“I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me. I had to create a world of my own: like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living.”
Why I Write
Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me: the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own: like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living.
That I believe is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialisation, an incarnation of his inner world.
Then he hopes to attract others into it. He hopes to impose his particular vision and share it with others. And when the second stage is not reached, the brave artist continues nevertheless. The few moments of communion with the world are worth the pain, for it is a world for others, an inheritance for others, a gift to others in the end.
We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice: in the moment and in retrospection.
Writing for an Audience of One
Your authentic sexual expression is a prerequisite for erotic publishing. If you can’t get that far, you’re never going to write successfully for the masses. But the opposite is not true: You don’t need to publish in order to write well, and writing well for oneself is perhaps the sweetest thing of all. In personal writing… [y]ou become articulate to yourself, you compose your own sexual philosophy, and your writing practice is your divining rod.
Professional writers need personal writing to remember who they are, away from the critics and the crowd. Solo writers, who write for their own private benefit, have the key to open that secret garden anytime they want. They may be perfectly and justifiably satisfied to keep it all to themselves.
From How to Write a Dirty Story by Susie Bright.
Write Sexercise: Write sex for only you. Take 50 minutes. Write a love letter you will never send. Write a sexual memory you will never share. Write the sexual fantasy you want to live before you die but can’t ask for. Write your sex nightmare. Write a poem to your own or someone else’s hands. Write what your lover said, or didn’t say. Write to someone you desire but can’t have. Anything. Later, in 6 full grammatical sentences, tell us what the writing experience was like. Don’t share your writing. It’s for you, beloved you, only.
I am a male, age 23, and I am lactating. My breasts have never been so sore. Not even after receiving titty twisters from bully school mates. They had hair down there long before I stopped playing with dolls. I haven’t stopped playing with dolls. I havent masturbated in months, because I’ve lost my imagination. I close my eyes, and I see my father, little girls, german shepards, and TV news commentators, but no voluptuous, pouty-lipped, naked female sex kittens, wincing in ecstasy from the illusory positions I’ve conjured up in my mind. No, when I close my eyes I see lizards & flipper babies, the ones who were born deformed because their mothers took bad birth control pills. I am seriously afraid to touch myself.