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As many of you know, I wrote Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality because I needed to laugh. I’m needing to laugh again because I’ve been spending too much time thinking about Andrea Yates. June 20, 2016, marks 15 years since Yates drowned her five children, because her mind was twisted with psychosis. It’s a case I wrote about in my book Breaking Point and have been spending perhaps too much

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 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

If there’s one thing I learned in nearly eight years of interviewing Americans about their sex lives, it’s that as a nation we’re shockingly liberal in our sex practices and equally shockingly conservative in our freedom to talk about sex.

“True crime is in the toilet.” That’s what I was told in 1997 when I signed my first true crime book contract. The speaker didn’t mean that true crime was swirling in the toilet bowl with … well … excrement. She meant it wasn’t selling, though certainly many people believe the genre is bathroom bowl worthy. Despite that toilet statement, my first true crime book hit the New York Times best-seller list. And since then

One thing I discovered through researching, writing, and publishing Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality is that people look at me through colored lenses when I tell them I research and write about sex. I have yet to figure out if those lenses are rose-colored or black. I do know they looked black on the day a former student insisted that I go up to his hotel room to talk with him about his w

It can be easier to write about mother-daughter dynamics in a novel than it is to write about one’s own mother-daughter dynamics in a memoir … or … in a book about sex. For that matter, I think it’s easier to write about sex and religion in a novel than it is in nonfiction. In a novel, one can always say that those thoughts, feelings, actions are those of the character, not the author – the character just took the au

I asked a friend the other day to pray that I’d find the “right” book to write next. “I want you to write a book with purpose,” she said. I flinched. Every book I’ve written has had purpose, I think. Certainly Wasted and Breaking Point did. Wasted, the story of the murder of Regina Hartwell, allowed me to go into high schools and talk about drug and alcohol abuse, sexual abuse, emotional abuse, and physical abuse. St

A while back, I read a Tweet about 10 Things I Never Thought I’d Do as an Author. I thought that sounded interesting, so I clicked on the link only to learn that the 10 things were about self-publishing, building a website, building an audience through social media, etc. Man, that wasn’t what I’d expected, so I decided to write my own list of 10 Things I Things I Never Thought I’d Do as an Author. They are totally di

"I set out to write something otherworldly and elegant and deliciously fantastic where men and women could both play passive or dominant roles, and enjoy all the subtle and exquisite pleasures of the S&M motifs, and yet never get into anything dark or horrible." -- Anne Rice

Do you ever say to yourself, “I don’t want to be this way”? I said that a few minutes ago. And I’m saying it to myself now … again … and again … and again … as I cope with a bit of hurt and disappointment – hurt and disappointment that in the grand scheme of life is so irrelevant but feels like rejection from the one you love dearly. Here’s why: I recently received an interview request from one of my college alumni m

I think many of you know that I love it when you send me photos of you with my books. Today, I got one that I just had to share with you. Yep, Secret Sex Lives went to President Barack Obama’s second inauguration. I have the best friends and fans in the world!

Why was Ian such an amazing source? Because in nearly eight years of researching and writing "Secret Sex Lives," Ian was my only interview who was happily married AND monogamous.

I answered some of your Secret Sex Lives questions in “You Grill Me …” Now I answer more of your questions in “You Grill Me … Part 2.” Jennifer: How do you handle or deal with the negative criticism the book has received? How do you respond to those who attack your “sex freaks?” That attack you? How do you really want to respond? So far, I’m not aware of criticism the book has rece

Many of you have asked me about the Secret Sex Lives session of the Texas Book Festival. As I stated in my original post about the Festival, it exceeded my expectations but I’m not comfortable talking about it because it feels like bragging. So I asked the session’s moderator, Jodi Egerton, to tell you about it. So here is Jodi’s account of our 45 minutes, standing at a podium in the Texas State Cap

Over the past eight years, I have traded almost 17,000 emails with men and women throughout the United States who have secret sex lives like that of former CIA Director David Petraeus and his biographer Paula Broadwell and possibly Gen. John Allen and Jill Kelley, who received rebuking emails from Broadwell for her behavior as Kelley strolled MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, and FBI agent Frederick Humphries, who e

When you decided to write something different and “fun” and decided to write about sex, what made you go to a place like Craigslist, AdultFriendFinder.com, Alt.com, etc. to do your investigation?

