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220                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.
               I write literary erotica, as bipolar as Anne Rice who is A N Roquelaure
            (all forms of sex), because it plays to a double audience: those interested in
            literature, and those interested in intelligent sex.
               “My porno starts in your head and works its way down.”
               I like to be in America. Okay by me in America where box office
            maps pop culture. Some Dance has sold nearly 23,000 copies; Mapple-
            thorpe in hard cover, 42,000; the other ten of my soft-to-hardcore books,
            70,000. That’s approximately 130,000 book copies, coupled with more
            than 250,000 units of my 130 erotic videos. Plus well over 500,000 copies
            of my Drummer issues in the 1970s.
               That’s major sales, and a rubdown with a velvet glove on the balls of
            a culture, especially when there’s from one to a dozen places to jerk-off in
            each of those 980,000 units of book, magazine, and video entertainment.
            (Masturbation is the sexual pun in the name “Palm Drive.”) That’s say,
            conservatively, 4 million masturbatory loads out there in the dark, which
            is something to a Catholic boy who was raised to believe that masturba-
            tion is a mortal sin that condemns the masturbator to hell for all eternity.
               Is that why I write? Christ meets Dionysius? Or do I just get off
            knowing every night that out there someone is wacking himself into a
            moment of sublime pleasure, his only joy after a day of a shitty job or of
            taking care of his elderly parents?
               Sometimes tiny Stanislavski quirks sneak into the writing method:
            sometimes I get naked; sometimes I dress up in leather or sex gear; once
            upon a time I sometimes smoked a cigar, or sniffed popper because
            nothing clarifies erotica like amyl nitrite which in its purple haze turns
            Godzilla into God and the brain comes down with some little mantra,
            three or four words of essence, as valid as Gertie Stein’s experimental
            writing, or Alice B’s brownies — or so Gertrude’s pal who became mine,
            Sam Steward, told me.
               Art is a delicate balancing act: living in one’s brain waves at alpha (14
            cycles per second) in a beta-driven world (18 cycles per second). No one
            sane ever “does” writing; sane people make money. No one without the
            discipline of a monk and a Marine can do it.
               The secret of art, of the art of writing, of porno, of literature, or of
            the art of literary erotica, is putting your butt in the chair, with all the
            notes on pieces of paper to cue the next paragraph, the dialog, the feeling.
            I write three pages every day, five if it feels good, but no more.
               The spirit is willing, but the flesh is aged beef.
               At five pages I begin to foreshorten. I stay hungry, eager, at three
            pages, so the next day the drive continues into the next three pages. Until
            a book is actually bound, until an article or story is actually in the pub-
            lisher’s hands, the writing is never over: visions, polishing, re-visions.

          ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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