So here’s the thing: sometimes I think about writing erotica for Amazon Kindle.
I know, I know.
It always starts with an innocent thought spiral like, “Could I make $1,000 in passive income by writing a novella about a morally gray pirate with great abs and a tragic backstory?”
The answer, according to Reddit, is “yes—but only if you’re okay using words like “throbbing” without flinching.”
I am not okay.
Every time I try to write something even remotely spicy, my fingers curl up in shame like they’re trying to hide from the FBI. I immediately feel like I need to apologize to my laptop. Or throw it into the sea.
The other day, I opened a new doc and typed the word “tongue.” Just the word. No context. I stared at it for five full minutes like it had committed a crime. Then I closed the document and opened Reddit to fall down another rabbit hole in the erotica subreddits, wondering why I couldn’t just be an emotionless robot who could write good shit without mortification getting in the way.
This is the problem: I am theoretically into the idea of writing erotica. It’s clever. It’s possibly lucrative. It’s full of pseudonyms and passive income dreams.
But then I try to write it and my brain is like:
“Are you sure your ancestors aren’t watching this? What will my grandmother think of me? My mom might be ecstatic about the money, sure, but… (lol)”
And suddenly I’m spiraling about family honor, my reputation, the idea of my smut being compared to E.L. James’ poor writing, and whether or not I’m capable of describing someone’s jawline with any level of intensity. Am I emotionally grounded enough to commit to a sentence that objectifies this fictional man’s jaw without immediately needing to close my laptop and blush at a wall?
My brain immediately says “who gave you the right?” which is funny considering I barely feel like a writer on a normal day.
Also: what if someone finds it? Not readers—strangers are fine. I mean people I know. Like my high school English teacher, who thought she’d find something of mine (something respectable) on the shelves of bookstores one day. Or, I don’t know, my boss.
So for now, I’m not building an erotic Kindle empire. I’m just thinking about it. Like a little secret. Like a someday plan. Like an “if things get really dire financially, maybe I’ll write about a werewolf barista who knows how to love again.”
Until then, I’ll be here, overthinking a comma and frantically editing a sentence about toast.
Panicked halfway through. Published anyway.
—me, refusing to type the word “moan” but mildly curious about royalties
