Writers often wrestle with how much of themselves to put into their works. Particularly erotica writers. One of the easiest ways to find your voice is to write from what you know, what you’ve experienced. But what you want to include can be a difficult choice. What is too revealing, too personal?
In her latest work, Dark Secret Love, the inimitable Alison Tyler has “mined her memoirs” to craft a story that is both revealing and mysterious at the same time. As part of the blog tour for Dark Secret Love I spoke with Alison about the challenges of autobiographical writing for erotica writers.
How did Dark Secret Love come about? Did you feel that you had, as some authors do, get these experiences out into the world?
In 2006, I was very cherry to the world of blogging. I’d created the Trollop with a Laptop blog solely to be part of an online writer’s group called Lustbites. (Oh, sweet Lustbites. Do you remember us? Maybe we should plan a reunion tour.) Honestly, I didn’t have any type of plan. I sort of rambled here and there mentioning bands I like, lipstick I favor. And then I fell into a discussion with several other writers about how we got our starts.
My once upon a time began with an early relationship, and as soon as I started telling, the words came fast. A lot of words. About 500,000 words over the next year and a half.
How did you personally draw the line with what you wanted to reveal?
Call me a lucky girl. I’ve won the experience of being under the tutelage of several unusual editors—men and women who took me aside and taught me how to write. I don’t know what these four people saw that made them spend time on me. But I value every lesson I learned. The crazy part is that not only did they school me in writing, they also often shared their own relationship experiences. I think I blended the two types of lessons in my head. I learned how to craft a story, and also how to put myself into the characters.
Even when I wrote concert and movie reviews, I would appear in the articles. Basically, I did everything the writing teachers tell you not to do. “Where’s your topic sentence?” “Don’t be so chatty.” I wrote a paper once for an Ancient Chinese Art class that was meant to be on art vs. artifact. Instead of focusing on the assignment, I described how surreally difficult it was to locate the piece of “art” at L.A. County. Amazingly, I got an A+. I think the art department wasn’t used to writers like me. At the same time, I was failing my writing classes.
Are you someone who journals all of your experiences, or just ones of particular note?
I’m someone who buys fancy journals and never uses them. So pretty! How can you mar the pages? I write in dime-store notebooks, on the backs of paper placemats, on the insides of other people’s book covers, on my arm. But early on, I wrote down most of my experiences, almost to tip them out of my head. There was one day when I sat in an office in Beverly Hills and typed—yes, on a typewriter because I am a dinosaur—about a man who wanted to hurt me. He was desperate to get his big hands on me, and that thought took over my waking hours. (And since I’m an insomniac that means almost all my hours.) Meanwhile, the beau I was living with hardly could bring himself to look my way. I wrote “Too Dirty to Clean” (from”His”) about this:
I’m not supposed to be calling you.
Maybe that’s why I’m so damn wet. The concept of doing things I’m not supposed to turns me on. Crazy, but I didn’t learn that simple, sinful fact until I met you. I lived my whole life up to this point believing that being good had its own rewards. I shook my head in dismay as I watched friends wander down the back alleys of life, and I judged them internally, smugly pleased with myself and how well I went about my own business with no soap opera dramas.
Now, I know better. From you, I’ve learned that bad girls truly do have all the fun. Which is fine, because I’ve crossed the line. I’m as bad as I can possibly imagine. This evening, my panties are sticky and clinging to me, and I am extremely aware of that dangerous heat and wetness at my center, and knowing that I will get no relief. Not tonight, anyway.
Because I’m really not supposed to be calling you. I’m supposed to be on my way to the corner grocery store, to pick up something I forgot today when I did the rest of the week’s shopping. That was the excuse I gave, anyway. Lame though it may sound, it was all I could come up with through the hazy, horny fog of my X-rated thoughts. Need tomato paste for the sauce. It won’t taste as good without. So be right back, honey. But “right back” isn’t supposed to include a stop at a graffiti-tagged pay phone around the corner, where I slide in a silvery quarter, dial your number from memory, and tell you how much I miss you.
And how much I miss your cock.
“Say that again,” you prompt.
“Cock,” I repeat automatically. “I miss your cock—”
“Tell me more. What do you miss the most.”
“I miss bending over, parting my thighs, and taking it.”
“Taking what—”
“Your cock,” I say again, and I hear the low chuckle caught at the back of my throat as some sane part of my inner critique witnesses me having this unbelievable conversation. I manage to shock myself with the words that come automatically to my lips when you and I are on the phone. Or in bed together. Or outdoors at some semi-secluded spot where we think we’re safe. Where we think we’re hidden—even though there is no real privacy in Los Angeles. Someone can always see you.
What words of advice do you have for writers who are considering incorporating elements of their own lives into their writing?
See, I actually don’t know how not to do this. I don’t know how to pen a story that doesn’t feature at least a sliver of myself in the work. That’s not to say other writers aren’t more capable than I am. Only that I don’t know how to do this. I think you can find some hot blue filament of me in everything I’ve written. I like to say, “I see sex everywhere I go.” But I also just see. I take what’s around me and make stories. I entertain myself by creating back-histories and intricate plot lines for total strangers. Even then, I know I incorporate a bit of myself into every character. A thought I’ve had. A worry. A yearning. One of my favorite stories is called Boilermaker. It’s BDSM m/m and I still think that if you read piece, you’ll spot me there.
Would you ever consider a full-on memoir or autobiography?
There’s so much of me in DSL—and in the whole series (more than a trilogy, I have books 4, 5, and 6 almost finished)—I think a memoir would be redundant. Plus, I do love flirting with readers and walking that tightrope of reality/fiction.
