• Home
  • /
  • Stories Hub
  • /
  • Reviews & Essays
  • /
  • Why do I write, by SusanJillParker?

Why do I write, by SusanJillParker?

123

As if truly seeing myself for the first time, I had an epiphany while staring at myself in the mirror as to why I write.

"Why do I write?"

I'm Susan Jill Parker, my real name, and I'm a writer. Yet, I'm not just any writer. I don't write non-fiction, something that most writers write. Matter of fact, did you know that 95% of everything published in the world is non-fiction? Think about it. With all of the newspapers, magazines, text books, manuals, directions, brochures, booklets, advertisements (if you want to call that non-fiction), packaging, and autobiographies, it's all non-fiction. Nearly every word written in the world every day is non-fiction.

"Wow!"

To me, with all of that research and reading that must be done before writing a word of non-fiction, non-fiction is boring which is why I write fiction. Counting only on myself and my creativity, I prefer making up things from my imagination. Yet, I don't just write one specific kind of fiction, I'm one of the few writers on Literotica who writes in 30 of the 35 categories. Most of what I write has sexual content. Yet, I don't write pornography. I write erotica.

Not to be confused with pornography, there's a huge difference from between pornography and erotica. Erotica is much different than pornography. Those who prefer reading pornography may not like reading erotica and vice versa. My stories are real stories with character names, descriptions, imagery, dialogue, tension, and plot. My stories all have a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Even my incest stories, more of a tender love story, are more about character development and relationships, especially mother and son love affairs, than that are about sex, sex, and more sex.

Yet, more importantly, being that I can only write what I know, most of my stories are from my real life experiences, especially my stories of exhibitionism and voyeurism. Being that I've always been an exhibitionist, as most women are, what I've written about in exposing my body to men is exactly what I've done in exposing my body to men in my life. Believe it or not, many of my stories are more non-fiction than they are fiction. In that regard, when writing about my sexual experiences, truly, most of what I write about me is indeed non-fiction.

* * * * *

With me being a woman alone writing on a porn site, afraid to write under my real name, I started writing erotica at Literotica in 2007 under the name of BostonFictionWriter. I wrote under that name for two years. Along the way in both years, 2007 and 2008, I finished 2nd place in Literotica's yearlong, prestigious and very difficult to win, Survivor contest, the writer with the most stories in the most categories wins. I won $250 in both of those years. Then, in 2009, too preoccupied with writing and publishing e-Books, I wrote under PositiveThinker, CarBuffStuff, and WmForrester and didn't finish in the top five.

With hundreds of thousands of stories posted to Literotica, my story written under WmForrester is 66th on the all-time most read list of stories with 1.666 million views. I would have had two stories in the top ten, Mother-in-law Stripped Naked and Sex with Sister-in-law, Samantha, written under BostonFictionWriter, had I not pulled them to post as e-Books. After only on the site for three months in 2007, the stories already had 850,000 and 650,000 hits respectively. I can't imagine how many millions of hits they would have had 7 years later. Because so many thieves were stealing my stories to post as e-Books on Amazon under their name, I deleted more than 400 stories posted on Literotica and written under BostonFictionWriter. I was tired of thieves making money off of me.

In 2010, I wrote under AndTheEnd and again finished 2nd place in the Survivor contest. The Survivor contest is the only contest on Literotica that I can win because it's not dependent upon phony votes and a writer's popularity but on pure volume. In 2011, I wrote under SuperHeroRalph and actually won the Survivor contest, along with $500.

After writing for Literotica for 5 years and after being stalked, threatened with physical harm, having received several death threats, and having my Facebook page hacked and deleting it, I decided to give up the charade and write under my real name. In 2012, I wrote as SusanJillParker. I finished 3rd in the Survivor contest and won $200. Last year, 2013, I won the Survivor contest again, this time under SusanJillParker instead of SuperHeroRalph. Now, in 2014, I'm leading the Survivor contest yet again.

