My favorite poet Seamus Heaney died recently. And the great Andrew M. Greeley (a rare voice
of compassion and brave critic of predatory priests) died this year, too.
There’s no shame in being human when I can pick up a copy of
Opened Ground or live vicariously through the fey Nuala Anne McGrail.
I grew up ashamed of where I came from, ashamed of this,
ashamed of that.
As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse I was utterly
incapable of trusting anyone. From the
age of six or seven I was curious about the world of commercial sex. It was a world I was constantly exposed to
while other children hunted for Easter eggs or held hands with a guardian at
Story Hour. I can bemoan my unwholesome
upbringing until the day I die but I won’t do that. I’d rather write the kind of stories that
appeal to me because they inhabit a unique place where no one is ever
dehumanized, everyone gets laid and former sex workers find that special
someone who understands them.
