More Than Mere Rutting.

It's about basic human needs and desires.

by Constance 'Dusty' Miller

I hope I am not being too analytical, but I have asked myself the question.

Why write romance? Even worse, why write erotica? Because there’s no doubt that while there is some romance in the work, the focus is largely on sex.

It really is about relationships. It’s about people, and like, how do you go about meeting one?

Where do you start, in some cases? The author is a single mom, and not in high school any more.

The social environment and her circumstances are a lot different now.

A common theme in my stories is two lonely people. Obviously there’s no full stop after that statement. The interesting question is how, or where, they might meet and how they manage to get together. I suppose it could happen anywhere, and probably does.

The writing has some challenges, it must meet all the criteria for the written work. It must have the three unities of time, place and action. It must have a beginning, a middle and an end.

The whole thing started off as a lark, more than anything. I was bored stiff. Life wasn’t that fulfilling or even all that interesting. I put my mind to it and realized that writing westerns was out of the question, as I know nothing of horses and cattle, six-guns and saloons…the list of genres goes on, but one thing for sure: I will never write a cookbook. There would be a lot of disappointed readers if I did, because my cooking is that bad.

I kid you not, ladies and gentlemen.

I was desperate for something different to do. I mean, something really different.

I was looking for some kind of excitement. Oddly enough, I think I found it, too.

I’m not even really sure why I turned to writing at all. It was just one of those things.

Everything on that page came out of my head. It sprang from my imagination. I had to imagine two people, in a certain set of circumstances, and bring them together, in spite of some obstacles, which are part of any genre. In my stories those obstacles usually revolve around simple but rational fears: the fear of betrayal, the fear of actual injury, diseases, the fear of discovery, rejection, heartbreak, abusive relationships, or even just being used and flung aside. And all that sort of thing.

Overcoming all of that is what makes a story.

And yet there is that desperate need to be loved in there too. That’s scary shit for any author. We really do put something of ourselves in our stories.

There is a chunk of reality in any story about sex, or love, and a pretty good sized hunk of me in every story that I write.

That’s an awkward thing to admit. Yeah, any initial thrill, the fear based one, has sort of faded, although you always get it in a story at some point. But now it’s like I’m looking for more things to do, bigger things, bigger thrills.

That’s interesting. The boundaries of the comfort zone have been extended.

My own personal space is now larger in some indescribable way. I never would have expected that.

I learned something about myself along the way.

But yeah, it is weird sometimes to sit there and pound away at what is essentially a kind of written smut.

All of those images began in my head. I think if it was just raw, animal-like sex—totally mindless rutting, then it really would be intolerable.

That’s where the romance comes in. That’s where the love interest comes in—two people get together, and it’s not just about cheating on a spouse, a drunken one-night fling in a motel far from home sort of thing. Lust has its role, I admit. It plays a pretty strong role.

But for me, the story is ultimately about finding somebody. It’s about finding somebody to love, and in any adult relationship sex is a big part of that. Seems simple enough.

Anyhow, I can’t put it any better than that.

If I had an idea like that, I would definitely write it up. We can always use more hot stories. Even then, (the motel room fling for example) I would still try to end the thing on some more romantic terms than mere rutting.

Heartbreak, regret, loss…or just a poignant reminder of the past.

Almost anything; besides mere rutting.

There has to be some beauty in there somewhere or it just wouldn’t be me, would it?

END