It never ceases to amaze me how much we allow our beliefs to limit our experience. And this is never truer when it comes to sex.
Unless you've been hiding under a rock you probably heard the story about the US couple who saved their home by self publishing erotic stories on internet? Or about how Natasha Walker, author of The Secret Lives of Emma, is a guy not a gal? And we all know the story behind the exponential rise in popularity of that sexy book everyone but my dog has read.
I was recently very fortunate to be invited by Simon & Schuster to travel to Sydney for a couple of awesome reasons. The first was to meet with a group of readers and do a live book club discussion of The Yearning, which was just wonderful.
About a month ago I ‘came out’ as a debut author at my very first spoken word event. The Wheeler Centre (God bless their enthusiasm for the written word) invited me to be part of their monthly ‘Debut Monday’ for May.
She’s been described as sexy and dangerous and I want to be just like her!
Have you ever had a weekend that left you walking on Cloud 9? May I tell you about mine?
While I’m on questions I consistently get asked (see Virginity and other disappointments), there is another fairly personal question that keeps raising its nosey head. It’s a question that no one would dare ask under usual circumstances (unless they were a very close friend or really drunk or both). But it seems the fact that I write about sex is a green light for people to cross all manner of social mores, one of them being, ‘So...is what you write based on your own sex life?’ (Cue waggling eyebrows).
I’m not sure which I find more distasteful, the question or the eyebrows.