Once upon a time there was a woman in her late twenties who went to a porncamp. Porncamp is another word for the Circlet Editor's Retreat, where editors of Circlet (a scifi-erotica publishing company) gather to discuss all things publishing, writing, and erotic.

She had forgotten who she was amidst the hustle of finding an apartment and a "real job," but when she remembered the retreat that she had attended once four years ago, she knew that she had to go this year. 

There were bagels and quiche and delicious teas and sandwiches, and even an exceptionally strong punch, and she heard too many quotes to recall accurately. She discovered that Corwin had worked at a medievel faire, and that Annabeth was a self-supported writer.

​She listened to conversations about music as different colors, and watched a game of slash, which is played a little like apples to apples, pairing famous characters up with other famous characters, a game of story-telling and persuasion. A game of writerly marketing, in its way.

She slept in the Circlet office surrounded by books about romance and erotica, baseball and Latin, Harry Potter and much much more. There were cats in the house, creeping about late at night and leaving thick tufts of fur in their wake. She wondered about the dichotomy of erotic writer and children's writer, and parent and activist, and whether she'd ever have time to write if she had children. She thought about troubling, important things that she'd somehow forgotten about, so far from other writers: time to write and market and keep up with social media without making readers gag.

About a quarter of the way through Saturday presentations, this woman grabbed her over-the-head headphones (the ear parts shredded from use) and escaped the full house for solitude in a finicky-cat, people-overwhelmed, writerly sort of way. She clomped down sidewalks looking at houses that she would never afford. These houses had many floors and rooms and sharp ornate fences, but no driveways. She found Harvard down the street, and studied a water pump that looked historic but didn't work. She watched tourists pointing fingers and cameras at the red brick buildings and telling each other what a great place this was.

It made her think of Cecilia Tan's book The Siren and the Sword, because the Magic University is somewhat based on Harvard. It made her want to read those books again, and all of Circlet's books, and many more. And? It made her want to write and work with other editors on keeping in touch.

So she did.

The End

Why is the sky blue?
Why do high heels exist?
Why get married?

Smart people ask questions.

A friend of mine worked in aerospace engineering for five years, and whenever the CEO passed through the shop, he would ask the engineers all sorts of questions. In order to find solutions, a person needs to identify problems first. But how to find the right questions to ask? My answer is to write down anything that you question or feel strongly about.

In her book The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron suggests that artists write three "Morning Pages," every day, which can be about anything. It can be about all the junk that we think about all the time: What to make for dinner, how we feel about our jobs, or just what a nice day it is outside. While I don't write three pages every morning, allowing myself the freedom to journal has helped me. Writing morning pages is like gathering all the ingredients in your house without really knowing what you're going to make for lunch. Then, when you get them all in one place, you choose what you think will work and start putting pieces together. You put away the spices you don’t use later.

My writing often begins with bitching. I bitch about my job, about what a waste of time writing is, and then I start watching my cat. He's a tiger kitty named Gilgamesh, and he has a neurological disorder, so he walks a bit funny and falls over easily. I used to feel bad for him, but now he makes me laugh, and he seems so happy that it's hard to feel bad for him anymore. He likes to sit on the windowsill in my room and look out at the birds: His tail twitches and his ears fold back; he does that chirping sound that I've taken to mean he is prepared to attack. He even paws at the window as though that will open it for him. Does he really think that pawing at the window will get him outside? What does he think of this cold, clear substance that separates him from his prey?

Usually, I start with a list of questions, and then set out to find answers through writing.  But I also want my readers to ask questions. I've found that some of the best writing is the kind that makes me ask more questions. Every idea I share came about because I wanted to know or understand something. What are you waiting for? Write down all the dumb questions you've ever been afraid to ask and start looking for answers. Curiosity didn't kill the cat; it made the cat smarter.