Almost Lost

By Lisabet Sarai

When I checked our topic for the next two weeks – Erotica Revisited – I knew immediately what book I wanted to discuss. I went to the bookshelves, confident I'd seen the volume there, remembering the many times I'd pulled it out to read a favorite passage or two and set my pulse racing. However, the slim paperback with the powder-blue spine (I remembered the blue, quite distinctly) was nowhere to be found.

Momentarily disturbed, I then recalled that we'd stripped most of the salacious volumes off our shelves when we'd moved to our current apartment, concerned that they might cause us trouble in this morally conservative country. There were boxes, locked in the storage room – I hastened to exhume the two most likely containers and searched for the warmly remembered Victorian (or perhaps pseudo-Victorian) work.

Nothing.

A sort of panic engulfed me. Periodically we go through purges in an attempt to lighten our material load. Had I recklessly discarded my copy of Laura during one of these orgies of self-discipline? If so, could I find another copy? I searched Amazon and Wikipedia for any reference to the title, without success. I was almost ready to accept that this treasure from the period of my awakening as a submissive was forever lost.

Perhaps I should write about some other title, I mused, but my somewhat foggy recollections of Laura continued to nag at my mind. I mentally reviewed the other naughty books I'd seen in the boxes, some of them no more than curiosities, few as close to my heart. Would I really have rid myself of Laura while keeping those other volumes? When I returned for a second, dusty search, my diligence was rewarded. I found the book hidden under some erotic comics at the very bottom of the box, along with my equally ancient and well-thumbed copy of The Story of O.

I felt as though I'd been reunited a long-lost friend.

So why did this book have such a hold on me? I can't remember when or where I acquired it. The publication date is 1983, the publisher Grove Press – ancestor of Blue Moon Books who released a number of my own works. The book purports to be an unpublished erotic memoir from the Victorian period, according to the (likely fictional) preface by one Claire Matthieson, D. Litt. Edinburgh. (who, at least according to Google, does not seem to exist). Two reviews on Amazon suggests that the book was actually written by someone named Patrick Hendon. However, Amazon lists the author as Professor James Jennings.

Anyway, this hardly matters. Although penned in archaic style and sharing a vocabulary of bonnets, drawers and garters, Laura has little in common with other Victorian erotica I've read – The Pearl, Secret Talents, My Secret Life and the ilk. Instead of the bawdy physicality typical of the period, Laura offers a surrealistic, interior-focused journey through the excesses of the flesh. The young heroine of the title drifts from one disjointed carnal experience to another, at the hands of individuals whom she may or may not know, in strange houses of which she has fleeting memories. She has been trained to submit – indeed, it seems that her entire family has conspired to make her a willing whore. Despite the indignities to which she is subjected, Laura walks proudly among those who use and abuse her. She knows that she is special, gifted with the profound ability to arouse and then to accept the consequences.

“Do not sway your hips, girl,” I am told. What a nonsense is this. I am the lure, the catch, the key, the lock. My arms bind as seaweed binds, as grass curls around the cutter after rain. Come now, here now, kiss.

Laura may or may not be imagining the events in which she participates. She may well be mad. I love that suggestion – in some sense this would be more transgressive, if it were true that her fevered brain has spun such lush and lustful scenes.

I think, though, that the core of this book's appeal for me lies in Laura's awareness of how her submissive nature sets her apart. I've known this weird, twisted pride myself – the sense that I can and will endure whatever my Master inflicts and the knowledge of how this makes him value me.

This is a book about secrets and revelations. In the first chapter, Laura's father calls her to his study, shuts the curtains, reveals her role.

“You understand.”

The question mark had slipped, slipped from his voice. It had hidden at our feet, a small black twist of sound between my toes. My silence was a tunnel in which secrets flowed. I knew the dryness and the summer heat, the far faint sounds beyond, voices floating, passing the house like small clouds urgent in their going.

“Yes.”

I knew. I felt the cold, the warmth. The shadows deepened and the door was closed. Could I be saved? The people would be hushed, the eyes would watch, the woods be searched. Iron railings rusting in the grass would be turned over for the footprints that might lie beneath.

“In the second left hand drawer of the desk, Laura, there is a strap. You will hand it to me.”

Through a mountain of stillness moving I moved. The drawer squeaked faintly as if surprised that it was I. Only a strap lay within, brown-coiled and smooth, a serpent in its waiting. Its surface was subtle, smooth. My hand trembled not. In my handing it to his hand my hand was steady.

