(Please excuse the lateness of this post. My husband underwent surgery on Monday and my father was rushed into hospital last night)
The image of an erotic romance author is one of seductive glamour, naughty escapades and skimpy knickers. When my husband tells his mates his wife writes erotic romance, he gets a slap on the back, inevitably congratulated by his fellow males for his success. When my mother tells her friends her daughter writes erotic romance – “you know, those books with lots of S-E-X in them” she gets a look of commiseration and a pat on the back.
But what is the reality? For me, its writing in five or ten minute grabs at the kitchen bench, one child trying to climb my leg, the other complaining that I’m not playing with her, while I try and make Vegemite toast/cook dinner/unpack the dishwasher/fold the laundry. Not the ideal image of an erotic romance author at work, is it. But for me, it seems to work.
Most of my books are written the above way. I consider myself a good mum, but I’ve quite surprisingly managed to find a way to still be doing all the mum type things I need to do during the day, while my head (at least the “naughty” part of my head) conjures up deliciously wicked scenes of wild sex. Honestly, I don’t know how I do this. There is nothing arousing about standing in a kitchen with kids demanding attention while the toast burns, trust me. I think it has something to do with a very active (some would say, over active) imagination.
Whatever it is, it seems to be working for me. What do you think?
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