The writer, giving good type, and laying pipe.

I’m in the slightly unusual situation of having finished three novels in the last four months. 

One of those novels contains no bdsm and very little sex, but a lot of love and death, also violence and politics, set in an antiquarian bookshop, and I don’t think I can publish it as being by that disgraceful Jerusalem Mortimer.  

I’m sending it to an agent on Monday. And they can decide what to do with my split personality writing career. 

The writer’s reward. I mean, money is good, but mostly we write for the under-the-desk blow jobs. Ask Hemingway, ask JK Rowling. Ask anyone.

The other two novels contains lots and lots, also lots, of sex and submission, and the acceptance of submission. And lots of very committed fucking.

They are true novels, in the sense that they’re about people, and the changes they go through as a result of experience.

They are also, I think, filthy hot.

People discover the most intense desires, to own or to give themselves to their lover, and to mark them or be marked by them.

And today a publisher has been given the opportunity to enrich their company and myself beyond their and my wildest dreams, as my books fly off the shelves.

As they most certainly will! 

Balzac would have said, “There goes another novel.” But he was an idiot.

I’ve been busy most of this week, This process, the writing of blurbs, synopses, and histories of my writing career, and so forth, has kept me away from blogging for most of this week. I’m sorry about that.

I like to keep my readers entertained. I believe that writers are entertainers, or we’re nothing. I believe that very seriously.

Usual services restored next week!