To steal a line from a song…

The truth is, it has been so long. When writing is a side project, life often gets in the way. Perhaps moreso when one is writing erotic fiction of sorts in both a highly private, yet public forum. It is an oxymoron of sorts, to utilize tools that often perpetuates a *foot in mouth* stream of consciousness, when in fact, almost each word is weighed and calculated for its sound and ambiguity.

I wish it were easier. I do not have the luxury of the time to write as freely as I once I did. And the time I had previously I wish I had used efficiently. Oh, the things I wish. And yet, it is not something that I can abandon. My inbox has been overflowing. Intelligent people unsubscribe, and instead mine is a form of self-flagellation.

One app tells me that I now have just under 2,000 emails, but within each of those is a thread, and so another app tells me the reality is that there is 10,202 snippets of individual dialog. No, I will not be reading each one, but untangling them from the voices I want to hear takes time.

My last few submissions faltered. A few rejections, and rightly so. It seems that I could not find the strength in my writing to submit something more convincing. It has been the same story, twice, to the same anthology. One that I have coveted for so long. It’s interesting how you mark small successes by being the same books as those you have long admired. And so at least I can claim one, landing in what I believe was the last Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. And No. 13 at that.

That all said, I have not been too far from it all. For the last couple of years, I’ve perhaps been closer to reality, mired in the pain of other people’s stories of the complexity of sexual relationships, mainly without the kink, but all the human foibles that cut deeper than any mislaid bullwhip might.

It’s already March. Often I come to the end of the year with renewed hope that I will get back on track when it comes to my erotic writing endeavors. It’s one of the few times I allow myself to indulge in the tradition of little lies we tell ourselves to feel better, which is probably best known as pre-emptive failure.

But, it’s within our nature to try, try again. That or insanity.