Tuesday, March 15, 2011
:: teaser tuesday - Willa Arch and the King Errant ::
There are very few people I hate in this world but when it comes to Imperials and Spaniards I make an exception. -- Willa Arch and the King Errant
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
:: it's personal ::
Most of the time writing erotica is fun. I get to daydream about attractive and appealing characters who fall in love or fall in lust, then have hot sex. What's not to love?
But writing about sex, even when writing about a character – someone outside myself – who is doing things and saying things I wouldn't or couldn't, is very intimate. Maybe it's because sex itself is such an intimate act. Maybe it's because in order to make a scene work I have to put myself in the characters place, even if only for a few minutes.
That's when writing erotica becomes less fun.
That little voice in the back of my head starts muttering how someone I know will read this and even if strangers read it they'll judge me and think I'm a whore or a tramp or repressed and projecting unnatural appetites into the fictional world as some means of achieving vicarious satisfaction for an unhappy sex life in the real world.
It whispers that I don't have the experience to write about this kind of thing.
It tells me I'm vanilla.
It tells me I'm perverse.
It tells me I suck.
It's difficult to separate what I write from myself, sometimes. Because no matter how different my characters are from me, no matter how far removed their world is from mine, if I'm writing their story well there are a few seconds where I feel what they feel as if it is me. That's scary. That's what makes it difficult to ignore the voice that wants me to censor what I write.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I cut things out or change the way a character acts or what they want because it quiets that prude sitting in the back of my head judging every word I write.
Then, my writing suffers.
The only way to write anything – erotica, horror, fantasy, chick-lit, mystery, whatever – is to do it honestly. Even when it is uncomfortable. Even when it is personal.
Otherwise it's just words.
But writing about sex, even when writing about a character – someone outside myself – who is doing things and saying things I wouldn't or couldn't, is very intimate. Maybe it's because sex itself is such an intimate act. Maybe it's because in order to make a scene work I have to put myself in the characters place, even if only for a few minutes.
That's when writing erotica becomes less fun.
That little voice in the back of my head starts muttering how someone I know will read this and even if strangers read it they'll judge me and think I'm a whore or a tramp or repressed and projecting unnatural appetites into the fictional world as some means of achieving vicarious satisfaction for an unhappy sex life in the real world.
It whispers that I don't have the experience to write about this kind of thing.
It tells me I'm vanilla.
It tells me I'm perverse.
It tells me I suck.
It's difficult to separate what I write from myself, sometimes. Because no matter how different my characters are from me, no matter how far removed their world is from mine, if I'm writing their story well there are a few seconds where I feel what they feel as if it is me. That's scary. That's what makes it difficult to ignore the voice that wants me to censor what I write.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I cut things out or change the way a character acts or what they want because it quiets that prude sitting in the back of my head judging every word I write.
Then, my writing suffers.
The only way to write anything – erotica, horror, fantasy, chick-lit, mystery, whatever – is to do it honestly. Even when it is uncomfortable. Even when it is personal.
Otherwise it's just words.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
:: teaser tuesday - The Cupid Booth ::
“I don't want your money.” She sounded cross.
“But on the air-ship...” Ellery paused, considering the wisdom of bringing up her occupation.
“Yes. I'm a thief. But I steal because I'm good at it, not because I'm desperate.”
“The fact remains that I owe you my life. At least twice over.” He straightened as best he could without dislodging them both from the horse. “I am a man who stands by his debts and I would pay you back for all that you have done for me. With money. Or goods. Or whatever you ask.”
Jo shifted, looking over her shoulder at him. “Whatever I ask.”
“Well, whatever you ask that I am capable of granting.”
“If I were to ask you to kiss me...”
“That would be inappropriate.”
“Why?”
“We are barely less than strangers. And it would be ungentlemanly of me to take advantage of our situation in that fashion.”
“Ungentlemanly.” She chuckled. “I guess we'll just have to leave it, then, 'cause I don't want your money.”
They rode in silence for a moment or two. Ellery wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His heart was hammering fast in his chest and his palms were suddenly clammy. He had to admit the thought of kissing Jo was enticing.
“Is that what you wanted? To ask me for a... kiss?” His voice cracked on the word and he cleared his throat as though he had gotten a wuft of dust in his face.
Jo shrugged. “Actually, I was thinking of things far more intimate.”
“But on the air-ship...” Ellery paused, considering the wisdom of bringing up her occupation.
“Yes. I'm a thief. But I steal because I'm good at it, not because I'm desperate.”
“The fact remains that I owe you my life. At least twice over.” He straightened as best he could without dislodging them both from the horse. “I am a man who stands by his debts and I would pay you back for all that you have done for me. With money. Or goods. Or whatever you ask.”
Jo shifted, looking over her shoulder at him. “Whatever I ask.”
“Well, whatever you ask that I am capable of granting.”
“If I were to ask you to kiss me...”
“That would be inappropriate.”
“Why?”
“We are barely less than strangers. And it would be ungentlemanly of me to take advantage of our situation in that fashion.”
“Ungentlemanly.” She chuckled. “I guess we'll just have to leave it, then, 'cause I don't want your money.”
They rode in silence for a moment or two. Ellery wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His heart was hammering fast in his chest and his palms were suddenly clammy. He had to admit the thought of kissing Jo was enticing.
“Is that what you wanted? To ask me for a... kiss?” His voice cracked on the word and he cleared his throat as though he had gotten a wuft of dust in his face.
Jo shrugged. “Actually, I was thinking of things far more intimate.”
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