The man who has no imagination has no wings. -Muhammad Ali
random . . .
I’ve been writing practically my whole life and the majority of my writing have been stories of fiction with the occasional bouts of poetry. Since I became an adult, sex decided to make an appearance in pretty much all of what I write even if it’s not the topic and even if it’s not graphic. Most people like the sex that I write; they enjoy it enough that they want me to write more of it but I get a few who make remarks that lead me to do what I’m doing now. Blog.
I’ve been asked if I was a naughty girl (and I think they are putting that nicely) because it so happens that a few of my characters choose to do naughty things with folks. It doesn’t matter that up until this point in my writing journey, they are in love, probably going to marry the other person in said story- the fact remains, they are getting busy and I am to blame for it. Even as delicious as it is. But I digress. How is it that what I choose to write or what comes to me in this creative brain of mine is a reflection of who I am? I’ve been asked are you still married? What does he think of my words and the implication is that I can’t be the wholesome buttercup people believed me to be before they read my stories because my stories shed light on the sexuality of women and men that is sometimes not so wholesome.
When I was in the fourth grade I was a Stephen King and Dean Koontz fan. Yeah, I have always been a heavy, voracious reader. I read them until I became an adult and added others into the mix; more diverse genres and writers. But I never wondered if King or Koontz were crazy or whether they were murderers. I thought maybe weird and brilliant and excellent storytellers, something I aspired to be, but psycho? No. Why; because it’s called an imagination. Remember that? Remember having to come up with an idea for some school project and the teacher instructed you to use your imagination?
My mother told me to use my imagination plenty and often. Being an only child pretty much guaranteed I’d need to unless I wanted to really be crazy or make her crazy so I played and pretended and when I could form paragraphs, that imagination was displayed in my words.
Folks, I think there is a deeper issue here that I would want a prolific writer like Nia Forrester to tackle and that is, sexism. Because I’m a woman who writes sex, my moral compass is being put to judgment and I’m sure many female romance or erotica writers can relate because love in the physical expression of sex is a part of what we do. We show our characters’ feelings in the way they stroke each other’s skin, the way they devour each other’s mouths, the way they grope, fondle and eventually penetrate and receive. It’s what we do but it’s not the story . . . all of the time . . . nor is it who we are. Now that’s not to say that my imagination doesn’t come from some experiences or some fantasies that have been fueled. I’d be lying if I said that. My imagination comes from my brain which has lots of memories stored in it and for me, since I’m an emotional writer, also from my heart which has felt a lot. But that’s not all of me. It’s an extension of me and not at all a testament to what my plans, hopes and dreams are.
I’m not defending myself (because I wasn’t attacked only questioned) here, nor would I want to, because I happen to love that my brain has contemplated things that the person Aja may never think to try. And so does the man who loves me. And I am also certain that this creative, imaginative brain of mine is a gift from God and I plan to use it to entertain for now. No, this is no defense, but I thought I would take the time to attempt to help shed light for those of us that may not understand how to use your . . . imagination.