Instead of spending my lunch break toiling away on one of many various WIPs, I find myself asking the big question… Why?

I mean, does the world really need another smutty little short story?

Okay, then why am I writing a story that doesn’t concern any of my Voices?

I don’t know, maybe to try to sell something. But, is selling something selling out to my true self?

I never started out with the intention of writing erotica. I didn’t even know it would be labeled erotic. I just sat down and told a story. Okay about a zillion times in about a zillion different ways. But, it was my story, or more accurately my characters story. I just wrote what they told me.

So, there you have what evolved into Hexed. 

I’ve been told the characters aren’t likable. Okay, Rowan kills people. She’s not supposed to be likable. Interesting… I thought so… A train wreck? Yeah, I won’t deny that.

My heroes seem to have a problem with keeping their dicks in their pants. I adore Billy Dalton. He fucks around. That’s what men do. Billy is very loosely based on the first guy I ever loved. Guess what? He probably scored more pussy than most of the other wrestlers combined. Did I love him less for it? Absolutely not.

What you do with one person is not always connected or even based on your feelings for another person. 

I don’t get this whole love thing. It’s complex. You know, kinda like life.

I don’t write love stories. I write life stories. 

No offense to anyone, but I cringe at the thought of being labeled a romance writer. I don’t read that genre and I sure as hell don’t want people thinking I write it. But, like I said, no offense intended if you do.

I hate labels.

So, why the hell to I keep going with this writing thing?

Sometimes I really don’t know… I mean I like for my stuff to be read. I really dig when someone gets what I do. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit selling a story is kinda cool too.

Maybe I write because I have these Voices inside my head demanding their stories be told. I can’t confine them to a genre. I can’t play by anyone else’s rules. I have to write what they tell me.

My characters fuck around. Sorry if that offends you. No, really, I’m not. 

The Voices amuse me. The Voices fascinate me. The Voices are my friends.

I love them and I want their stories told.

I would hope that others find them as fascinating as I do. Like anyone else, maybe the Voices do want to be understood by someone other than me. Maybe they are just happy being whoever the hell they are, or were. I seriously doubt the Spirit we call Roger ever really gave a flying flipping fuck about what others thought of him. He was in this thing for himself, and truth be told, I kinda admire him for that.

Does that make me a traditional publisher’s worst nightmare?

I don’t know if I’ll finish the short story. If I do, I do…

I can only do what the Voices tell me to do.

Maybe, just maybe, that’s why I write…

There you have it.

I write to give the Voices their voice.


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