I'm schizophrenic in my literary tastes. I love westerns, historical fiction, contemporary romance, hard-boiled pulp stuff, detective yarns, mystery, even sci-fi and fantasy. I write the way I read: churning out fiction according to whichever genre currently holds my fancy. I care nothing for niche notoriety. Writing in the same genre, the same way, with the same sorts of characters would be, for me, a fate worse than hell. Where's the spice? Where's that rush of diving into completely uncharted territory and doing something new?
I love sex, everything about it, and I weave lusty encounters into nearly every tale I write. Most of us do it, most of us love it, and life would be so much less wonderful without it. Sex. Sex. SEX! I love just writing the word. If that makes me a part of the "erotica" genre (perhaps the clumsiest moniker for such a vast and varied literary pool) then so be it. I'll accept the title, but I don't have to embrace it.
I don't write about sex for money, or for fans, or to live out my own twisted fantasies (although that last bit does have its rewards). I do it because so few writers will. They're too afraid, saddled with an innate fear of being set at the foot of the literary table, or being looked at as a deviant. I don't give a damn. Everything good in life: love, children, family, community, tradition, all have some connection with sex. I celebrate that. I uncover that. I use crude words, I describe taboo acts, and I never hide behind flimsy euphemism. I present sex the way I think it should be: hard, passionate, uninhibited, and always intense. If that's not your cup of tea, well, there's always Harlequin.