An interesting issue comes up when I write longer erotic fiction. I tend to make more characters bisexual than otherwise. It’s practical, really. I want to keep the cast of characters small, so readers don’t get confused. My characters have interesting, complex relationships, both romantic and otherwise. And the longer I spend with a character, the more I want to pair them up with EVERYONE ELSE.

So I suppose I represent the outlier that corrects bisexual erasure on the bell curve. For practical purposes, it will just be easier if everyone is bisexual. Besides, if anyone is transgender and transitions from one sex to the other, or is a shapeshifter, or magic, their orientation doesn’t change when their bodies do. They’re still bisexual!

Or pansexual, depending on reasons. Though I maintain that, being a satyr, Luke is really the best Pan-sexual. Heheheheheh, I regret nothing.

Ernest Hemingway (damn his eyes) once wrote a six word story that he claimed was one of his best works:

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

And it just makes me want to kick in Hemingway’s teeth. Not that this is unusual; I frequently want to kick in Hemingway’s teeth. But this one especially so. Hemingway clearly meant for the untold story to be the death of an infant; an infant who was wanted, anticipated, and lost, in whatever manner. In “fine literature,” the most revered stories are usually the ones that are achingly sad, with tragedy and loss, irreparable damage, nightmare fuel for the ages. The kid’s dog or horse or whatever always dies. (Thank you “Old Yeller”, “Where the Red Fern Grows”, “Bridge to Terabithia” and “The Red Goddamn Pony”. Fuck you guys.) And I have to ask … WHY??? Why is a terrible thing more worthy and revered in storytelling than a joyful thing? Is it because we can imagine the author as a suffering figure in turn? Perhaps it’s easier to get an emotional reaction out of the reader with tragedy than with joy? It feels like a cheap thrill to me, like using rape to give a female character “depth,” or a jump-scare in a horror movie. I don’t think you have to have tragedy to have a great story. In fact, it is MORE DIFFICULT to tell a story of joy and love and hope in the face of the reality of the world than it is to tell a story of tragedy, because those stories are usually steeped in the normal lives of everyday people.

So to heck with jump scares and cheap tricks and tragic tropes. I would rather write (and read) stories with hope, and love. We are only here for a little while, and I would rather give the world stories that will improve people’s lives, if only for a little while. There’s a place for sadness in stories, of course. It’d be absurd to say otherwise. Same with rage and hate and confusion and despair. But our literary tradition places an undue weight of respect upon negative emotions and tragic stories. I just wish the scales balanced a little more towards joy.

Being human is hard. There are so many demands upon our time, our attention, our energy and money. It is a constant game of resource management, and most of us suck at it. Among work, school, friends, family,  children, housework, food prep, errands, and all the other things we MUST attend to, we also must carve out time for our dreams – a resource use that sometimes feels selfish or wasteful, because who knows if they will amount to anything? It’s more of a gamble than, say, cleaning the refrigerator or finishing that project for work or calling a friend. We know those things will pay off. They’re safe. A lot of people don’t pursue their dreams at all for this reason. Others chase it relentlessly, and fail. It’s a difficult balance.

For artists, which includes writers like myself, pursuing their dream, their art, isn’t really a choice; it is a medical necessity. I spoke with a writer recently who described a time in her life when she couldn’t write, when she didn’t have any resources to give. Her health suffered greatly. When she left that situation, and could write again, her health improved. There’s no magic there, no unexplained medical curiosity. When we can do what gives us joy, stress decreases, pulmonary and digestive processes improve, muscular system relaxes, sleep improves, diet often improves (less self-medicating, though caffeine consumption may increase), mental health improves … Like I said. Medical necessity.

I have not been writing recently. I am in the midst of a divorce. I just started a new job, a new career, after having been home with my children for 10 years. These have been the darkest days of my life. I have no resources to give – I have been on starvation rations as far as my time and energy. I’m just running around resetting sliders on laundry, dishes, cleaning, money, food. I haven’t been writing. There is an element of guilt at work too. If I have time to write, isn’t there something more important I should be doing? My health has suffered. I should know better. But I still didn’t write.

And that needs to change. My life situation isn’t going to be different anytime soon. Everyone has something they could be doing besides writing, some other demand for that precious time and energy. But setting aside time for creating art and chasing dreams is necessary. It does not require justification, and we should not feel guilty or ashamed. Our passions, our art is important. We should not feed it the scraps left over from the rest of our lives, or hide it away. So I’m writing. And this is where I’m putting it. I hope you can make room in your life for your art and your dreams, too. They are more important than the laundry, cleaning the floor, paying the bills, or otherwise dealing with life as a human. For a few hours a week at least, live like an ARTIST instead.