Long before I was able to muster up the nerve to write erotica, I envisioned the excitement and drama of calling myself an author of erotica. I imagined entrancing others with the novelty and inspiring intrigue by jutting out my hand and introducing myself as such with a carefree smile. I would then field any questions with the confidence of a matador.

However, my dreams of cool, fascinating poise dissolved when I was actually asked about writing erotica several months ago. My interrogators were blunt, brutal, outspoken. Tell me more, tell me more, didja get very far? They wanted all the horny details. They wanted to know if my characters were more than extensions of me. How much of my writing is actually a confession?

Despite the casual setting and party atmosphere, my face flamed. When my novelty wore off and the attention diverted, my embarrassment was replaced with anger—at myself. This was what I had wanted! I’d hoped for this limelight. Now that I had it, why was I being reticent?

In retrospect, I can think of several factors explaining my lack of candidness, but overall I learned that I need to start being more comfortable with who I am and what I do. I need to dodge uncomfortable questions with grace and self-assurance, and never looking down while shuffling my feet. Good-bye to Sandra Dee! (It’s surprisingly hard to get by without a Grease reference.)

Nevertheless, I will still–and always–maintain to my father that I write about “romance and relationships.”

–LZ.