RSS

Tag Archives: erotica

I Urgently Want, Desperately Need, Hungrily Desire That My Effort To Learn How To Write Erotica Ends Happily

As authors, we all eventually come to that dreaded moment when we realize:

Crap, I have to write a love scene.

There are many reasons we might come to this horrible conclusion:

  • The characters’ star-crossed story arcs have become entangled and we must do the deed to keep them on course
  • We’ve written twenty pages about how to pick a lock, and aside from the reader now needing a little something to spice up the narrative, the whole key-in-the-lock metaphor is begging for some fumbling, first time exploration
  • Our chosen genre is erotica

Fortunately for the general public, erotica is not my chosen genre. If I ever attempt to write such a yarn, I’m sure blue-helmeted UN soldiers will come for me on black helicopters and arrest me for violating the Geneva Convention on Torture.

That said, I can see some love scenes in my literary future.

No amount of drinking or shock therapy has been able to disabuse me of this notion.

To be fair, I have no place to go but up with regards to this writing front. Take, for example, one of my very early attempts to get the reader’s motor running:

No, I'm not happy to see you. I'm just raising my hand because I know the answer to the math problem on the board.

Bonus points for penmanship, right?

His finger became erect as she sauntered to him and stopped at his table to say, “What the hell is going on with your hand?”

Yes, terrible, but I wrote it in 3rd grade, before I had a proper understanding of the mechanics of love-making. I’d heard something about the distance between a man’s thumb and forefinger being an important indicator about size or some-such, and drew my own conclusions.

As did my 3rd grade teacher. That was a very long year of parent-teacher conferences and sessions with the school psychiatrist. The loss of control and power I experienced that year left me feeling completely impotent.

I do feel compelled to point out that while the writing may have fallen terribly short, my youthful scrawl on brown butcher paper imbued the passage with a level of charm that, had it been printed in a book, would be sorely lacking.

It is this inherent charm that led me to originally published my first book, Marlowe and the Spacewoman, on bound butcher paper.

The first twenty pages were written in a childlike scrawl, but after that my hand cramped and I lost the will to continue. I figured twenty pages of charm ought to be enough to hook the reader, and the rest was printed.

I learned, after the fallout from 3rd grade, to hide my future attempts at erotic writing, something which added a sense of naughtiness to the words and magnified the wrongness of them tenfold. This continued well into my thirties, much to the reading world’s benefit.

I also went to great lengths to develop a rock hard understanding of sex, how it works, who does it, where the erogenous zones are, things like that.

The missus is shaking her head now. She doesn’t think I can hear, but she’s muttering, “All that research, and nothing to show for it.”

Presumably she’s talking about my written love scenes. I concede the point.

But the downside to this research is that my subsequent efforts at conveying intimate encounters read more like a Catholic nun-authored, 5th grade Personal Growth textbook describing how sex worked.

A 5th grade Personal Growth textbook translated into English from the original Esperanto. By someone who doesn’t speak Esperanto.

Or English.

His member became erect as his increased heart rate due to arousal raised his blood pressure, flushing his face bright red and engorging his sexual unit to the point of rigidity required for successful penetration of the female body in that special place (not her bum!). At the same time, his capability for critical thinking diminished due to a reduction of blood reaching his brain.

Had his critical thinking skills not been diminished, he might have paused to consider his soon-to-be lover’s large hands and prominent Adam’s apple.

Shh,” he whispered brusquely, pressing a finger against her lips. “No need to tell me. I’ve taken 5th grade Personal Growth. I know where this,” and he gestured down to his ‘eleventh finger’, “goes.”

Dry and mechanical, yes, but a huge improvement over my 3rd grade effort, no?

And to think, I was only 33 when I wrote that.

I figure by the time I reach 50, I’ll have overcome the one remaining issue I have with writing erotica: my extreme discomfort with using certain terms referring to a person’s sexy-fun bits.

You do not want to know what I call breasts, or that elusive, possibly mythical button-thingy women allegedly have that makes sex feel nice for them.

Ultimately, my problem right now is not how to write the love scenes I know are coming, but to write my characters’ story arcs in such a way as to put off that moment as long as humanly possible.

My characters lead very frustrating lives.

