by Mimi Strong
Today, I thought I would focus the author spotlight on Mimi Strong. Erin and I are currently reading Stardust, the first book in the Peaches Monroe series, and we have both overdosed on LOL moments. Hard. Stardust is on the top ten Amazon Bestseller’s list, and with a title like Stardust and a story like Peaches Monroe’s, it’s easy to see why. Here’s a lil’ somethin’, somethin’ about Mimi taken straight from her awesome blog:
Hello! I’m bestselling author Mimi Strong, and I write funny, sex books. You could call my stories chick-lit, erotic romance, sex comedy, new adult, or contemporary romance. Most of my characters have a wicked sense of humor. I’ve always had a lot of sides. Sometimes I’m vulnerable, and sometimes I go after what I want without a single doubt. I love making everyone around me laugh. When I get a message from a reader like you, who says she hit her head on the headboard from laughing too hard and woke up her husband, I think that’s pretty awesome. I’ve always enjoyed empowering stories about kick-butt women who don’t hold back and the awesome men who are smart enough to love them. I live on the west coast with Mr. Strong and our two kitties. I drink coffee, wear pants, and breathe oxygen.What else would you like to know? How about the story of my first erotic writing? Yeah? You’d like that? Okay, here you go:
*MY FIRST SMUT*
This was back in the eighties, before the internet, of course. My filthy reading material was limited to what I could get at the school library, which didn’t even stock the racier Judy Blume novels.
My parents were out the night I got a pen and paper and wrote the filthiest thing I could imagine.
Now, I’d never actually seen a blow-up doll before. People at my school made a lot of jokes about blow-up dolls, and in my head they seemed a lot sexier than those vinyl things you see tethered to people at bachelor parties.
I wrote a story about a boy, his girlfriend, and his blow-up doll. The girlfriend was jealous of the doll, which drove much of the plot. Looking back, I admire my young self for having such a good grasp on the use of conflict in storytelling.
I had little time to enjoy my fine story, though, because shame and fear of being caught overwhelmed me, and I began to sweat, the penned words smearing at my fingertips.
There was nowhere in my bedroom safe enough to hide such a thing. Nowhere in the house. No hiding place on Planet Earth could prevent this twisted literature from falling into the wrong hands.
My whole body shaking, I tore the pages into pieces the size of postage stamps.
But the porn would not be destroyed.
Incriminating words still blazed out defiantly from the shreds.
These morcels of sin could not go into the household garbage. My mother had a special sense for discovering transgressions. She would spot the letters C-O-C scrawled in my childish handwriting and she would know. She would retrieve all the pieces and put them together, then call me in for questioning.
I couldn’t just toilet-flush the pages because surely it would clog the septic system, and I’d be in trouble for two things.
They could be home at any minute!
Still sweating, my heart pounding, I got a tall glass of water from the kitchen. As I prepared to swallow the evidence, I paused.
I’d never ingested paper before. Was paper similar in digestibility to corn? Would incriminating pieces be making appearances in my poo over the next few weeks? Even if the words were unrecognizable, the mere presence of paper in my stools would speak of a crime of some magnitude.
And so, I got a metal cookie sheet, and I cremated my first erotic story. I flushed the ashes.
I didn’t write another word of erotica for many, many years.
Noways, I’m proud to write sensual, enjoyable, character-driven stories. However, whenever I finish a piece, I still get that heart-pounding rush. These stories are transgressive. They make us feel dirty. And they make us come alive.
The first two books in the Peaches Monroe series are out now, and the third is due out in December. Click on the book covers to purchase!
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