Why I Don’t Write Erotica
It’s not because I don’t write sex scenes.
I do.
I have no particular problem with erotica, at all, nor with those who write it. But let me explain to you, briefly, why I don’t. Erotica is the literary answer to a one night stand: fun while it lasted, at least in theory, but ultimately meaningless. If anything stays with you, it’s nothing special. Because the point of the whole encounter was sex. Sex was the beginning, as well as the end of it. And after that…nothing. And personally, I don’t like sex as the end point. I’m a hopeful person; I like beginnings.
I want to root for the characters: for them to get together, and, more, to solve their own problems. To achieve their goals. I want their relationship to be part of that and I want, indeed, for it to be a relationship. For that moment when they finally do get together to be triumphant. Something you wait for, as the reader; something you don’t know for certain will even happen. Something that signals, not just the cotton candy fun of a few moments’ passion but the start of something new. New, and exciting.
A number of people have observed, in response to Game of Thrones mania, that killing characters off is easy; getting your audience to care that you’ve done so is hard. Likewise, getting your audience to care that your characters have gotten together is hard. Or not gotten together, as the case may be. Getting your audience to care about your characters at all is hard. And for me, personally–as both a writer and a reader–just knowing what someone looks like isn’t enough to ignite that spark. Just knowing that another person finds them hot isn’t, either. I want, as a writer, exactly what I want as a reader: to feel something, inside, after I stop reading. Not to feel empty, or bereft, or guilty, but to feel alive. Even if what happened was ultimately a tragedy. It has to mean something.
Even if it’s funny. Even if it’s silly. Even if it’s sexy. It has to mean something, and mean something in a way that leaves me wanting more.
