I promise this isn’t a political post, although world events are the backdrop to my thoughts.
There has been a great deal of conversation in writing circles about the almost universal inability to find our creative juices the last couple of months. For me, simply the act of writing fiction has felt…frivolous.
Reading erotic romance can allow us to tap into some of our most primitive positive feelings. Love and hope, joy, and yes, the basic chemical-induced euphoria of lust. What’s better for high anxiety than the slow build-up of sexual tension, or the after-effects of orgasm? We all can use a little sated bliss once in a while, right?
I have to remind myself I might be the one to provide a moment of respite for those seeking one, and there’s nothing frivolous about that.
In fact, it’s a marching order.