Upon his word the desk received me. The leather stung, burnished my burning. In Perdition there is only the receiving. I yielded, fell far faint, received. Forlorn, the furniture would not look. The inkstand stood busy in its inkness, uncaring of my cries in my undoing.

On the other hand, this might not be the beginning of the tale. The narrative shifts like summer clouds, coalesces into islands of clarity and then scatters into confusion. This is a tale about time and memory as much as about desire – about the malleability of all three.

How long has it been since I've sampled a bit from Laura? At least three years, since that was when we moved in here, but perhaps longer. No matter. The passage above still has the power to arouse and move me.

I guess my tastes are pretty idiosyncratic. The two reviews of Laura on Amazon both gave the book a single star, the reviewers decrying the very mystery that I find so alluring. Ah well. Different strokes, as the saying goes.

Anyway, I think I've spent too long away from this old treasure. Now that I've rediscovered Laura, it's going onto my TBR pile, to be savored once more from beginning to end.

Authorly Delusions

By Lisabet Sarai

What would I wear? That was what was on my mind as the publication date for my first novel grew closer, 'way back in 1999.

I'd somehow hit the karma jackpot. My first attempt at a novel had been accepted by the illustrious Black Lace imprint - the people who published my idol and inspiration Portia da Costa! I'd been corresponding with Kerri Sharp, the editor, a seriously no-nonsense sort of person. I imagined the numerous staff of Black Lace, all toiling away on the season's titles, including mine. And I wondered whether the publisher might throw some sort of sexy, glamorous release party for all the authors.

Black Lace's address at that time was “Thames Wharf”. I thought that sounded incredibly exotic and British. I could picture the place, a converted warehouse with a glassed-in ceiling and recessed lighting. I could imagine my fellow erotica authors, all decked out in leather or velvet, short skirts or long ones with provocative slits showing plenty of thigh, wearing boots or maybe even masks. I pictured myself among my peers, sipping champagne from crystal goblets and chatting about sex and writing. I fantasized about meeting Portia in person (I saw her as an elegant, curvy brunette) and telling her how she was responsible for my success.

I had no idea how I'd afford the trip to London. On the other hand, my book had been accepted, despite the incredibly tiny odds. Who could predict what the universe might hand me next? Maybe I could finance the trip out of my advance.

Did I really expect the party? Probably not. It was just fun to think about. I had no idea, though, how wildly unrealistic my fantasy was. Looking back now, I'm pretty sure that Kerri Sharp was more or the less the whole Black Lace staff all on her own. Like most publishers, Black Lace was undoubtedly scraping by, the margins on books getting smaller and smaller each year. Money to organize a party for the authors? I'm sure the notion would have evoked incredulous laughter.

A few years later, I visited the Blue Moon Books offices in lower Manhattan. I was a bit shocked by how small and grungy they seemed. I had imagined that publishers – New York publishers – had spacious office suites, luxurious conference rooms, sophisticated, erudite, well-paid editors who decided the fate of poor authors like me. Instead, Blue Moon was crammed into half the tenth floor of a hundred year old building with water stains on the ceiling and a tiny elevator that creaked like it was going to expire on the way up. My editor was disheveled and a bit shy, almost embarrassed by the fact that he published explicit sexual fiction.

Sigh. Welcome to the real world.

Since then, I've learned that erotica authors are not necessarily all that glamorous, either. I've gotten to know Portia fairly well in the cyber-sphere. She's a lovely middle aged lady with silver-blond hair who lives in a small town with her cats, pouring her fantasies out onto the page. I've been fortunate enough to actually meet some of my colleagues from the Erotica Readers and Writers Association and the Erotic Authors Association. With one or two exceptions, there's nothing about these people that would indicate they write fiction hot enough to scorch the page. They don't wear dog collars or stiletto heels. They have bad hair days and wear glasses, just like me.

I will admit, though, that it's always a high to meet another member of the inner circle. The excitement is palpable. It doesn't matter what we look like. Deep down, each of us knows we're in the presence of a fellow outlaw, and that's intoxicating.

By the time you read this, though, I hope to have fulfilled an authorly fantasy. As luck would have it, the huge Romantic Times conference is happening in LA during the time I'm going to be visiting my sister. I can't go to the conference – don't have the time or the money – but one of my publishers is hosting a dinner for all their authors who happen to be in town, and I'm planning to attend. I can't wait to meet the writers whom I've gotten to know over the past four years of writing erotic romance. And it sounds like it's going to be quite an event.

