Real Life, Lightly Edited

by Jean Roberta

This post is two days late, I know. On Friday, December 22, when this post was supposed to appear, I was frantically reading and marking student essays and exams to get them done before Christmas, AND making up two syllabi (complete schedules for new classes to be taught from January to April 2018). These were due December 20 at the latest, but I had NO TIME before Friday. On Saturday morning, I submitted my last set of grades to the department head, who probably won’t see them until the university re-opens on January 2, but at least I have them off my hands for the meanwhile.

I still have to make up a syllabus for my new Non-Fiction (or Advanced Composition) class, which I will teach for the first time in January. It’s part of the Creative Writing program. A new textbook is on its way. I assume I will be thinking hard about this class between December 26 and January 2. I can only do one thing at a time.

On Saturday, Spouse and I had lunch with Younger Stepson and his new girlfriend, partly so we could meet her. (This is our own version of Christmas lunch at the palace with Prince Harry and his fiancée, Meghan Markle.) Surprise! The new girlfriend is the older student who came to my office to discuss essay-writing and the new class, which she hoped would help her. She is registered in it, so I will be seeing her in class next semester after I see her this evening at the Christmas Eve family supper.

After lunch, Stepson proposed family hugs all around, and New Girlfriend felt understandably awkward to be hugging (or being hugged by) the instructor who will soon be evaluating her writing. We will just have to juggle the multiple roles as best we can.

This is all a prologue to my discussion of what I’ve been reading, aside from student essays.

Several weeks ago, I agreed to review a new novel by Nairne Holtz, a Canadian lesbian writer and librarian I’ve followed for years. Her new book, Femme Confidential, looks autobiographical. (One of the central characters, Liberty, was raised on the Canadian East Coast by expat American Quaker parents, like the author.) It’s all about coming out into the lesbian community of Toronto in the 1980s and continuing to live there to the current time. Many of the characters live in the neighbourhood of Parkdale, formerly rundown but now gentrified, much like Greenwich Village in NYC. (My daughter, her husband, and their kids lucked into a reasonably-priced house in Parkdale earlier in this century.)



Of course, I wonder how much of the novel is based on the novelist’s life, and whether I am less than six degrees of separation from several of the people on whom the characters are based. (Since the early 1980s, a surprising—to me—number of lesbians have moved from Toronto to Regina, Saskatchewan, where I live, but none of them have stayed.)

As a reviewer, however, I have to say that the novel works as fiction, and the sex is seamlessly blended into character development. The book could be described as erotica which fits better with literary fiction than with one-handed reads.

The following scene contains a plot twist which is both logical and surprising. Liberty has been living with her “boyfriend,” David, on the rebound from Veronika, the woman she really wants, but who can’t seem to stay faithful. Liberty has told David she wants to break up. David tells her he wants to become a woman.

David asked, ‘Are you mad?’

I shook my head. Got up and sat on the couch beside him. Felt him cradle my hand. ‘Would you call me Dana?’

He already had a name picked out.

‘Okay.’ I said his new name out loud. ‘Dana.’

David—Dana. . I was going to have to start thinking of her as Dana, as she—wiped at one of her eyes. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay with this. I didn’t think you would be. That’s why I didn’t tell you.’

Tears formed in my eyes. ‘Yeah, but it’s sad we’re breaking up.’

Dana stared at me. ‘Being with me if I transition means being a lesbian.’

Right, okay, why hadn’t I thought of it that way? What she was saying was perfectly logical and didn’t matter—I didn’t want to be with him—her—anymore.

‘That’s not enough, is it?’

‘No.’ I didn’t try to explain. The truth I supposed was I hadn’t meant to get involved with him. I had wanted Veronika and consoled myself with David.

She pulled her hand away from mine and stood up. ‘Fuck.’

I stood up. ‘David. . .’

She turned from me, threw up her hands, stormed into what had been our bedroom, and closed the door.

I read the novel in a brief lull between student assignments, and my review is overdue.

I also picked up Sisters in the Life, a non-fiction anthology about African-American lesbian filmmakers to review for The Gay & Lesbian Review. (The editor regularly sends a list of titles and brief blurbs to the reviewers on his list, and we choose what we want.) This book was published by Duke University Press, which liked my review of an earlier book by film scholar Kara Keeling so much that they quoted three different excerpts from my review on their website.