But not to worry. I have no doubt that eventually, my beloved paper friends will get their happy ending.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!
 
My (completely free of intimate encounters) books are available!

Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on 10 October 2012 in Angst, Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Reruns, Or Why Society Is Doomed If We Don’t Stop Them At The Source

The following is an encore presentation of a previously published blog post.

When your friends can only be found in syndication, you really need help

Funny, they don’t look like the sort of people to be undermining Civilization as we know it.

I hate reruns.

Can’t stand them.

With most television programs, it’s hard enough to sit through them the first time, let alone endure them again, usually in no particular order, for several months before finding out how that cliffhanger ending is resolved.

To add insult to injury, the commercials aren’t reruns at this point – they’re all new. And yet still just as annoying as their predecessors.

Screw you, television.

I find it strange, though, that this disdain for seeing the same material is largely limited to television.

Books, for the most part, are exempt from this phenomena.

I have books I love to re-read. I’ve even gone out of my way to buy rare editions of some books, which I tuck away in a safe location, along with ‘throw away’ copies that I use for actual reading purposes.

So clearly I am not suffering from some inherent inability to enjoy being immersed in the same material multiple times.

This suggests the problem lies elsewhere.

So what is it about TV that makes me hate reruns?

Or is that the right question? Maybe I should be asking a different question.

What is it about books that make me love them enough to read them again?

And again? And again? And again?

I suspect the two questions together provide the answer. The explanation lies in the mediums themselves.

The short answer is that TV is crap and books aren’t.

But that’s not the complete answer. Oh, to be sure, there is a lot of crap television out there. Mostly reality TV, but not limited solely to that genre.

And there are definitely horrible books out there, books that should never have been published, books that, by their very existence on shelves at the bookstore (or on Amazon), and by the number of people who have read them and recommended them, make me wonder what I’m doing wrong with my own books, which by any empirical examination are just as good as, if not better, than these popular abominations.

I offer, as examples, anything written by Stephenie Meyer and that fanfic Frankenstein of a book, 50 Shades of Grey.

And therein lies the true answer.

People.

People are why I don’t like reruns.

More specifically, idiots. The lazy people who glom onto a popular trend and crank something out to mesh with it so quickly they don’t have time to give the concept depth or heart. People who use the shortcuts of previously established characters, stereotypes, or a glamorized version of themselves to build a plot around.

Television seems more prone to this for some reason. Perhaps because of the commercial interests that fund the programs, forces that, in the interests of making as much money as possible in as short a time as possible, quash the writer’s creative control.

Because what writer, for television or books, who truly loves his or her characters, wants to have short, interchangeable story arcs for those characters? But to do otherwise is anathema to the network execs who want one-off episodes that can be run in any order once they reach syndication.

The profit-centric nature of television dooms most programs to be nothing more than flash-in-the-pan, wham-bam-thank-you-viewing-public short-term investments.

This is not to say that books don’t have commercial interests influencing them as well. The ‘gatekeepers,’ as they are sometimes called, who review potential books for both quality and salability.

That’s right, quality and salability. Some quality books don’t get picked up, or have a hard time finding an agent or publisher, because they aren’t considered commercially viable.

So yes, money does have influence when it comes to books.

But writing a book is an intensely personally endeavor, and in general, is done before the author seeks the approval of an agent or publisher. If the writer is good, the quality is there before the bean counters can step in and pervert the author’s vision in order to maximize profits.

Yes, editors will make suggestions and point out problems to fix. Yes, authors need editors to see the issues the writer is too close to perceive. But once your work has made it to the attention of a publishing house’s editor, it has already run the gauntlet, has pretty much passed the point of heavy interference by corporate accountants, and been found worthy enough in its current state to move forward.

Television writing can be like that, but rarely is. Because while books certainly aren’t cheap to make, television shows are profoundly expensive to produce in comparison. So all the stakeholders, including the bankrollers, insist on having a seat at the table.

This is an important distinction, in case you didn’t catch it:

Books are written.

Television shows are produced.

Which is a shame, because I think that leads to a lot of bland television programming designed not to offend or make viewers think too hard so they’ll have more mass appeal.

That’s not something you can say about books. At least, not yet.

The day all books are ‘produced’ is the day civilization as we know it, a culture striving to expand our wisdom and better ourselves, is over.

