"For some, telling their folks that they make smut for a living is nothing short of coming out of the closet."

I love my job. I make a living as a writer.

When I was young, I knew that I wanted to either be an actress, singer or artist. It wasn't until I was in eighth grade I discovered I could write. We had a project due on Homer's Odyssey and I (as usual) waited until the last moment to do mine. I wrote a poem called "Odysseus' Ode to Homer". The idea for the poem and the words that I put on the paper literally appeared in my mind. I zipped the thing out so fast, I scared myself.

When I got my poem back from my teacher, on it was a big, fat A-plus. To further my glee, my teacher praised my project to the whole class. She called it a creative effort compared with all the brightly-colored maps of my fellow students.

I was completely amazed when she pulled me aside, looked me straight in the eye and asked: "Did you really write that? You didn't copy it out of some book did you"?

The little poem I whipped out in 45 minutes the night before it was due was (in the mind of my teacher) not the typical work of a 13-year-old. That was the day I added "writer" to my list of grown-up careers.

After many years of struggling to be an actress/singer/poet/artist/jewelry designer/performance artist/model/dee jay/vee jay/playwright/writer, I got sick of waiting tables and went to beauty school. Being a hairdresser paid the bills and somewhat satisfied my creative lust. That was until, I got a computer.

The computer rekindled my love for all that was creative. I applied all my skills in making the magic box (a Packard Bell 486) do everything I knew it was capable of. I learned HTML and began to serve webpages up to the Internet.

I feverishly promoted my web skills in my town to no avail. I even made a grand site that for Women that got a good bit of attention and a free T-shirt from HotWired as their Geek of the Week. The problem of course was I wasn't making any money.

My brother kept telling me I was wasting my time trying to make it in the non-adult web world. He told me the money was in porn. Finally, I accepted his wisdom and made my first, little smut page at Porn City. As I learned the workings of the porn business, I saved money by taking pictures of myself with my crappy little webcam and using them for galleries to promote sponsors.

One day, I zapped out an erotic story and rekindled my love for writing. I found writing erotica to be amazingly easy for me. I even went into the business of producing erotica for the web. Then, I wrote a little article for Cozy Frog and my career as an Adult Industry journalist was born.

Writing for this wonderful adult webmaster resource site and its sister Cozy Academy is my job. I quit my day job and no longer have a non-adult profession as a cover for what I really do.

Now, I have to have an answer for friends, family and strangers who ask what do I do for a living?

As I said, my brother was the one who suggested I get into porn and my sister is proud of the fact that I make a living with what I love. My friends know what I am and are cool with it. Most of my relatives know what I do and some of them bug me for passwords to paysites. I tell the majority of the citizens in my tiny town that I write articles for an online trade publication. Eventually, everyone will know that I make a living writing about sex and how to make money from selling it.

I have noticed on adult webmaster message boards, every month or so, someone asks the board members how they went about telling their parents what they do for a living. While most of us have reconciled this problem, I still feel for those that are afraid of rejection. For some, telling their folks that they make smut for a living is nothing short of coming out of the closet. Families become estranged and I have seen countless posts bemoaning the loss of a lover/spouse due to porn.

I've seen the solutions proposed by other adult webmasters:

• Tell them you make websites, period.
• Tell them you work in advertising.
• Tell them you're a programmer for a private company.
• Make a fake page and tell them it's your business.
• Show them your sponsor checks and tell them to shut up.

I'm a big girl and I am proud of my job. If someone prods me enough, I tell him or her exactly what I do. If they have a problem with it, they have the problem, not me. I feel for those who have to hide their careers from their parents. The approval or disapproval of Mom and Dad is a powerful thing.

My parents were good and open-minded people. My Father was a journalist and my Mother always hoped I would be something more than a waitress or a hairdresser. Their faith in me and belief in my abilities never faltered.

The thing is, Mom and Dad are both gone. For all the time they were alive, I was struggling professionally. Now that I have achieved my career goal, they are not there for me to show them I finally made it. As proud as I am of myself and what I do, I feel sad knowing I can't tell that to the two people who cared most for my welfare.

While I'm not much of a believer in heaven or hell, I secretly hope that the souls of our loved ones watch over us after they die.

Every now and then, I look to the sky and say:

"Mom, Dad. I'm a writer".