At age seven, I found and read my mother’s copy of My Secret Garden, Nancy Friday’s groundbreaking collection of women’s sexual fantasies. (PSA: If you actually want to hide stuff from your kids, your underwear drawer is not a good spot. Just leave it on your shelf and discuss it when it comes up, yeah?)
I had already decided to be a writer, and I suppose it was inevitable that I should want to write about sex, as they’ve been my two preoccupations for almost fifty years.
I write about sex for the same reason I talk about sex: not enough people do. And it’s only by talking openly about sex—the good, the bad, the I-didn’t-know-anyone-else-was-into-that—that we’ll start to be less fucked-up about it as a society (and as individuals).
Characters you may encounter in my blog:
—Me, Veronica (she/her), fifty-something and, as the tagline says, still filthy
—The Ex (my ex-husband, to whom I was married for decades)
—The Offspring (Firstborn, Queerager, Earnest, and Taz)
You can reach me at veronica@veronicably.com.