In one way or another, I've been attempting to write a novel about my experiences in Porn Valley for nearly a decade. In a few months, it will be 10 years since I found myself standing on the set of a porn movie for the first time. Over the years, it has taken on many incarnations. The plot came to me when I was on the set of an "American Bukkake" shoot, wondering what a Hollywood producer would make of what he saw here. Today, the main characters are Happy Darling, a porn star, John Chance, a pornographer, Lucy Love, a writer, Xerxes Xavier, a G-Man, and Buck Banks, a woodsman. To a certain degree, these five characters are all me, fractured aspects of my personality, creative projections of my many pathologies. Now, I'm re-reading Paul Auster's City of Glass and thinking of "Inland Empire," in which creative acts twist realities. Sometimes, I wish I were more like Maud or Dooce, straight-shooting girls who tell it like it is, no holds barred. This novel is faux fiction. It's the true story of something that never really happened. Not yet, anyway.