African-American lesbian filmmakers! Who knew they were a community with a body of work to their credit? The book includes photos, and I look forward to reading about films that I’m sure I will want to see, if there is a way to get them. (I know how to order books from bookstores and through Interlibrary Loans from the campus library, but film is a whole other medium.)

Last but not least, my contributor’s copy of The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty Thirty, Volume 2, arrived in the mail! I also have a story in Volume 1 of this series, but I don’t think that was ever printed. (It is available as an ebook and a podcast.) I will have to tear myself away from these stories to work on the stuff I need to write.



As usual, I have bitten off more than I can easily chew. I’m grateful that my mind still seems to be as sound as it ever was (ha), and I’m able to get from one place to another, even on dangerously icy ground. (A local journalist posted a pic of a slick-shiny street on Facebook to shame the city government which has not sent enough machines with graders and snow-melting salt to make the infrastructure navigable.)

Happy winter holidays to everyone here.

The Frogs of Small Pond

by Jean Roberta

Meet the Frog family, originally from Small Pond. The oldest daughter, Felicia Frog-Toad, writes romance novellas, all set in her home town, and recipe books of local cuisine. Her watercolour paintings of local landmarks have been reproduced as postcards that are popular with tourists. Felicia is married to the Mayor, Samuel Taylor Toad. Everyone she knows considers her a great success.

Felicia's younger brother, Frank Frog, better-known as Freaky, wrote his first novel (a horror story based on a nightmare about a bird of prey) when he was in high school. His parents took him to a youth psychiatrist who encouraged him to stop writing and take up football as a healthy way to get rid of stress. Frank moved to a bigger city to go to university. Since then, he has written fifteen horror novels, ten of which were turned into blockbuster movies. He has fans in Small Pond, but his parents and some of his siblings still worry about him.

A younger sister, Flow Frog, also moved away right after graduating from high school. She writes erotic novels, for which she has won several awards. Other erotic writers admire her, and she gets respectful reviews. Luckily, she has a day job and a supportive partner. No one else in the Frog family ever mentions her, except to wonder why she continues to embarrass them.

Another sister, Frances Frog, is better-known by her by-line, Fact-Checker. She is an international journalist who has been imprisoned in several countries around the world. So far, her political connections have enabled her to get out. She has written five books about the decline of democracy, the global economy, and damage to the natural world. Her book about disappearing species, Are We Next? was on the non-fiction bestseller list for weeks. Her parents and several of her siblings wish she would find a nice guy, get married, and settle down.

The youngest Frog brother, Philip Frog, writes novels that capture the current zeitgeist. His latest mystery, about an apparent lone-wolf psychopath who shoots random strangers in a shopping mall, and is found to be the pawn of an international conspiracy, sold a zillion copies and is being turned into a movie. He lives in a mansion with his socialite wife, niece of the current head of government. Few of Philip's relatives have read his books, but most of them are proud of him. His parents think his wholesome upbringing in Small Pond helped build his character, which led to his success.

Each of these Frogs could be considered successful in a different way, but most of them are no longer on speaking terms with the rest.

As everyone else here has said, success is relative and subjective. And in some cases, you need to seek out a milieu in which your version of success won't get you locked up.

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Everything You Wrote Before Now Was Boring As Fuck

by Giselle Renarde

When I started writing erotica in 2006, one of the most popular blog topics was something like: Erotica versus Smut. What's the Difference?

I remember lots of authors elevating their work--you know, saying their erotica wasn't smut, wasn't porn. Their work was superior because... I don't know... reasons. You think I can remember random blogs I read 9 years ago? I can barely remember what I did this morning.

What I do remember is writing these defiant posts (maybe in my head, maybe on the internet) about how I had NO trouble calling my work smut. I embraced the term. It's sex writing. It's fucking on paper. It's smut!

Man, was I talking out of my ass. I had no idea what smut was, back then. No clue. Yeah, I'd written stuff for Hustler Fantasies, but my pieces were tame. I know that now, because I've turned a corner.

Early in my career, I primarily wrote short stories for inclusion in erotic anthologies. Literary erotica. Brainy erotica. Boring erotica.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up, there, Giselle. Did you just call literary erotica BORING?

Yeah. Or no. I called MY literary erotica boring, but I say that contextually, and I'm going to explain.