But perhaps that’s the direction we’re headed?

Up until now, if someone bought a book, they bought it for the intellectual exercise of reading it. They bought it to be challenged, enthralled, exposed to something new, to think about what they’ve just been exposed to.

That’s the noble nature of books.

Except erotica; most of that is written to get the reader off. While I won’t pass judgment on that final goal, I will say it is definitely, if the direction and flow of blood is taken into account, not intended to make the reader think.

But if people stop buying books for these noble reasons, if they just want the trendy titles on their coffee table so they fit in, or they’re hoping the visible spine of some profound novel on their bookshelf will seal the deal with that intellectual Liberal Arts major they brought home, then we’re already well down the path of produced books.

In which case, people are better off watching television.

Or reading erotica. At least erotica, if well-written, offers the promise of a happy ending.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!
 
My books are now available!
 
Marlowe and the Spacewoman:
 

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
2 Comments

Posted by on 6 June 2012 in Fanfic, Other Blogs, Reading

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sing, O Muse, of the mowing of Ian’s lawn

I hate mowing my lawn.

I own three lawnmowers. I got them for free. I hate all three.

The first is a push mower, which  initially seemed like a great idea because using it meant that not only would I be mowing my lawn, but I’d be getting some exercise too. Try using a push mower in 100° weather and you’ll realize what a stupid idea that is.

The second is a gas-powered mower, and the only thing it really has going for it was that it was free. I  got it from my parents when they dumped it for a new mower. This should have been a clue. Nearly dislocating my shoulder every single time I try to pull start it should also have been a clue. But as my wife will attest, I’m not always that bright.

The third is an electric mower (I’ve hit the trifecta of energy use with these three mowers – all I need now to complete the set is a wind-powered mower). It works okay, except my extension cord (all 100 feet of it), after a few uses with the mower, is a twisted mass of insulated braided copper wire that rivals the famous Gordian knot.

(It’s also not nearly as easy to cut.  Except when I run over it with the mower. Which I have done. More than once.)

If I were to make a horror movie involving a lawnmower, the lawnmower would be one of the victims, not the weapon.

For some reason, the way lawn maintenance works is that during the winter you don’t have to water it because of the constant rain, and you can’t mow it because of the constant rain. This is great. I can look at the lawn, the blades now approaching 3 feet in height, and say “I really need to mow the lawn, but I can’t because it’s raining.”

This is all fine and dandy until summer hits. Now it isn’t raining, I have to pay for the water to keep the lawn alive, the average temperature is in the mid-90s, the average cloud cover is zero, and I really, really, it’s-so-tall-the-neighbors-can-see-it-over-the-fence, need to mow it.

Have you ever tried to mow a wall of lawn?  Not fun doesn’t begin to describe the experience. It is not quick. It is not refreshing. If Odysseus’s journey home from Troy had consisted of mowing my back lawn, he would never have seen Penelope or Telemachus again. The effort required is that epic.

And once you finally manage to slash back that lawn to a reasonable height, you’re in for another surprise. Your lawn looks like crap.

Why is this? Because grass is Machiavellian.

You see, during the winter, when you’re letting your lawn grow unchecked, the blades of grass are choosing sides.  There’s intrigue, political jockeying, negotiation, and, of course, ruthless, cold-hearted backstabbing.  Which means that some of the sides are going to lose.

The winning grass, which grows in tight clumps, grows tall and blocks out all the light, killing the  neighboring grass that chose poorly. You can’t tell that this has happened when the grass is three feet tall and fanned out. But once you’ve slashed and burned the overgrown jungle in your backyard, you will be dismayed to discover that you have small islands of  bamboo-like green stalks surrounded by channels of dirt and brown dead grass.

So over the course of several days, sweating under the hot summer sun, my exposed skin turning bright red, I will drive back the overgrown green horde, only to be rewarded  when I am finished with a wasteland.

This is why I hate mowing the lawn.  No, that isn’t true. I don’t just hate mowing my lawn.  I hate my whole damn lawn. Every last freaking blade of it.

And don’t get me started on taking out the garbage.

 
8 Comments

Posted by on 7 July 2011 in Conspiracies Out To Get Me, Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: