It seems Google is phasing out sexiness on blog posts. Or at least that's what the banner at the top of the Blogspot welcome screen says: "On March 23rd, Blogger will no longer allow certain sexually explicit content."
This makes me sad. Not because it lowers the places I can acquire pictures of quivering unclad pulchritude. Although that is a concern.
It's mostly because I've totally dropped the ball on this blog's sexy quotient. I really need to step up the game over the next few weeks. Maybe revamp my writing for extra steaminess. Revamp my writing in general to make it better clickbait:
36 Ways Doing That Rough Draft Makes You Better. In Bed.
10 Ways To Grind Through The Mid-point Of Your Novel. In Bed.
12 Sexy Ways To Brew Coffee. In Bed.
Of course, my notion of "sexiness" is just adding "in bed" to everything. Every once in a while, I'll read an article about someone who makes a tidy side income writing erotica under a pseudonym. Andrew Offutt, I believe, did that. A lot of people do now. Apparently, erotica is a significant portion of the Kindle self-publishing market.
I'll stop and think about it, seriously think about it, because at first blush (see what I did there?) it seems like an easy market. Bang out a short story, publish, watch the cashola pour in. I'm already a decent writer, right? I'm also very fast and the genre standards are demonstrably low. No-brainer.
Thing is, I suck at it. And I think it's kinda boring. I'm not being a conservative, black suit, black tie, mayo on white bread, listening to Amy Grant, type of guy. I'm just not very good at it and part of the reason I write is that there's a section of my brain I just don't get to use much in my day-to-day, that gives me a charge when I fire it up.
It would be just another job, like being a tech writer or something. And I already have a job. So, that.
On the other hand, I think of the entertainment factor, that sense of "what if I tried and hit it really big" and imagine what it would be like to get 50 Shades Of Gray huge under a pseudonym and then have to explain to all my friends and relatives why I quit my real job and how I could afford to sit on a beach all the time being a drunken lout somewhere tropical. I'd have to come up with some kind of story about insurance payouts or anonymous lottery wins or something. Or just fess up and take the lumps.
I recall one erotica writer talking about how she does sex scenes--she has to get liquored up before she can get herself to write them. She comes in the next morning with a pair of tongs, a bucket of water and a dry towel and edits the hell out of her drunken ramblings the night before.
Me, not so much. About all the sexy I can muster in my writing amounts to a lump of cold oatmeal. Drunk writing is more likely to make me just go off on weird tangents about personal finance, zen philosophy and fictional civilizations. Also, badgers.