by K.R. Wilson
Oh man, I’ve been waiting to talk about this charged topic. So, give me room. I’m about to unleash the tiger! Nothing gives me more angst and pride than telling people what I do for a living.
I’ve been told I don’t fit the image (whatever that image is) of an erotic romance author. Neither does my voice. I sound like Butterfly “I don’t know nothin' about birthing no babies” McQueen. I have the mouth of a truck driver. I fancy myself a card shark, and I’m a freak about Samurai swords, so I can see why some people look at me with glassy-eyed confusion. At least they don’t break out in the robot dance like on the Dave Chapelle Show.
I was on the path to becoming a private chef when I realized I had a bambino on the way. Private cheffing had to wait. I had a high-risk pregnancy and a lot of time on my hands waiting for the kid to grow and pop out. What did I do to pass the time? I entertained the idea of writing a story, not just any story but full tilt erotica.
I found a copy of
Gabriel’s Woman by Robin Schone. It totally changed my view of romance and the potential to make a statement with it. I could kiss Robin Schone for that.
While writing my first short story, I found I enjoyed the process. Then I entertained the idea of writing a book. I researched, gathered characters, found the conflict and I was on my way. After I finished my story, I made the announcement to my family and anyone who would set a spell and listen.
My mother, God rest her soul, was every bit as supportive as you’d hope a parent would be to their child, but Homegirl wouldn’t read my love scenes never mind the whole story. Mind you, she got me started on romance novels. I then introduced her to erotic romance novels. We traded books back and forth for a number of years. Go figure!
My hubby? Well, I remember the first love scene I sent him. His face reddened, eyes glazed over and he then murmured,” What happened to my innocent wife?” Then he wandered aimlessly around our apartment for hours.
My brother who is attending theology school in California recently invited me to his house for a barbecue where all of his classmates from theology school would be. I asked him, “Brother? Your friends will ask me what I do for a living, and I will say I write erotic romance.”
He said, “K, just tell them you write romance.” Translation “I go to theology school. Don’t screw with
my reputation.”
The pain and the ecstasy continues:
My aunt, the avid churchgoer urged me to write children’s stories instead. “No auntie, I want to write about people falling in love and having graphic sex along the way. That is how we got here, you know.” That didn’t go over well with her.
My sister asked me where do I get those wild ideas from. I have a son. You draw your own damn diagram.
My mother-in-law? In the past three and half years, I’ve been writing she only told two people what I do. I’ll let you draw your own conclusion on how I dealt with that bit of news.
After wrestling with my conscience I’ve concluded that I love what I do. I don’t want to change genres any time soon. I love writing about sweaty bodies contorting, limbs quaking from pleasure and hot panting. I love writing about heroines who want a good... frolick. You thought I was going to drop and f-bomb, didn’t ya? Hahaha!
I’ve seen
Last Tango in Paris four times. I always lean on the slow button at the famous sex scene. By the way, why didn’t I see Brando’s birthday behind? Okay, that’s another entry. Sex is great! Isn’t that what the French have known forever?
Still on occasion, when someone asks me what I do for a living I hesitate. I take a deep breath and launch into it. If they look at me askew and decide I’m not proper company, that’s fine. They won’t make great friendship material. It means they are judging me, and frankly, life is too short to ponder about that.
Some things have improved though. Hubby now loves my love scenes. They...inspire him.
All righty, time for a white chocolate and macadamia nut cookie break.
Peace!
