When I first decided to make the push to publish my erotica, for multiple reasons, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to publish under my given name. Here are just a few of the many reasons I came to this conclusion:

• I have a full-time, fulfilling, uber-vanilla career and don’t want to mix business with pleasure…but, oooh, the pleasure.
• If my parents ever got their hands on the kind of smutty goodness I write, I don’t think I’d be able to look them in the face again. Yes, we’re all adults. Yes, it shouldn’t matter. Yes, I haven’t lived under their roof in years. But still. Mom doesn’t need to read the delightful sexually warped fantasies of her favorite (and only) daughter.
• Some of my earlier (unpublished as of yet) stories hit pretty close to home. While not completely autobiographical, for anyone who knows me even reasonably well, there would be plenty of telltale signs that I’m tapping into my own personal experiences. Best to keep my true identity in the background.

So, I came up with a pseudonym. My pen name. My nom de plume. And effectively shut out every last person I’ve ever known.

I can’t tell my family that I’ve published a book. I can’t share my latest efforts with my coworkers. I can’t call my best friends and tell them I finally achieved a major life goal of mine. Because Jaye Elise is a writer. And writers are solitary creatures.

My pseudonym reminds me of that every single day.