Telling it like it is

sister innocenta

Chanette Paul writes [1] in defence of her vocation as a romance writer, that distinctions should not be made between good and bad genres, but rather between good and bad writing, and that snobbishness directed toward love stories is misplaced if they achieve their function, which is to provide healing.

Like Chanette, I am one of those writers who hover on the fringe — but while she can claim the mantle of moral respectability, I have a further confession to make. I am an author of pornography and erotica. With that admission, I imagine most of you have one of two pictures in your mind: either the rampant nymphomaniac bursting out of her 38GG Madonna bra, or the sexually frustrated spinster melting her credit card monthly to keep herself in long-life Duracells for her vibrator. This is perhaps inevitable, as readers do tend to conflate the speaker/narrator with the author.

Unlike Chanette, I do not claim any great social role for my craft. Erotica, and its stepsibling pornography, cannot be said, like romance, to offer hope or healing:

Die lekkerste liefdesverhale laat die leser goed voel. Die lekkerste liefdesverhale help die leser om te hoop op en te glo in dit wat goed en mooi en romanties is. Die lekkerste liefdesverhale gee die leser weer moed. En as daar een ding is wat genesend op die mens inwerk, dan is dit die goeie en die mooie ... hoop en moed. [1]

Its role is, I believe, far more basic. It sets out to construct a setting, a situation, a reality, and within this, to tell it like it is. In common with any writing, it offers a lens (or in the case of pornography, a peep-hole) through which to view the world. Successful writing allows readers to re-examine their own views, understandings, or assumptions afresh, and in this sense erotic writing is no different. Its only difference lies in the “naughty bits” not having been censored out.

If not healing, is its purpose then “merely” that of entertainment, as mooted in Chanette Paul’s article? At its most superficial, perhaps; at its most profound, though, it may challenge, enlighten, or inspire. It may arouse or inflame; it may terrify or it may nauseate.

Pornography reduces the context, characters and “plot” to two dimensions, a cut-out background against which the sex act(s) can be played out [2]. Like copywriting, it seeks to manipulate the reader’s response, and like copywriting, it is selective in what it presents and how. Copywriting is not an art form — it is a commercial activity, resting on stereotypes and knee-jerk reflexes, aimed at generating income. As is most pornography — download counters from both free and commercial sites indicate that there is a huge market out there of consumers of this genre. And Hugh Hefner is not the only one milking the discovery that sex sells.

Erotica, on the other hand, relies on the development and coming to life of its characters, its universe, its textures and moods. But while other genres gloss over the sexual lives of their inhabitants, erotica allows them to live full lives while exposed to the sympathetic, hostile or prurient gaze of the reader. Erotica simply puts back the bits polite fiction leaves out, allowing the readers to view an added facet of the characters that inhabit the work. Good erotic writing is good writing. On that point, Chanette and I agree perfectly — quality is not determined by genre. Some of the most creative writers, artists, musicians and film-makers have succeeded precisely through their novel approach to genres to which the mainstream has paid scant attention.

That said, I must admit that I am not a consumer of pornographic writing myself. Unlike Chanette, I did not grow up on the kind of writing that now flows so easily from my keyboard, and nor am I sufficiently interested in the topic to download or read other examples of the genre. I embarked on it, originally, as a challenge — many “grown-up” authors confess to terror at the thought of writing a sex scene, fearing the judgement of their peers, not only in their capacity as authors, but also in their capacity as lovers.

Having attained a level of popularity, I’ve realised that I can do it, and so from time to time, I do it — much as someone would take the bicycle out of the garden shed once in a while for a ride around the block. (To keep my hand in, perhaps?) Having taken an oath of poverty, I’ve never viewed pornography as a commercial venture (though the Convent could do with a new coat of paint …) and generally prefer to divert my creative energy toward more “serious” writing — erotic, certainly!

The footsteps of Mother Superior echoing down the passage remind me that my light should have been out ages ago, and a visit to the confessional will be on the agenda tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll do a spot of penance for sins against purity, and allow the sharp sting of the whiplash to transport my thoughts, once more, to Higher Things …

Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Ave Dominus tecum
Benedictatu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventri tui, Jesu.
Ave Maria
Mater Dei
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrem.

[1]Chanette Paul, ibid.
[2]Of course, this can be said of other genres, too — J M Coetzee’s Disgrace, for example, presents us with an essentially two-dimensional character in David Lurie, and a pantheon of one-dimensional supporting characters, against which a thin plot provides a vehicle for Lurie’s “intellectual acts” to be played out.

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