For several years, while my kids were at school all day learning how to read and running around the playground at recess, I was at home doing dishes, folding laundry, and writing filthy erotic short stories under several pen names for $75 a pop. When I told someone I was busy working on a freelance job, it was equally likely that I meant I was writing a profile for a local business magazine or crafting an X-rated fiction about naked people doing fun and terrible things to each other.
I was a peddler of smut, a purveyor of sex, a teller of tawdry tales. And I was damn good at it. I’ve never added this to my LinkedIn profile, which is a shame, but it’s tough to find the right words to describe this role, wedging it somewhere in between “staff reporter” and “school volunteer.” Also, most people don’t think too highly of erotica. But I was proud of the work I did, and I still am today.
