Once when I was an artist I wrote deep, sad, heart twisting poems. They came from a depressed, self-maiming place. From a dark place. And writing them was tortuous. Took time. Kept me depressed.
One day I decided that it wasn’t healthy for me to dwell on the dark side. To self analyze my motives and question why, for who. Because it was all so focused on self. All so self absorbed. Focusing on others, on helping others, on serving others, I somehow gave up the Artist. I’m happier, so it’s not all missed.
Then along came erotica. I had a story to tell – a fun story, an arousing story – and I discovered that others were aroused by it too. That effect on others, even one other, made my toes curl. Made my juices run. Brought excitement. Created an outlet without pretention. In fact many would say it’s the lowest form of art. And some would say it is not art at all. And I don’t care what others say. I have my fans.