Alice Buell Lawrence

I went to dinner with some friends the other night, and, as frequently happens, literature came up. They’re aware that I’m a writer, and I let them both read my entry for the Freewrite 500. I’ll make sure you get to read it if you would like. I think they’re only posting the winner, and while I’m confident my work is good, competitions tend to be competitive.

They both read it and were very complimentary. I asked another important human in my life to read it and they reacted very positively as well. I’m on something of a confident streak as a result. Enough to get some work out there for potential publication this weekend.

Our conversation at dinner continued, touching on what we’ve read, where our research interests have been, etc. Then one of them commented that they knew someone who published erotic science fiction, and they asked, somewhat bemused, if I would try my hand at that. I grinned as I declined. Sex in my work is much more implied.

My writing is decidedly centered around middle-class angst. Perhaps leaning middle-aged on occasion as well as I look ahead to my future years. Write what you know, right?

There was the suggestion that I might be more successful if I wrote genre fiction. No offense to genre fiction at all, but it’s not what I do. One of them quipped that if I wasn’t going to give erotica a shot, I could at least call my work “Neurotica.” And that, well, works.

I’m writing a piece now about what it feels like when a lightning bolt of attraction hits you. It’s plenty neurotic. And timely.