Since 2007, I've written more than 1,500 stories, more than 100 poems, and more than 10 million words. I've received more than 200 million hits and tens of thousands of e-mails. Unlike other writers who don't answer any e-mails and who don't appreciate readers enough to thank them, I answer every e-mail, as long as it's not disrespectful and/or nasty. In 2008, I was the only writer ever nominated as the most influential writer and as the most influential poet on Literotica. With more than 60,000 writers writing on Literotica, I'm number 29th on the most favored authors list and still climbing. Seemingly, there are some readers who enjoy erotica over pornography. Seemingly, there are some readers enjoy what I write.

Only and sadly, please remove your hats for a moment of silence. With only 1 reader out of 500 readers who vote, sometimes I feel as if I'm writing just for myself and for the sake of writing. If only readers would view voting as applause, I'd have more votes. If only those readers who enjoyed my stories and liked my writing would vote, I'd win more contests. Yet, sadly, only 1 reader out of 10,000 readers make a comment. If only readers would view making a comment as asking the writer for an encore, I'd have more comments. I'd have more feedback. I'd have more fans.

"It's so sad not being appreciated for all the hard work that I do."

Most readers who don't write may not understand what it takes to create, develop, write, rewrite, edit, and reedit a story before submitting it to Literotica. Even then after spending hours rereading the story, a typo or two slips through. Taking about three weeks, it takes me about 60-90 hours to write a polished 6,000 word story.

Some stories fly out faster. Some stories are finished in a day and reread and reedited in a few hours. Yet, writing is as lonely as it is laborious. Only special people are writers. Only dreamers who would rather escape reality for hours every day, write fiction. The rest are readers, editors, and teachers.

We writers write for free. Yeah sure, we write because we must but we write stories expressly for you. We write for you entertainment. We bear our souls so that you can read our stories.

Tell me this, would you attend a free concert and not applaud at the end? When served a meal in a restaurant, would you not give your food server a tip, especially if your food server looked anything like me, tall, blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, and busty? Would you attend a school play and not applaud when finished? Would you attend a ballgame or a football game and not cheer?

Then, why do you read my stories without voting for my stories and without giving me a vote of confidence for me to continue writing for you? Forget about making a comment, just vote. Vote. Please vote. Just vote. Actually, it would be nice if you made a comment too. I need to know what you thought of my story so that I may write a better story the next time.

* * * * *

As a 42-year-old woman, I didn't just start out writing. Even though I may have been born a writer, as writing is something that can't be taught, I wasn't born with a pen in my hand or my fingers poised on typewriter or computer keys. Sure professors in college can teach you the mechanics of writing but either you're a writer or you're not. Either you live to write or you don't.

As have many great writers experienced the hardships of life, I was made to suffer through my emotions by enduring, living, and surviving my sad, little life. Oh, woe is me, boohoo, but realistically, I should have a problem. At least I can get out of bed every morning. At least I'm not blind, deaf, dumb, and/or crippled. At least I don't have some God awful disease. With the horrible childhood that I had, I'm lucky to be alive actually.

"I made it! I survived my mother and my half-brothers."

My writing all started one day, 33-years-ago, when I was at my lowest point. As far as I'm concerned, no child should be depressed but I was depressed every day. Tired of being sad, depressed, and angry, I picked up a pen and a pad and wrote what I was feeling through poetry. Wow! A mind altering experience, opening a window to my soul, it was as if I had released the flood gates after being constipated.

I felt so much better after purging myself through words, albeit words that rhymed. A therapeutic and necessary process, instead of keeping everything in my head, now I was putting all that I felt to paper. As if saying goodbye to all of those thoughts, I released them from me. Then, reading them on paper instead of thinking them in my head, and reading them as if they were written by someone else and were their thoughts and not mine, I separated myself from feeling bad and sad. Those thoughts were no longer mine. Those thoughts were no longer private. With my internal monologue no longer controlling me, finally, I was free from my thoughts. Finally, I was free to begin living my life in the way that I wanted to live it without feeling sad, bad, guilty, and remorseful.

After reading poetry for years, I finally discovered writing poetry. I was writing my poem instead of reading someone else's poems. Granted, the first to admit my lack of poetic skill, I was a terrible poet but that wasn't the point of me writing poetry. More importantly, I was freeing my mind and purging my soul. I was writing while learning how to write poetry to be a better poet. Now having a much needed outlet, I was finally free from my misery. Writing poetry was my release valve. Assuredly and admittedly, I'm not a great poet, but poetry was my first attempt at writing anything.

