The Red Moon, for better or for worse, is a brothel on the outskirts of Lake Belle. One way or another it shows up in every story. The trick is (no pun intended–really) is to write about a call girl without resorting to cliche. No hearts of gold and no glamorizing the trade.

What on earth do I know about prostitution anyway?

In my hometown in Central Florida, out on the highway on the way to the flea market, was a house set way off the road alone surrounded by unmowed grass and pine trees. A large sign in the shape of a palm stood near the road and advertised the types of fortunes told–palm readings, Tarot cards, and such. My mother told me the place was for prostitution. She said this without any note of condemnation or horror or pity. She said it just as a fact she thought I should know. I think was eleven or maybe twelve. Naturally, I was fascinated, especially since I wasn’t entirely clear on what the word prostitution meant. I could’ve asked my mom, but at the time I didn’t appreciate her blunt and straightforward answers, so I often avoided asking her important questions. I said something like, “Huh” in what I thought was a sophisticated and knowing tone.

Having never learned the truth about the place–who was ever going to take me?–it’s followed me into my fiction.

And Paul, Linnie, and Mercie all have some connection to the place…but they don’t talk about it much.