I wonder if people--readers, specifically--think that romance and erotica writers live charmed lives of love and awesome sex? (Maybe wearing a feather boa and sexy clear acrylic platform mules.)
Most romance and erotica writers have the exact opposite existence. Instead, we're trapped in our imaginations, pushing away the real people with whom we might be having fantastic, loving sex to watch those with whom we never could.
Picture this: woman, in wrinkled sweats (or jammies). There's a stain of indeterminate origin on her shirt. Her hair is a nest of tangles. Her eyes are red. She smells like coffee--possibly worse. She barely speaks when spoken to, but responds in grunts or distracted mm'hms because she's not listening to the voices in the real world. She's listening to the voices in her head, and watching a movie of her own making. Her fingers are itching to write it down. She wishes her loved ones would go away and let her work.
No one, not even her husband, wants to have sex with her.
And to be honest, she's not interested, anyway. She'd rather be a voyeur, a transcriber. A writer.
I think writers prefer our imaginary lives to our real ones because we can control them. True, it often feels as though our characters are going off on their own journeys, dragging us along for the ride. But the writer knows that, in the end, there will be a happily ever after and everyone will have a fantastic time.
So much better than real life, with its messiness, its arguments, its awkward moments. Think about it. Romance heroes never have belly button lint. Or worse, clip their toenails...in bed. (Ack!) Or even worse than that--fart in bed. (And if they did pass gas, they certainly wouldn't hold the heroine's head under the covers until she screamed.)
Romance heroes rarely watch The Three Stooges.
Ah...the realities of living with a man.
Anyhow, we're in this for the same reason readers are--we just have a better view of the action.