There's a certain kind of piece you write when you're submitting your work to a collection of literary erotica. The latitude you can take is enormous. What qualifies as erotic is really up to you--and your editor, of course. You can write diverse fiction. Sex can be anything.  Except porny. Because we're better than that.

How could that much room to move possibly be boring?

Well, it really depends what your readership is after. Why are they reading this story you wrote?

If they paid $15.95 for an erotic anthology, yeah, they're probably looking for literary erotica. They know what to expect. They want you to tickle their brains.

But if they paid $2.99 (or $0.99 or got it free on Amazon) for your weird-ass boring piece of shit short story, trust me, you're going to hear about it.

I speak from experience.

When the calls for submissions dried up in the land of literary erotica, I learned pretty fast that the story you write for an anthology isn't the story you publish as a standalone piece of smut.

The reader is buying your $2.99 or $0.99 or FREE ebooks to get off. Not to tickle their grey matter. Not for their horizons to be expanded. Not for their perspectives to shift so they can look at life in a different way. They're buying this piece of smut to get turned on. That's it.

I didn't learn the true meaning of smut until Lexi Wood came into being. I remember being scandalized when "Daddy" erotica was popular. (It still is popular, but you can't call it that anymore or your book will be banned.)  Suddenly Lexi comes into my life, and she's writing about stepdaddies fucking their barely-legal stepdaughters, and I find out that's where the money is.  The money's in your stepdaughter's tight virgin hole.

She drags me into her world of pure smut and I realize why so many readers have called my work boring. I wasn't giving them what they were looking for. Now that Lexi's led me to water, I'm drinking in everything sweet, tangy and taboo.

...and, GOD, do I love it...

Case in point.

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords

My Not-So-Evil Day Job

By Lisabet Sarai



I complain a lot. Anyone who's been in touch with me lately has heard about how I'm busier this term than I've ever been; how I'm teaching two brand new courses and don't have time to breathe with all the preparation, let alone write; how I leave at 9:00 AM and don't get home until 9:30 PM some nights; how I feel like Alice in Through the Looking Glass- I have to run as fast as I can just to stay in one place.

You might assume, listening to me, that I hate my work and would rather be writing every day. Indeed, for many writers, that's the ideal: to make enough money from book sales that you can quit your ordinary, boring day job and write full time.

Honestly, I don't feel that way. Perhaps that suggests that I'm not a “serious” writer. So be it. Despite the stress I sometimes feel – especially when I try to balance the demands of writing and marketing with the requirements of my public profession – I'd never want to give up my “real world” job.

My work requires a huge investment of time and energy, but it also provides great rewards. I don't mean financial rewards – I make just enough to meet my needs – but I've never aspired to wealth . I'm talking about less tangible benefits: the opportunity to be creative, the freedom to try new approaches, the respect of my colleagues and (sometimes, at least) my students, the satisfaction that comes from knowing that I've been a positive influence on the lives of at least a few young people every year. I also enjoy the fact that I'm able to use my long years of study and experience in positive and productive ways. And finally, my day job is just plain fun.

Writing is fun too, of course. I wouldn't do it if I didn't enjoy it. (I think the secret of happiness may be to only do what you enjoy, or conversely, to enjoy whatever you do.) One reason I don't have much of a desire to make my living off my writing is that I suspect that might kill the joy. If I were forced to write, day after day, I strongly suspect that the stress would leach away any creativity I can claim now.

I believe that I could support myself, at least at a basic level, by writing erotic romance or BDSM smut. I think I know what sells, and I could churn that out if I had to. I write quickly and my first drafts are generally in a lot better shape than many authors. I could put out one or two 15-20K novellas a month, if I had to.

I really would rather not. In fact, I find myself deliberately choosing to write genres and styles that don't sell as well, out of a kind of perversity, I guess. My M/M books have outsold anything else I've written, by several times. I find myself shying away from writing more because I don't want to make money my object.

Plus I hate stress. I can function when the chips are down. I can make tight deadlines if I have to. But the pressure takes its toll, draining me of psychic energy and basically making me miserable. Yes, my day job is stressful, too, but it provides enough variety to keep me excited. It also includes natural breaks, for midterm and final exams, vacation periods and so on. If I were writing full time, none of that would be true. I know authors who support themselves with their work, and you really can't take much of a break. You have to produce that three or four or five thousand words per day, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, or you'll fall behind. You'll miss deadlines. You'll lose readers.

