For some time now, I wanted that `Nude & Happy` become more than a blog, more than a Substack, and more than a growing list of books. I want it to feel like a house. A real house. A lived house. A writing house. A nudist house.
That idea comes very naturally to me because nudism is not a side subject in my life. It is part of the way I live. I write in the nude. I live in the nude as much as I can. I think in the nude too. Being naked makes me feel quieter, truer, and less tempted to perform. It brings me back to myself very quickly.
So one day the thought came very simply.
What if Nude & Happy became, openly and calmly, a fully nudist publishing house Something simpler, deeper, and far more ordinary. A place where nakedness is ordinary, where bodies are not the problem in the room, where some people have been nudists for years, where some are newer `newdists`, where some arrive with hesitations, disabilities, old wounds, different ways of moving through the world, different ways of speaking or signing, and where all of them still belong fully to the house.
That matters to me very deeply.
One of the most beautiful things nudism has to offer humanity is that it can make room. Room beyond appearance. Room beyond shame. Room beyond the quick judgments people make the moment a body enters a space.
And one of the most beautiful things humanity has to offer nudism is its variety. Different ages. Different bodies. Different stories. Different abilities. Different sensitivities. Different voices. Different silences.
If I imagine a real nudist publishing house, I do not imagine perfect bodies moving through a fantasy. I imagine a human house. A generous one. A serious one. A warm one. A place where the wheelchair is ordinary, where signing across a room is ordinary, where age is ordinary, where softness and scars and difference are ordinary too.
Because that is the world I want Nude & Happy to belong to.
When I picture this house, I do not picture people looking at one another’s bodies all day. I picture the opposite. I picture people forgetting about bodies quite quickly because nobody is wasting energy pretending the body itself is a scandal. I picture books on tables, pages marked at dawn, coffee being poured, open windows, drafts under discussion, fiction beside philosophy, image prompts beside manuscript notes, and all of it taking place in an atmosphere that feels unclothed not only physically, but mentally.
That, to me, is already a creative gift. So much writing is full of pose. So much publishing is full of noise. So much internet language is swollen with performance and false urgency.
Nudism does not cure all of that by itself. But it does remove one costume. And when one costume falls, others often become easier to see. You hear it in the sentences, you feel it in the rhythm, you notice it in the kind of stories that become possible.
That is one reason nudist fiction matters so much to me. It lets nakedness stop being the event and become the atmosphere instead. The ordinary condition in which friendship, hesitation, awkwardness, comedy, mystery, tenderness, and truth can unfold.
And the more I write that way, the more I want the house behind the writing to reflect the same truth. If Nude & Happy is a nudist publishing house, then the work behind the scenes should feel nudist too:
- Clearer.
- Warmer.
- Less ashamed.
- Less sensational.
- More human.
That is also why I started imagining the perfect team, as a real house staff. People with names. People with temperaments. People with their own way of inhabiting nudism. People who understand from the inside that nakedness can be calm, social, thoughtful, practical, and profoundly ordinary.
So in my mind there is Noemie, who keeps the house lucid. Solenne, who gives shape to the week before it frays. Gabriel, who can see how a story wants to become a book. Lorraine, who hears at once when a sentence is false. Anais, who keeps warmth moving between the house and its readers. Luc, who is not afraid of money, but refuses vulgarity. Iris, who knows how to place the right book into the right hands with gentleness and precision.
I love this idea because it reveals something true: publishing is never only about text. It is about atmosphere, standards, and the human world that produces the work. And I want the human world behind Nude & Happy to be unmistakably nudist. The culture underneath everything should carry bodily ease, honesty, dignity, freedom, and hospitality.
In a fully nudist publishing house, nobody wastes time pretending a hidden body is automatically a respectable body. Nobody confuses nudity with exhibitionism. No one forces erotic tension where there is none. Naturism is not treated as a curious object observed from a safe distance.
The work begins from inside the lived experience. I want naturists to feel recognized there. I want non-nudists to feel welcome there too, not as intruders, but as guests entering a place with its own calm culture.
And I want the whole house to say, very quietly but very clearly, that nudism can offer something beautiful to humanity, and humanity in all its variety can make nudism richer, wiser, and more generous in return.
Maybe that is what I am really building now. A real nudist publishing house, I call it The Nude House!
A place where essays, stories, reflections, and books are made by people who understand that when everybody is naked, nobody is naked, and what remains is character, voice, attention, atmosphere, and truth.
That is the house I want to keep building.
And yes, in my mind, the windows are open, the books are everywhere, the coffee is hot, the bodies are ordinary, and the work is serious.
That sounds like a very good house to me and I hope it will to you too!
If this house feels like a naturist world you want to enter more deeply, the next doorway is the paid fiction room on Substack.
