When I saw this excerpt all over Facebook recently, I had to cry foul. I knew it was fake. As bad a writer as E.L. James is, this isn't her special kind of bad. This is different. It's just a shade more grotesque. And while Christian Grey is lots of things -- none of them interesting -- he doesn't mewl. Maybe the book would have been better if he had.
I used to be intimidated by people who wrote about sex, even long after I started writing about it myself. The irony, of course, is that people now think the same thing about me. That because I write about sex, I must be particularly sexual. To which my internal response is: "No. You don't get me at all."