My husband tells me that much of the stress is of my own making. I think there's some truth in that. I'm the one who agreed to do a new column for ERWA, who signed up to edit the Coming Together Presents series, who was willing to take on the course orphaned by the other faculty member who's on sabbatical in order to “help out”. Probably I need to learn how to say no. Maybe my unwillingness to refuse requests can be traced back to my submissive nature. Hard to say!

In any case, I'm not a wage slave. I'm not oppressed by my employer. I work long hours, but not at some repetitive, meaningless occupation. I'm incredibly lucky.

I tell my students that money will not make them happy. The first key to happiness (according to what I've learned in my close to six decades of life on earth) is having a partner whom you love and whose company you enjoy. The second key, almost as important, is finding work that feeds your soul, work that ignites your passion. I'm fortunate to have succeeded in both these areas. Really, I have no right at all to complain.

Under Covers

“Aauuggh!” Carli had never made a sound like this before.

My own sounds were more staccato: “Uh! Uh! Uh!” I reminded myself of an old-fashioned train chugging uphill.

“’We – almost – there?” she huffed.

“Yep.” I couldn’t say more.

Oh the joys of a man-free lesbian life: we get to move our own furniture from room to room. The carved oak chest Carli inherited from her late grandmother definitely belonged in our bedroom, even if it killed us both.

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This is the opening passage of a story which was accepted for the upcoming Girl Fever, an anthology of 69 short lesbian erotic stories.

Does the opening scene look erotic to you?

The history of written and orally-transmitted (ha) erotica is full of double-entendres like the one above. “Off-colour” jokes depend for their effect on clear sexual implications followed by a disclaimer on the part of the joke-teller: why, what did you think I meant? What a dirty mind you have!

The bad reputation of sexually-explicit literature (in conservative circles) is rank with hypocrisy. Apparently it’s fine to make wisecracks about big tools and busy people (wink wink, nudge nudge) among men and women in the average office workplace as long as you can claim you’re not actually referring to sex.

Writers of the past (including the very recent past) had other strategies: phrases in Latin or French and/or metaphoric veils. In Victorian novels, a secret affair may become public knowledge when the couple is discovered “in flagrante.” Or someone surmises that the French lieutenant has a “paramour.” Or a realistic description of foreplay (some shedding of outer garments) is followed by “their hearts and bodies entwined and the earth moved.”

An amazing number of people I know, who say they have read certain “classic” novels of adultery (The Scarlet Letter, Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary), claim they are not the least bit erotic. Even Violet Leduc’s tortured autobiographical stories of lesbian passion (e.g. La Batarde) and Oscar Wilde’s thinly-disguised gay horror story, The Picture of Dorian Gray, are assumed to be “above” the level of erotic fiction.

Yet if sex as a major plot-premise is a defining element of literary erotica, much of the literature that is taught in schools (secondary schools as well as colleges and universities) fits the definition.

And no, I don’t buy the theory that literature is whatever the reader reads into it. A novel about “cheating” (extramarital sexual relationships) must be about sex and all the emotions that accompany it. And although it is possible to be emotionally unfaithful to a spouse or partner without "going farther," the great novels about the great tragedy of being tempted, surrendering to temptation and losing one's respectable public image always include sex as a physical activity that can be discovered.

A whole lot of literature describes sexual feelings. Most of us who include explicit sex scenes in our writing were first inspired by reading-matter that was recommended by our teachers or our parents. We simply imagined what was implied but not clearly described in the original versions. (Note the current spate of rewritten versions of Jane Austen’s genteel romance novels of the early nineteenth century.)

“Erotica” has always been hard to define clearly because it has always overlapped with supposedly non-erotic genres. If I have to define the difference, I would say it’s a matter of awareness. Writers who label their work “erotic” are conscious of writing about actual sex, the desire for sex, and the consequences of sex. Those who would be insulted to be reminded of the erotic elements in their work tend to be writers in denial, or writers of double-entendres.

Sexual feelings seem to be an unavoidable factor in the general human comedy (or tragedy). Differences in genres seem to be largely about how that thread is spun in the fabric of a story.

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