Speaking of sex…

EyeI long to pen the most salacious novel of the decade. The “O” or the “Venus”. Miller started an illustrious career, publishing books in Paris that would be banned elsewhere. I am no Henry. Nor am I an E.L. whose work I do not admire. She is no Desclos or Nin but did make a profound mark as a writer.

Of course, my desire to create bawdy fiction has everything to do with material gain and nothing to do with craft. That should make the writing of it easy enough. If nothing else, I’m guessing there’s an audience for it so I should get right on it. Money in the bank kind of thing, plus, it could prove a lot of fun writing from pure imagination and only a smidgen of experience.

People assume writers know their subject. Sometimes they do, intimately. But not always. Writers observe. Through the lens of devotion and unabashed commitment as watchers they come to “know” what they do not. It is part empathy, part telepathy, and part guesswork. And it works. Just ask Orwell.

I am not the most astute observer now, but somewhere inside, I know most of what I need to know and trust I will discover the rest. And that’s all that matters for any of us.

Tonight’s wish is for the non-judgmental gaze. It is a difficult practice that has many layers. And I do not feel able to elaborate on it much. It’s just an ideal worth considering. To look without naming, without assuming, without a desire to change or effect an outcome. To simply observe until you – see.

Until tomorrow…



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