Since my husband spends the vast majority of his free time alternately helping me with my writing and bringing me juice boxes when I have editing nervous breakdowns, he has now become interested in becoming an author. I think it’s a great idea. He’s really great with grammar, knows lots about editing, and is wildly creative. But he’s decided he wants to write a sci-fi/thriller dirty book. Not a romance. A dirty book.
I think dirty books are great, but it’s a little weird when you’re hiking with your husband and he says he wants to write dirty books! My former publisher, who shall not be named, had a whole erotica branch, and those writers were very lovely and talented. I just assumed that if either my husband or I were to write sexy steamy scenes, it would be me.
Now, he’s doesn’t want to write Fifty Shades of BDSM, he more wants harlequin. But still, let’s assume that we may eventually (a decade from now) have children. Let’s pretend their teacher asks them what their parents do and theoretical child replies, “Mommy writes about magic and daddy writes about big peepee’s.” I don’t even want to think what the note home would say.
But if Sookie Stackhouse can survive vampires and still be sexy enough to bust into Mainstream media, I can’t want to see what my husband will write. I’m sure his mother will be proud.