So it all starts with sex, right?
Forget that nonsense about which came first, the chicken or the egg. Without sex, do we really care? And then there’s the whole Adam and Eve debacle. If it weren’t for sex we would still be running around buck naked in the lush gardens of Eden. What a complete waste of all that opportunity and ambiance. It took a snake in the grass to teach us a thing or two about what our priorities should be.
So getting to my point, what does sex have to do with writing?
I’ll say everything, because sex being the original thought, although you may say sin, is what all else is measured against. And once we learned of that powerful literary device from Lucifer, he was never going to let us off of the hook. So when speaking to people with different backgrounds, questionable intellects, and I’ll say eclectic interests, sex is the great equalizer. We’ve heard that the international language is love. I disagree. Sex is the universal language that bonds us together in knowledge and understanding.
Love, that’s a laugh.
If you ask five people for their definition of love, you’ll get ten different answers, depending on their level of honesty, guilt and hunger. But ask one hundred people for their definition of sex and you can bet you’ll get one clear image swimming around in your head. And that’s why sex sells. Forget vices like cigarettes and drugs. Sex is the consummate proponent for itself. It needs no ad campaign or warning label. I dare say, when it comes to sex, it is Divine, and yes with a capital ‘D’. How else was He going to ensure the propagation of our species?
So getting back to writing, I, like so many of you desire to be published with every fiber of my being. I need this just as much as I need tall dark and dangerous to come up from behind me and grab my hair with enough force to steal my breath away. He’ll sink the length of his pearly whites into my equally pale smooth skin, while his lips remain just below my jaw that’s left open and wanting, as I am for him. I’ll feel his pulse radiate through my body as the flow of my blood keeps pace with his urgency. His tongue will caress my skin as his mouth hungrily pulls and draws away at my defenses, leaving me only with a desperate need to feel his Bernini sculpted body pressed against me, and then filling me, while utterly consuming me.
Looking over my shoulder and finding myself alone, I am reminded that my prayers haven’t been answered. Crap! I turn to my computer for guidance and think I find the answers I seek. I start building my Facebook fan page and then open a Twitter account. I follow the advice of those who have come before me and complete the Holy Trinity of social networking with a blog site.
But still, no dark knight. Does he know I’m here? Does he know how sweet my blood will taste on his tongue? Or how my body will respond to his touch? No. How could he? Scores of others with a ninety-nine cent price tag line up to gain his attention and he has no one to point out that I’m the one he’s looking for. He is helpless to see me through the crowd.
And that’s what being an author is all about.
We write and proofread. We edit and send out samples to our beta readers. We join writer’s groups, expand our twitter following, and we blog. We do everything with little feedback to tell us if we are on the right path or if we are delusional, thinking that we have even an ice cube’s chance in hell at success. We question the sanity of spending all of our spare moments pursuing a goal that has .001 odds of ever being realized.
To put this into perspective, .01 is a penny. You can’t even walk into a store and buy something with that. So what is .001? It’s nothing, but heartache and crushing reality. We bitterly come to terms with the fact that there is no tall dark and handsome and there probably never will be.
And then we drink.
And while sitting at happy hour, or alone in front of our laptops, we experience an epiphany as Divine Intervention offers a respite to our collective despair. .001. We have a one in one thousand chance of being a successful writer. It’s possible. And that singular thought brings us back from the brink to try once more. Lucifer, punishing and cruel, tempts us with what we desire more than anything else in the world and we crumble.
And through the haze of the tequila, I feel the violent strike of the serpent as it comes up behind me and takes hold of my jugular. I am hypnotized by the insouciant hissing, as he draws away at my defenses. Our fingers entwine as they find their way to the keyboard and begin to tell a story I was willing to sell my soul for.
And so propagates our industry with the need for agents, publishers and asylums.