Writing

A peek at what you all like to read around here — compiled, fittingly, in a coffee shop too loud for actual thinking.

A roll call of my most devoted readers, and a nakedly narcissistic plea to know what keeps them coming back.

Hy and I are launching a joint curation project — one smart, hot, well-written post each per month, plus a discriminating shared blogroll, because finding sex writing that’s actually worth reading shouldn’t be this hard.

What you see here is only what I let you see, at the angle I choose. The question is whether you remember that.

In a hotel elevator, I told Graziella I hate writing about sex — and then, of course, I went ahead and wrote about the sex.

I write with my left hand now, and I wonder what that does to my brain.

What you read here and when I wrote it may have little to do with each other.

Not writing about not wanting to write about not wanting to write.

I don’t love the words, but I sure love the act. A meditation on the inadequacy of language.

My grammar, you’ll have noticed, is perfect. My experience with a recent editor, not so much.