A long time ago, I had a pretty bitchy boss when I worked as a book publicist for an imprint of Simon & Schuster. (Near the end of my tenure there, she started listening in on my phone calls, including one where I was elaborating to a friend on just how sucky that job was.) This woman had a theory that people write about what they're bad at. I can't think of any good examples right now, but maybe you know what I'm getting at.
I can't help but wonder why I write about porn. (And by "wonder," I mean "obsess.") What porn is not about is love, and yet I am beginning to suspect that porn is so not about love as to actually be about nothing but love. Or the lack thereof. If you have ever been on the set of a porn movie, you may understand there is not a lot of love in the room. Or you may not. I suppose it depends on where your head's at.
All of this is becoming more apparent to me as I write my novel. Because I think the novel isn't about porn at all. It's about love.
And that, if you haven't figured it out yet, is what I'm bad at.
Love. Or something like it.