Whenever I was ready to boil over with frustration and explode with anger, writing poetry lessened my load by calming my disturbed mind. Even better than reading, which I was a voracious reader, writing poetry cleared my mind to not only make room for my other thoughts but also to help me understand the thoughts that I was already thinking. A troubled young woman heading down the road of self-destruction, if I had to pick one thing to credit or to blame for my love of writing, unbelievably, it all started with television. My becoming a writer, whether poetry, short stories, novels, and/or erotica started with me watching TV.

My escape from my reality, I'm a huge TV trivia and movie buff fan, always have been and always will be. Since I was a kid, the television was my babysitter. While my four, much older half-brothers worked or were out screwing and drinking, and while my mother was either out whoring all night or passed out drunk and/or sleeping until noon, I watched TV. I would have not survived my childhood had it not been for the miracle of television. I can't imagine my life without that glimpse to the rest of the world through the odyssey of television. I don't know how others lived without television before it was invented but I'm glad that I was born after television was invented.

* * * * *

"I didn't want you," said my mother. "You were an unwanted pregnancy. You should have been squirted in a condom, in my mouth, in my ass, on my tits, or down my leg instead of inside of my pussy," she said looking right through me after being out all night fucking, sucking, and drinking.

"Mom?" Shocked, hurt, sad, and angry, I couldn't think of anything else to say. "How can you say that to me?"

Easy. She didn't care about me. My eye opening moment of realization, if she cared about me, she never would have said something so hurtful. Thinking back on it now, my mother was such a disgusting, drunken whore. Sleeping in her clothes without even bothering to remove her makeup, with her hair and makeup a mess and her clothes disheveled, she looked more like a homeless woman than I did when I was homeless. As if someone how just crawled out of the sewer, she always smelled of stale perfume, booze, and cigarettes.

"I nearly aborted you," she said punctuating what she previously said to obviously make sure that I understood her meaning.

I was an unwanted pregnancy. That's something I could have done without knowing. I was just told that I was an accident of birth and nearly aborted, even more information that I didn't need to know. How about that?

Can you imagine my mother having the audacity, the insensitivity, and the insanity to tell me that bit of information that I wished you had kept to herself? Can you imagine your mother telling you that you weren't wanted and that she almost terminated you? What do you say to that? There was nothing that I could say in response to that other than thank you for not aborting me.

"Wow!"

What she said is important enough to repeat. I'll never forget her telling me that. She was sitting at the kitchen table. It was 2 am in the morning and she had just come home after being out all night God knows where and doing God knows what. As if I was her mother and she was my daughter, I was worried sick about her. She could have been dead for all I knew. Yet, because I loved my mother, even though it was obvious that she didn't love me, I still worried about her.

"You were an accident of birth. With four grown sons, the last thing that I wanted was another frigging baby, especially a worthless girl who will never amount to anything and who will never earn any money," she said looking right through me.

Figuring she was drunk and didn't mean what she said, the next day, she said it all again.

"I should have aborted you and I almost did. Only, you lucked out. I didn't have the money for an abortion," she said raising her voice while looking at me with hatred and before putting an exclamation point to all that she already said. "I don't love you. I never loved you. You're an anchor around my neck. I despise you."

An automatic habit that I have, always comparing my real life to a movie, when she told me that, I thought of Joan Crawford's movie Mommy Dearest and in the deplorable way she treated her daughter, Christina. When she told me that she didn't love me but despised me, I was hurt, an understatement. I was sad, another understatement. I was angry. I wanted to strangle her. I wanted to beat her to death with her heavy, green, glass ashtray that was always full of lipstick coated cigarettes. Seeing her cigarettes made me wonder how many cocks had her lipstick on them the night before.

After that, never forgiving her for what she said, I had little to do with her for the rest of the day and for days, weeks, months, and years after. I tried to act as if I wasn't living there. Avoiding her, I became as invisible as I could. While she slept, I watched TV with the sound turned down. As soon as she got out of bed to pee, I hid. As soon as she got up for coffee, I left the house.

