I haven't written anything new for the past week. Not one word. Last weekend, I wrote almost 6000 words in a single sitting. I don't know about REAL authors, but for me, that is a lot. Most of it was one nasty scene, a violent confrontation between my main character and my villain, her rescue, and the aftermath. The entire thing, even the first part, has strong sexual overtones. I think it is the best thing I have ever written. But the content – well, it freaks me out a little. How could my brain produce THAT?
I've tried every day since then to clean it up. Not just the normal editing, but make it cleaner, less explicit. Maybe even have the hero follow the laws of romance novels, and arrive just before the bad stuff happens. It isn't working. The more I fiddle with it, the darker it gets, and if I take the bad parts out, it feels false, wrong.
I read scary and disturbing things all the time. I have never thought of Laurell K Hamilton or Anne Rice or Stephen King as twisted people, even though some of the things they write certainly are. So why does this sort of thing coming out of MY head make me wonder if I really want to put my words out there for anyone to read?