Most of the time I think my writing is self-indulgent, that I’m writing into a void, just to hear the sound of my own voice as it were. Sometimes I’m sure that’s true.
Last week I got a call from a vendor at work, he’d read something I’d written a long time ago. I’m not clear how he happened to come across it. I got a kick out of it, then forgot about it the minute I hung up the phone.
I’d written this particular piece years ago, about a hard time & a difficult decision. I wrote it for a friend’s magazine and forgot about it. Nine years ago, it was picked up by an academic anthology of which I was very proud because, literarily I am no one & I was suddenly in very impressive literary company. It’s the only piece I’ve published under my own name.
When I put my clothes back on and finally got out of the sex industry in 1985,I thought that I wasn’t going to let those years amount to nothing. I’d write. I had big plans. I’d be the voice of women who had no voice. Twenty years ago there was no literature about Times Square, the topless bars, the nightlife, none of it. I was going to fill that void.
Sexwork lit didn’t exist when I started writing. Now it’s an overflowing genre. Girls are putting themselves through college, through graduate school. There are handfuls of advocacy groups, organizations, art festivals. Everyone is writing, creating art, making films.
With this single exception, all my writing has been published under the name Scarlett Fever. Sometimes because the content was pornographic and who needs hot and bothered strangers trying to find you. Sometimes to protect my family, from the knowledge as well as from having to defend my good name. I have a history, a seriously-you-don’t-want-your-daughter-to-have-this-kind-of-history history. Sometimes it was just easier to be someone else when I wrote about the painful places.
Today I was Facebook friended by someone I didn’t know. My moms raised me right, so I don’t delete strangers. I send a little note that basically says thanks but no thanks, I have enough friends thank you, I don’t know you, shoo, go away, goodbye. But she knew me. She’d read the same article on line and felt the need to find me, to know more. We emailed back & forth briefly today. I don’t know that it was helpful to her, but it was to me.
There’s a new anthology due out this summer. I’ve struggled with whether to publish under my real name or my “other” name.A stranger on Facebook helped make the decision crystal clear. She took a chance and reached out, we had a small moment, a brief intimacy of pain shared and she thanked me. I’d totally forgotten my original purpose for writing. I realized that sometimes, I’m not the only one out there in the void, that someone else may need to hear themselves reflected in what I have to say. And when that’s the case, it’s important for the real me to be there. Scarlett can keep writing porn if she wants, but I think I’ll take everything else from here on. Thanks, L.
I understand the void, and the need of others to read it as well. I love your writing. It certainly does not go unnoticed. Love you bunches.