Hard truths:

Oh, you thought this was enjoyable? A pleasant pastime? Think again. You don’t write well until you get to the place where you force yourself to squirm under an uncompromising demand for your own honesty.

It’s not a nice place. It’s a place of autopsy. In erotica, you had better own the most intimately humiliating parts of your own sexual self. This isn’t autobiography; it’s auto-evisceration. Writing is not about gratifying your own ego or literary exhibitionism. It’s about bruising yourself against the wall that separates your consciousness from that of your reader. And the lines of communication are never, ever going to be complete. You’re going to lose your nails and rip your fingers to shreds digging at the brick and mortar that are the cultural, perceptual and existential barriers that separate you from the person reading your work. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, or are too damn lazy to go the distance, find another hobby.