I can explain to everything

My editor has two books out this month – Unremarried Widow, by Artis Henderson and Promise Land, by Jessica Lamb-Shapiro – both memoirs (mostly).

I’ve seen excerpts and interviews from both all over my Twitter feed. So much so that lately I’ve been waking up out of dreams in which I’m describing to both authors the science in my book that explains what happens in their books.

Why is walking on hot coals safe? Physics, sure, but also context – Iggy Pop brain v. Spa brain. The perception of a heat sensation is context dependent. See Ch 3 of my still-untitled, not-yet-finished book.

Writing painful but healing? Yup! Because you’re completing the stress response cycle. And also: attachment. Ch 4, over and over again. And over again. And again.

Everyone experiences this, right, when they’re writing a book? It has to be inevitable that you think your book explains, like, the entire universe, right, that you hear pretty much ANYTHING and think to yourself, “I can explain to you why”?

Because I’m pretty sure my book explains the entire universe. And I’m pretty sure I can explain to you why. I mean, this is a sex guide that explains why you can walk on hot coals and also why something that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I mean that literally.

I am 90+% done with the second draft. When I finish, I have every intention of collapsing in a heap, of not explaining anything to anyone for A WEEK. But in the meantime… everything. Walking on coals, grieving, desire, orgasms, everything.

It is an illusion I will miss, when it goes.

EDIT: Also road rage. My sex book explains EVERYTHING about road rage. Chapter 7.