Book Three??

I can't write fiction. I know this, cos I never have. And then, on a walk this afternoon, a story occurred to me. I stopped at a cafe and began to write. So who knows? Maybe I'll discover that I can.

This is a sex novel about a woman, so I should start by looking in a full-length mirror, in order to reassure you that I’m beautiful enough to read about, without being too blatant about it. I’ll be hoping you’re too stupid to notice that you’re being led, like a first-time witness by a clever barrister. For men who might be reading, I should hint at my startling good looks by means of a careful humble-brag — perhaps my eyes are too widely spaced, waist too narrow, my hair an unruly mass of curls. Perhaps I should give myself breasts that are both too high and too full, for fuck’s sake. Just to get you hard on Page One, if I can. For female readers, I should be vague enough to make it possible for you to imagine that I am you, so I won’t tell you my hair colour. How could a woman be interested in a woman who isn’t her, after all?