Chapter 2

They say that those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach. Probably some truth to it. While I find it fun to write, my paycheck’s from the school district. Language Arts, six periods per day, but summers free.

My stories are just short ones, as I lack the courage to undertake a long one. Just a few characters, a few scenes, and see how it plays out. Short doesn’t mean quick.

As for publishing anything, I’ll never make it in the book world, but in the story world there’s also an arena where all that’s required is to hit SEND. As lots of us do so, the result’s mostly a hodgepodge of marginally-written tries, but so what? If I write something halfway decent and some pursuer stumbles upon it and tells another, maybe l garner some readers. How many doesn’t much matter, as at least I’m getting read.

So what is this venue, the one without much of a bar? The one which the school board mustn’t find out about, the irony being that they’ll never know they’ve got an actual writer teaching their kids to write.

Are you ready? It’s erotic literature.

Why that? Everyone thinks about sex, is why, though hopefully not all the time, there being so many other things to also think about. There’s money to be made hosting a website and we writers work for free

Admittedly, the vast part of what’s called erotic literature isn’t literature, It’s repetitive, poorly constructed explicit descriptions of sexual feats with annoying adjectives absurd dimensions and physiological improbability. It’s the backbone of the internet, but not literate.

But there are also stories perhaps not so raw, but, in my mind, at least, potentially more erotic. As they say, our brain’s our biggest sex organ. Who says that, I’m not sure, but I’m sure someone.

But oh, how I wonder. I like to work with words, know a little about sex — or at least can pick things up from websites — and off I go to write a story.

“Holly,” a comment received from a reader. They don’t know my real identity, nor I, theirs. “I love your stories.”

My reader (whom I envisioned as male; I can usually tell) liked when I conveyed a sense of place. (Not that I always do it well, I’m aware.). He’d noticed that I play with points of view. (A potential peril, but sometimes it works.) He liked the stories I’ve set in World War II. (How I got on that track, I forget, but I’ve done a few.)

My reader suggested that particular paragraph seemed convoluted, which upon rereading, I found to be spot on. He caught a few typos, the consequence of my re-editing re-edits. It’s great when another website lifts your story, but it’s frustrating to happen upon a version predatimg your fixes.

My reader admitted that he, himself, hasn’t the patience to write, but likes to concoct plots.

Then something most unexpected. “Finishing your story, Holly, I found myself tipped back in my chair, addressing what came upon me.”

Calling me by name made it personal, but did I make him masturbate? I was pretty sure that’s what he was saying. Had he then described how we did it, I’d have hit DELETE, but that was all, just enough to please me. OK, excite me, a little, even.

He signed off as Gardener, a better pseudonym than ones used by creeps, say Roddo.

Where Gardener also didn’t go was suggesting that we get to know each other better with descriptions of how. Writing about sex doesn’t mean I’m trolling for it. As I said before, our brain is our biggest sex organ, and it’s much safer.

I tend to reply to commenters, thanks for the kind words, but this one, I added “I’m so pleased the story worked for you,” which could of course mean I was glad he’d been able to follow the plot, but then again, could mean how it ended for him personally. I added that if he has any storylines floating around, I’m always in the need of ideas.