I wish you’d been with me at the Texas Book Festival. I had such a grand time. Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess and the author of Let’s Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir, spoke at the Paramount Theater and had me stomping my feet with laughter. That’s not an exaggeration. If you ever have the chance to go hear Jenny, do it! I intended to race from Jenny’s session to hear Yael Kohen, author of We Killed: The

I never thought this girl from Lufkin, Texas, would be sitting down with Katie Couric to talk about sex. And I certainly didn’t think that prior to that conversation I’d be talking to a professor from the Kinsey Institute, listening to her tell me that she’d read Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality, loved it, and would be putting it on her recommended reading list for her students. But on Tu

Warning: This post contains language that some readers will find offensive. As many of you know, I spend of a lot of my life in fast food restaurants. In fact, too much of my life. I like to write in them. Well, I like to write in some of them. The ones that I do like to write in perfectly balance lighting, temperature, table height, seat comfort, clientele, staff, and management. The ones that I don’t like? It

I stared at my computer screen, then out the sliding glass doors and through the dark winter leaves of the live oak trees. I’d spent the better part of the last ten years writing “true crime” books about real-life murder, sitting with the grieving friends and family of homicide victims, listening to their stories, memories, regrets, loves, and rages as they talked about the ones who had passed on too soon.  I proclai

Today I got the following email from “Neil,” one of my sources in Secret Sex Lives: Hi Suzy, Geeze, we’re all waiting for a blog update. Busy, doing well? Neil   As I told Neil, yes, it’s busy. Last week I started a new blog post but didn’t get it finished because my time is split and scattered. While preparing for the October 2, 2012 publication of Secret Sex Lives, I’m trying to make sure that I finish t

Secret Sex Lives is racing toward its October 2, 2012, publication date and life seems to be getting crazier and crazier and bumpier and bumpier. In my head, I keep hearing the Bette Davis quote from All About Eve: “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” Okay, more accurately, I keep hearing the revised version of that quote, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.” B

I’m speeding down the road. I’m about to hit something. What? Hell if I know. I can’t see it. All I know is that I’ve got to hit the brakes NOW. I try. I can’t. My foot is stuck under the floormat. I can’t edge my foot forward. I can’t slip it backwards. I can’t turn it left. I can’t turn it right. Then, I wake. That’s been one of my recurring dreams lately. Maybe I dreamed it this past weekend because I was at the T

I’m a little bit dumbfounded that I can get nostalgic about writing a book that hasn’t even been published, yet. But the other day I was glancing through some old files and came across a photograph of my previous office, the place where I began writing Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality. As I stared at that old photo and was reminded of those first days of research, I got verkle

Apparently Investigation Discovery network has aired again the Deadly Sins episode about Regina Hartwell, Kim LeBlanc, and Justin Thomas, a love triangle that resulted in murder and was the focus of my book Wasted, because my blog is being slammed with hits due to searches for Regina and Kim. After the first airing, I promised to provide you with additional photos, which I’ve failed to do because I’ve gon

Today’s the day after Christmas. It’s a day I should be writing my year-end blog where I tell you what wonderful things happened in 2011 and how joyous and grateful I am. And for those of you who haven’t been keeping up with me through Twitter or Facebook (since I haven’t been very good at blogging this year), wonderful things have happened in 2011. In May, I finally finished the sex book. In July, my publisher

As you may have noticed, I’ve been more than lax in my blog posts since last spring.  At first I was too busy with the sex book to think about blogging.  Then, after I turned in the manuscript on May 1, I was just plain all “wrote out.”  The book took everything I had to give, emotionally and physically.  More than three months later, I’m still all “wrote out.”  I can barely tap out a word.  But I feel I owe you a fe

In 2001, when I first started covering the story of Andrea Yates, the Houston mother who drowned her five children, I read every article on the case I could find.  I thought the most touching writing came from a reporter for the Los Angeles Times. I contacted her to tell her how beautiful and emotional her work was.  If I recall correctly, I told her she should be the one writing the Yates book, not me.  Her writing

I’m walking up and down the sidelines of a flag football game, awaiting the big play. The morning had started out cool and pleasant, but now the sun is beaming and I’m getting hot. I look at my 10-year-old cousin. He’s on the sidelines, down on one knee, and sucking on one small slice of orange handed to him by his coach. I want my cousin to be holding a hamburger. He’s too skinny. He’s like a piece of salt wa