In fact, it's not all that different from my original fantasy. It's just that it's taken a dozen years to come true.

And yes, I'm agonizing over what I'm going to wear.

How to sell your soul and avoid rejection

by Lisabet Sarai


I have a confession to make. Rejection doesn't bother me much. I almost feel embarrassed to admit that, unlike some authors, I don't burst into tears, smash china against the wall, curse the editor, go out and get drunk, or sulk in my room for a day when I get the news that one of my submissions has been rejected. Obviously, I'd rather have my work accepted, but when it's not, I'm relatively philosophical.

My equanimity in the face of rejection derives from two sources. First, I'm not as emotionally invested in publishing my writing as many authors. I started writing on a lark. I continue for the fun of it, for the little bit of cash it brings in, and most of all to please my readers. I know that I write reasonably well, but I have no illusions of being a Great Writer. My scribblings explore the many facets of love and lust, occasionally in relation to spirituality, but I have no deep conflicts that I am trying to resolve, no heavy messages to deliver, no absolute Truth to impart. Sometimes I feel that I am not a "real" author, since I don't burn with the overwhelming desire to share my insights with the world. In the larger scheme of things, it doesn't matter much whether I'm published or not.

The second reason that I don't get too upset when my work is rejected is that, quite honestly, it doesn't happen very often. Again, I'm almost ashamed to say this. I'm well aware of the struggles some of my colleagues face, trying to get their work published. My debut novel, Raw Silk, was contracted by the first publisher to whom I submitted it. Of course, the book was more or less tailored to fit the guidelines of that publisher (Black Lace). And it is true that they rejected my next two novel proposals -- because they ventured too far from the formula, I suspect. However, both were accepted by the next publisher I tried (the now defunct Blue Moon Books), an imprint that handled a broader range of erotic fiction.

Much of what I write is targeted for a particular publisher or at least a specific genre. Most of my short stories are written in response to calls for submissions that detail what the editor is seeking. This significantly increases the odds of being accepted. In fact, when my work is rejected, it is mostly because it's not a good fit to what the editor wants. When I first starting submitting to Total-E-Bound, which focuses on erotic romance, Claire (the wonderful owner of TEB) rejected everything that I sent her because 1) it didn't have a happy ending or 2) it didn't focus on a core relationship or 3) it was written in the first person present, a perspective that I like but she abhors. Now that I understand the conventions of the romance genre (as well as her personal pet peeves!), my acceptance rate has gone way up.

I think that the people who receive the most rejections are often the authors who are most creative. Their work doesn't fit nicely into the cubbyholes of a popular genre. Their stories are perhaps too long or too complex or too challenging, emotionally or intellectually, to be appealing to most publishers. Garce (who proposed this week's topic) is that kind of writer. I know that he's gotten far more rejections than acceptances, at least so far. My heart aches for him, because I love his work and I think that the world should read it. He has a lot to say -- a lot more than I do.

Yet I'm more successful than he is, at least if you judge success by number of publications. Something is not right about this. It definitely makes me uncomfortable.

We authors perennially bemoan the short-sightedness of an industry which looks not for the fresh voice or the original premise but for more of what is already selling. But that does make it easier to avoid rejection. You just have to give the publishers what they want.

Am I really that bad? A literary whore? A hack who can bang out a three or four thousand words a day, once I sit down to it, with the comfortable conviction that if my first choice of publisher won't accept it, my second choice probably will? Is there no room for inspiration? For flashes of insight? For a truly original approach to my chosen genre?

Well, I try. I look for new angles. I overturn stereotypes in a quest for novelty. But if I want to be published, I can't stray too far from the publisher's specs (and perhaps the readers' expectations. I'm brought back to the issues we raised when we talked about genres a few months ago.)

I've always been good at following instructions. (Hey, I'm a submissive at heart!) I know how to mold my writing into the shape that will at least be acceptable to my target publisher and audience. Rarely does my writing take over and drive me furiously in unexpected directions, the way other authors report. It's tamed.

This makes me somewhat sad. I envy them that madness, the thrill of being overwhelmed by inspiration, "the buzz" that is so intoxicating but which seizes me so rarely. On the other hand, as I add credits to my publishing history, I recognize that other authors probably envy me.