I’m a writer, see. I love to write, the formation of ideas, the plotting, the editing all of it exciting when I’m on a roll. I write everything, fiction, essays, opinion-editorials, articles, whatever strikes me as interesting. One day I was reading -because I do a lot of that too- about the porn industry. It’s a $13 billion a year business. Wow, that’s got to be a good story. So I researched, read up on the subject making tons of notes. I crafted several different articles to suit the various markets I wanted to pitch, sent out queries to magazines and- Nothing. Nada, zilch.
I couldn’t get anyone interested in the idea. Huh, my writing isn’t that bad, what gives? maybe people aren’t ready for the subject, we area nation of prudes after all. I pondered this lack of success for some time and in utter frustration that I would ever make it as a writer I gave up and did something I rarely do. I threw out all my reference material -the hell with it. Then this week I read a story by sex educator Violet Blue on the porn industry and social attitudes toward sex. I agreed with everything she said because it was exactly what I had written. I was pleased to see someone write this, I just wish it had been me. But who knows me or reads my stuff?
Here I sit with a dozen ideas for articles and nonfiction books. I have at three novels in various stages of first drafts, even a few ideas for a play-something I am too intimidated to try. I write for my blog, which gets posted on Facebook but it’s all empty air. I write and it goes in a drawer for want of an audience I have no idea how to attract. It reminds me of the paradox of getting a job. You can’t get hired until you have experience but you can’t get experience until you get- you know.
Maybe I should go into porn, I hear there’s big money in it.