I’ve made no secret that Theadora Mitchell is a nom due plume. An alter-persona. A made-up name for me to hide behind.
Damn, I wish she was real. I don’t know if I want to be her or have a friend exactly like her. I have to be some part of her, don’t I? She has to be part of me, right?
Damn, that’s uncomfortable. If I admit this and you know me, as me, and I’ve never shared…oii, I might just…yeah, this is way uncomfortable.
However, it’s also pretty damn freeing.
It’s not like not like I’m writing from experience…you think I am? You don’t want to think I am and are quite happy that I’ve stated I’m not…maybe, wink wink.
LOL, Theadora is cheeky. She’s blunt. She’s fun. She admits to watching documentaries on subjects that we don’t talk about unless in whispers and after a few drinks. I watch documentaries on serial killers, too. It’s not like I’m looking for ways to be one of them.
I don’t write Theadora’s genre for the wham bam let’s get off feel. I write erotica because there are realities we need to hear and maybe I can honour them via my characters. Wow, does that sound all high and lofty. Maybe I’m just tired of the giggles and shaming and heads-in-the-sand mindsets of late.
Yes, ______, people do have sex. And, yes, some don’t. And, yes, some even do it differently than you do.
Oh, you don’t want us to know you do or don’t. Sorry, no one can censor what we’re thinking…thank heavens…or is that a not yet.
Come one, Theadora, now’s not the time to get serious…save it for another writing.
Twoodles