Knowing she'd be going out with some guy, hanging out with friends or walking around Boston alone, I didn't return home from school until late and until after she left the house. In those hours when I wasn't home from school, she never looked for me. She never called any of my friends' mothers to see if I was there. She didn't care. Obviously, she hoped I was dead, as dead as she was on the inside.

With not seeing her at all some days, I had little to do with her after that. If she didn't want me, then I didn't want her. If she didn't love me, then I didn't love her. If she despised me, then I despised her. I couldn't wait to get a job and leave home.

Yet, embracing the new me, instead of getting angry enough to do something destructive to her or to myself, I wrote poetry. Without doubt, writing poetry not only saved my sanity, it saved my life. Writing poetry was my place to hide and my private place to disappear from the misery of my life. Writing poetry was my answer to my prayers to God to save me from these horrible people, from my mother and from my four half-half-brothers. Seemingly born again, with me writing down all that troubled me, whatever my mother and my half-half-brothers said, did, didn't say, or didn't do troubled me less. Just as they didn't care about me, I didn't care about them.

* * * * *

With my youngest half-brother 18 years older than me and my oldest half-brother 27 years older than me and with all of us having different fathers, now grown men, they were seldom home. Not long after I was born, not wanting to bother with babysitting me, they lived their own lives. Later, married and with families and living in Ohio and Michigan while working for automotive manufacturing industries, they had little to do with me. It was as if I wasn't even their half-sister still living with my mother in Boston.

Perhaps they felt funny that I knew their dirty, little secret. Before they all raped me, they all slept with my mother, not just once but multiple times. I'd hear them drinking, laughing, sucking, and fucking. Maybe they feared that I'd tell their wives and/or girlfriends the perverts they were for sleeping with their mother and then raping me.

Being that my four half-half-brothers were all sexually, incestuously intimate with my mother at one time or another, there's a justified suspicion that one of my half-brothers is my father. With no one coming forward to claim me as their daughter, no one knows which one may be my father. With us all looking so much alike, surely I don't which one of my half-brothers fathered me or if perhaps it was one of many of my mother's "special boyfriends" is how she referred to them who gave me life.

"How's that for being fucked up? If it's not bad enough that my father may be from my mother having sex with a paid for sex stranger, a multitude of paid for sex strangers, but my father may be one of my half-brothers."

Practically growing up alone and without adult supervision most times, television was my only entertainment. A latchkey kid who was trapped in my small apartment, being that I was friendless, lonely, and alone, television was not only my only friend but also my best friend. I didn't have any interaction with anyone but my teachers and classmates at school. I was always the quiet kid and the shy kid who stayed on the sidelines while the others played their games. Depressed and angry, I found it impossibly difficult to interact with anyone. I just wanted to be left alone.

As if I was a stay-at-home invalid, by watching situation comedies and inappropriate movies, television was my way to see the world and to learn the nuances of the language, along with the customs and traditions of what it's like to have a real family. Rather than my mother and half-brothers teaching me things, a stunted childhood, I learned everything I knew from watching TV. Being that we didn't have cable or a VCR thirty-five years ago when I was a kid, and didn't have a lot of channels to choose from, 4, 5, 7, 38, and 56, old movies and old situation comedies were not only my favorite programs to watch but also my only programs to watch.

When not watching TV and when playing hooky from school, unable to afford the admission price, I'd sneak in the movies. There was always a side door ajar that was left open for an usher to return back to work after smoking a cigarette. Even though the light from the door opening and closing illuminated me sneaking in the movie, most ushers didn't care that someone entered without paying. After talking to them about the movie, I got to know all of the ushers. Perhaps because I was friendly and pretty, they didn't care that I snuck in the movies. Once, an usher even held the door open for me to sneak inside.

123
  • Index
  • /
  • Home
  • /
  • Stories Hub
  • /
  • Reviews & Essays
  • /
  • Why do I write, by SusanJillParker?

All contents © Copyright 1996-2023. Literotica is a registered trademark.

Desktop versionT.O.S.PrivacyReport a ProblemSupport

Version ⁨1.0.2+795cd7d.adb84bd⁩

We are testing a new version of this page. It was made in 92 milliseconds