First, I want to point you in the direction of the winners of Desdmona's Sixties competition - always a good place to find beautiful erotica and writing of the very highest standard. This time round, the winning stories include Plaster Caster by Alana Noel Voth, one of the most exciting, honest, thoughtful and hard working writers I have the pleasure of knowing. Brava, Madame. Elazarus Wills took second place, and I love his writing too.
Meanwhile: I want to write a heroine who sweats and spits and is a real live farting and fucking human being but despite some hints that this kind of thing is encouraged I have a sneaking suspiction it won't wash. I won't say anymore about my novel, sex-by-numbers and the Reluctant Porn Machine right now because I am So Professional (watch me) and I need the money.
Then I want to do a supermarket sweep of a good bookshop or find some old lady with the best library in Glasgow who will employ me to dust the books, page by page, very slowly, line by line, word by word. She will have Tristam Shandy and the Pop up Karma Sutra and Bukowski and Proust and the latest Murakami and Corey Mesler (who took third prize in Desdmona's comp) and Rabelais and - oh, she'll have all the writers I so desperately want to read but don't know who they are yet. Her library will be full of scented geraniums and cameo portraits and pretty cats and I'll make us tea in a samovar and it will rain and rain and rain for hours, so there'll be nothing to do but read (I mean, dust) each book and occasionally glance up into the green and quiet garden.
Also I want a car. So there.