So here we are blogging at last.

Years after the phenomenon could be expected to win you money, fame or popularity, we begin in the great editorial tradition in which we get to refer to our non-collective self as "we."

This is a blog about writing fiction.

If I use it at all, I will be using it as a warm-up--as a place to put those things that tend not to end up in other places but are still too important to end up as grist for facebook, the grand palace, time-wasting generators of cost-free content.

My current project is a piece of pornography. I suppose you could call it "erotica" or "erotic writing" but the truth is that it is intended not to prove that I am related in some way to the great tradition of writers of early erotica who, from all I can tell, are women who were most active nearly a century ago, who came from backgrounds that supported the intersection of femininity and a taste for sexual adventure that they could tell their novels and diaries about later. Most women of their time, even in the wealthy west, did not get to have adventures and it is beyond hard to imagine the bulk of them writing anything at all.

For more, look up the words "Bohemian," "Diarist," "Djuna Barnes" and "Lonely, female, high school student."

No. That isn't me. That isn't my world. That isn't a world I would have wanted to live in even if I had been alive and from the diary-writing classes back then. I live in the here and now, and from all I've ever heard I think Henry Miller would have made my skin crawl.

I am writing material the sole purpose of which is to bring a measure of excitement to human beings of the right mindset. The mindset in question is one involving power-exchange.

Of course, I am either lying or mistaken when I say that it has only one purpose. It has others, myriad others, both anticipated and hoped for. In the main, I hope that it will be read. I anticipate that it will give me a chance to write something that I can live with after only two edits.

I hope that reading Gunther Grass and Marguerite Duras before sitting down to write will help me to attain what I anticipate, I doubt very, very much that it will provide me with what I hope for.

The Big Books of the last few years, have been a three-part science-fiction novel for adolescents who can't handle science-fiction proper, and where a sensitive reader can see the writer running out of steam (and interest) by the last third of book two, and a Harlequin Romance that showcases kindergarten-level S&M themes.

Therein lies an irony.

I have a thing to write. I have a slogan in mind: "If you owned another human being, what would she say about you?"