Writing About Sex Is Not Some Shortcut
Please quit claiming that it is.
Some dude on Twitter who sells SEO coaching once made a disparaging remark about my work. He basically said, “You make $3K a month writing about anal.”
It was a made up figure regarding a certain story I once wrote, but the message was quite clear. He was belittling me by condensing my entire body of work (literally hundreds of stories) down into this one small piece.
His suggestion was that I am not a real writer. I’m an anal sex writer:
When I called the dude out for trying to shame me, he replied that he was innocent… and that he didn’t know why I was so ashamed of my own work.
“You wrote it,” he laughed. “It’s weird how much that bothers you.”
I’m proud to cover unspeakable things.
Truly, I’m not ashamed to write about sexual issues because I know such words matter.
I know what it’s like to go through life unable to talk about it at all. And I know what silence does to sex lives.
Believe it or not, but I’m proud to discuss the issues which so many people frown upon. I’m happy if I can help another person get through their own shame.
But people often look down on those who write about sex.
It isn’t unusual for somebody to tell me that I am not a real writer because I write about sex. And it isn’t lost on me that I actually cover a wide variety of topics in my work, but sex is the easiest subject for people to attack.
Forget the fact that I write about sex from the perspective of a woman who has suffered through an abusive childhood and post cult trauma. Ignore the way my background led to my sexless marriage at age 20 or my crisis pregnancy at age 32.
Discount my negative sexual experiences including rape and selfish partners. Clutch your pearls because I’ve touched upon how I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was 32 years.
It’s easy to ignore those real-life struggles and look down upon women who write about sex. As if we’re earning an automatically lucrative living. As if our work requires zero effort.
Sex writing isn’t real writing?
Of course, it isn’t just internet strangers or trolls who decide that writing about sex isn’t really writing at all. Fellow writers and friends all say this too.
It happens much more often than I’d like to admit: a frustrated friend mentions that they know they’d be so much more popular or make better money if they’d just start writing about sex too.
No offense.
But they know they’d have it in the bag if they did what I did. It would be so easy for them if only they didn’t have pesky little things like standards or boundaries.
If only they didn’t care about things like good writing.
Hehehe, aren’t I lucky?
The “sex sells” theory.
You can’t really blame them and you know your friends don’t mean to be insulting. So you opt to ignore the sting every time they bring it up that maybe they should write about sex too.
It’s not their fault. They keep hearing that “sex sells.” And who really has the energy to explain what actually happens when we write our stories about sex?
I guess it’s time to talk about that.
Out of all the stories I write, my stories about sex get the most criticism. That’s when strangers comment or private message me to ask what right I have to discuss sex at all.
It’s not only men who object to my sex stories, but women too. Women who want me to know that their sex lives are fine so I must be a whiny freak.
Men and women alike will tell me I’m wrong any time their experience differs from mine.
Even among the folks who feel the subject is important, there can still be criticism that I got it all wrong. Ten different people will read the same story and give me conflicting critiques.
There are no happy endings here.
Some people will feel I’m too fast and loose. Others will criticize me for being uptight. Too religious, too secular. Too irreverent, too serious.
There is no winning here and no real way to make most people happy. Even my regular audience may be deeply divided.
Another misconception about being a dreaded sex writer is that you have no boundaries. People forget that writing about sex as part of your work is not the same as live-streaming your bikini wax on social media (Sorry not sorry Brene Brown.)
As open as I am in my writing, people forget that for me, there’s still a time and a place. I’m not shopping at Target and chatting up strangers about my missing orgasm.
I promise.
There’s a lot that people don’t know when it comes to writing about sex.
They don’t know about all the people who thank you or tell you that they’re grateful to feel heard. They don’t know how your writing helps hurting souls feel less alone.
Sure, other women who’ve gone through disorders like vaginismus or anorgasmia may still be in the minority, yet helping them still matters.
And that’s what my work does. It helps.
Nothing about this is easy.
I wish that all of this could be as easy as you think. It would be cool to write without the knowledge that people are judging it before they even know what it’s about.
I’d like to forget as easily as you do just how much some readers judge me for writing about sex while I’m:
- Fat
- Single
- A mom
- Or female
And I almost wish I could be as nonchalant about discussing the writing topics you cover that aren’t my forte. Except that I don’t want to belittle you.
As much as I know you don’t mean to belittle me, I’m not sure why you don’t get that it feels bad to hear you talk about my work as if it’s effortless or even meaningless.
Sex is not a shortcut.
Talking about sex and writing about sex isn’t some shortcut to greatness or popularity. I know damn well that every time I bring up sex, there is going to be somebody else who checks out and decides my work isn’t up to snuff.
And if you ever do decide to start writing about sex?
People might start giving you the same serious side eye. They may even tell you that you’re not a real writer and if only they shared your lack of morals, they too could make bank without making an effort.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the complications.
