When I last blogged in February 2015, I thought I was back to posting on a regular basis. But then … career and life happened. In some ways, saying career happened seems contradictory because in the world of book publishing we’re asked to blog. In fact, many literary agents tell us that the number of blog hits we get—as well as the number of Twitter followers and Facebook fans we have—influences publishers to buy or
With Fifty Shades of Grey grossing nearly $250 million in worldwide ticket sales in its first weekend, I guess it’s no surprise that there’s been renewed interest in Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality. To say I’m pleased with that is an understatement. I got my first hint of that interest when a photo journalist for the Chicago Tribune sent me an email that had “Love
“Maybe I can find me a maid’s dress in there,” Bill said. His girlfriend laughed. They were driving to Target for dog food, but Halloween was nearing. “You couldn’t handle it if I wore a dress, pantyhose, and shoes,” he persisted. “I’d just laugh at you,” she replied. Bill didn’t say a word. He remembers too clearly his parents arguing, his mother loading him up and moving out of their house and then back in—repeated
“I’m the son of a serial killer.” Those were his first words to me. I stood in the foyer of a small library deep in the Hill Country of Texas. It was March 2013, and I was there to teach a class on Writing Sex & Murder: Reality vs. Fantasy. As I waited for the class to began, I watched the students enter. Most were the typical writing seminar crowd of retirees wearing their uniform of clean, com
I’m constantly asked about the people from Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality. “Are you still in touch with them?” “What do they think about the book?” “What happened to …?” So I thought Valentine’s week might be a good time to answer some of those questions. Yes, I’m still in touch with many of them. So far, I haven’t heard any direct complaints about the book, though through the grapevine
Yet that "Darkness Visible" that William Styron so vividly described in his “memoir of madness” began to be all that I could see. I tried to focus on my blessings, but that only made me feel guilty and even more depressed.
Then, one day, I wanted to drive my car into a concrete wall.
This time, I didn’t need Lola to tell me I was depressed.
I’m not exactly a social human being. I’d prefer a night, by myself, in front of my TV to a fabulous party, anytime. People don’t always believe me when I say that because they see me out in public, speaking in front of groups, smiling, laughing, joking, appearing comfortable, looking like I’m having a good time, which often I am. They just don’t know that I have to race to my car afterw
Do you choose where you’re going to have lunch and dinner on Sundays on the sole basis of whether or not the restaurant has big screen TVs showing NFL games? Or do you prefer to watch your NFL games at home, alone, so that no one can disturb your concentration? Do you have to watch the games with your computer in your lap so that you can watch the changing odds? Do you make su
This is a simple post: I’m looking for men who are willing to talk to me about losing their virginity … or, if they’re virgins, to talk to me about that. Let’s keep this private; email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. And, yes, your identity can remain anonymous.