lot more than eye contact.
But for erotica to work for me, it has to make sense. That plot already has holes so big they could drain the entire Atlantic Ocean in one gulp.
There’s a trend here. I’m sure you see it. A woman who turns out not to be what she appears at first, and who is the aggressor, while your humble narrator is the willing participant and first-person chronicler. Could that be what my first sexual encounter was like? It’s clearly my blogging style.
So if I can’t write fiction to save my life then why do I do NaNoWriMo every November? Blame my co-author, a woman who was the aggressor and roped me into it. Why an award-winning romance author would be slumming it with me I’ll never know. I can only hope it’s good for her, too. She says it is. And even though she writes fiction, I believe her.
We’re deep into our first internet collab. I’m traveling with my family, staying up to all hours of the morning writing my share. We’re at a hotel before we fly out the next day. I take my laptop down to the lobby and slump on a couch to pump out the words. Exchange a few pleasantries with the curious desk clerk. And a few glances. “What are you doing?” “I’m an insomniac writer. Working on a novel.” She comes out and sits down in shoeless comfort. We talk about this and that. I’m an introvert who likes meeting people. And I’ve got a thing for women who like meeting me. Especially without shoes. And if River and I had had an open relationship back then I might have some good non-fiction to write about.
Which would be nice. Because I can’t write fiction to save my life. But no matter. It’s not clear my life is worth saving anyway.