Why I Write Erotic Romance

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my itty bitty blog. I'm so glad you are here. If you scroll down a bit, you'll find posts on my two self-published titles, Submitting to Ethan and "The Vampire's Submissive." I'd love for you to give them a read, and if you do, I'd be honored if you would leave a review on Amazon. Thank you!

*sighs*

I want to try to express my reason for writing erotic romance. I've been sitting here staring at the screen for half an hour. As it turns out, writing fiction is far easier than explaining the why behind the story.

Why do I I feel the need to share my motivation for writing erotic tales? The compulsion probably has something to do with being raised in a strict Christian household where such stories would have been considered shameful.

As a child, my young body was abused and derided by my mother and defiled by my father. Don't all mothers call their six-year-old daughters whores? Don't all fathers fondle and rape their little girls? This was my mindset as a child. Abuse and pain were normal, every day things for me, as ordinary as corn flakes in the morning and the moon in the sky in the evening. I was taught to behave at all costs, and every minor infraction resulted in severe punishment. I was taught to fear my parents' wrath, and they became god-like in my young brown eyes.

I recall my father digging a hole in the backyard one summer afternoon. He made my little brother write the letters RIP on a sheet of white paper. Daddy told me to climb in the hole and my brother held my mock gravestone above my head. Terrified, I worried Daddy would cover me up with the pile of dirt. How would I breathe? Would I die? Did he want me to be dead? My mother took a Polaroid of my dad with his shovel, my brother with my gravestone, and me lying in the hole, too frightened to move. My parents laughed at their joke and my daddy reached into my grave and pulled me out. I dusted the clay dirt from my shorts and ran inside, eager to push the memory into the far reaches of my mind.

The memory of my grave kept company with all the other bad memories, and it's only through therapy that I've begun to reclaim them. Up until three years ago, much of my childhood and teen years remained a giant void, a black hole of terror. When friends would ask, "Remember when we...?" I would shake my head in confusion, having no recollection and wondering why so much of my life was inaccessible in my memory.

While I endured physical, verbal, and emotional abuse at the hands of both parents, my father's choice to sexually abuse me left the deepest wounds, the ugliest scars. Last fall, I confronted him...sort of. I wasn't brave enough to drive three states away and knock on his door. I am still far too afraid of him. I sent him an email. He came back with a message proclaiming his unconditional love. He expressed his regret that I was mentally ill and encouraged me to find Jesus. He denied ever having touched me. I broke apart. I'd needed him to say he was sorry. Instead, he took my Truth and stamped it into the dirt. Worse still, my sister took his side.

Sexual abuse at my father's hands left me feeling broken, dirty, and damaged. My fear of sex and my difficulty enduring intercourse destroyed my marriage a little bit at a time until finally my husband requested a separation two and a half years ago. We are currently waiting for our divorce to be final. I believe my father harmed me sexually as a way of exerting his power. I have no doubt he was abused in some way when he was a child. I can't change his childhood. I can't change mine. Instead, I chose to change me. I chose to break the cycle of abuse and to give my children the childhood I could only dream of as a little girl.

While enduring my father's sexual abuse, I had no control, no power, no Voice. I could only endure and hope that he wouldn't kill me.

No control. No power. No Voice.

I've been in therapy for quite awhile, and I'm making progress. I no longer run when I see a man with graying hair, glasses and a beard. I shudder, but I don't run. Baby steps.

For a long time, I couldn't even talk about sex during therapy. Now, I can. And, I've found I can write about it, as well.

Why write about sex?

Control. Power. Voice.

When I write erotic scenes, I am in control. I have all the power. I have a Voice.

You will see a scene of attempted rape by a villain in my short story, "The Vampire's Submissive." I was in control of that scene. I saved the heroine. She had a Voice, and she was heard. Help came.

In Submitting to Ethan, Rose fantasizes about being raped by her best friend, Ethan. Again, I was in control. I wrote the scene as an expression of her fantasy. No, Rose does not wish to be raped in reality. She only wants the fantasy with a safe partner. Many women share Rose's fantasy. Myself included. Sound strange? In my fantasy, I control who I am having sex with and what they are doing to me. I direct the action. I am in control. I have all the power. I have a Voice.

Control. Power. Voice. Writing erotic stories provides me with these three things I so desperately need to continue being who I am. A Survivor.

With hope,

Violet

National Sexual Assault Hotline - 1-800-656-HOPE