Category: Writing (page 2 of 3)

Essays and thoughts on writing and words.

Fiction as a Mirror, or Why I Won’t Write Responsibly

Sepia toned photograph of woman reflected in 3 way mirror.

Vanessa in the Mirror by Marc Lagrange

Last week, my friend and colleague, Tamsin Flowers, wrote a post on a topic she has explored eloquently from several angles – that of condom use, disclaimers and censorship in erotica. The debate over whether or not erotica writers have a responsibility to portray sex as safe, protected and clearly consensual has surfaced several times in recent months, so much so that Rachel Kramer Bussel wrote a piece on it for Salon. I’ve watched the discussion with a great deal of interest, but I haven’t weighed in because my feelings, as both a reader and and writer, were already represented, not just by Tamsin, but by Remittance Girl, who touched on a different angle in one of her posts on the same topic.

While I can see why people might feel that eroticists have a responsibility to edify through fiction, I’m afraid that I can’t and won’t sign on for that duty. Granted, there is no reason why an author shouldn’t use fiction to educate. To that end, I highly recommend checking out Ella Dawson’s explanation for why her characters care about safe sex. While it may not concern every reader, she makes a compelling argument for why it’s critical to her fiction.

And that’s what it comes down to – what is critical in your fiction. People write erotica for any number of different reasons. Some write to explore and promote sex in a way that educates. This is commendable as far as authorial purposes go, so long as the author doesn’t sacrifice the story for the message, in which case nonfiction would probably be a better genre for the subject.

On the other side of the spectrum, there are writers feel passionate about telling a good, sexy story that pulls the reader into a fantasy. This end goal is equally worthy of respect. For these writers, it’s about placing the emphasis on the story itself. Would the characters have unprotected sex? Cheat? Behave badly? Is lying, cheating or manipulation integral to the plot? If the answer is yes, then that’s where the writer should be free to let the story go. To crow bar in a disclaimer or censor that work for not promoting safe sex is as inappropriate as condemning a writer who writes murder mysteries for glamorizing death. We all write to a different purpose and should be free to do so.

Reading Tamsin’s post last week made me think about my purpose in writing erotica. It isn’t to educate, nor is it purely to entertain, though I do enjoy weaving fantasies. Ultimately, I write to explore and reflect experiences. I like digging beneath a constructed, social surface to get at an emotional reality, which is why I personally will not bend to the pressure to write sex “responsibly”.

The reality is that people do not always behave responsibly. If they did, they wouldn’t be human, and for a misanthropic introvert, I’m very interested in humans. Life is full of complication and conflict. From a narrative perspective, conflict drives plot, as Tamsin said, but it also drives human experience. Disappointment, anger, heartbreak, love, misunderstanding…they form a sort of experiential common ground. Our emotions reflect the spaces we occupy in any given situation. They are the lens through which we perceive ourselves, each other and our relationships. They determine dynamics, and in doing so, they affect our behavior.

For example, if you show me respect, love and kindness, I will naturally be compelled to engage you similarly. If you treat me with indifference, I will likely remain indifferent. If you treat me poorly, I will struggle to not reciprocate an eye for an eye, but I’ll be honest – it’ll be hard.

Most of us are wired to reflect the manner in which we are treated. For me, that reflective quality extends into my fiction – a lot of my fiction exists to reflect and explore an emotional reality. It’s that emotional reality, rooted in a character that is as human as I can possibly make her, that drives the story.

I’m a curious person and, like I said, I’m interested in people. I grew up feeling far more comfortable observing than participating. I like trying to understand why people do what they do. It’s why everything I write is essentially character driven, even if the character has no name. I write to understand and reflect an individual reality and, if I’m lucky, make it resonate for people who have never experienced it. If I happen to entertain or educate along the way, that’s great, but that isn’t why I write.

Let me bring it back to condom usage. I’ve written characters who fucked impulsively without protection. I’ve also written characters who consciously chose not to use protection. In both cases, the skin on skin contact was a profoundly affecting, whether the effect was destabilizing or meaningfully intimate depended on the characters and their contexts. If I’d forced condom usage into either of these stories, they would have ceased to exist. While I’m more interested in people taking emotional risks rather than physical ones, sometimes sex that is unapologetically unprotected is an effective way to reflect a character’s emotional experience.

Fiction doesn’t need to reflect anything – it can get you off, help you escape, support you through troubles or teach you about life, love and sex. But it can also reflect the human condition in all its individual, specific forms. It can explore the cause and effects that drive our lives and form our emotional realities. For me, that’s what fiction does and worrying about writing “responsibly” would mean that I couldn’t do that at all. Not until we, as humans, behave responsibly in all things. As safe and ideal as that sounds, I can’t help but think what a sanitized, muted experience that would be.

#DraftingIsHell

Last week, I tweeted this:

Screen Shot 2015-03-06 at 4.40.15 PM

I know a lot of writers love drafting – the excitement, the exploration, the sheer creativity of it. I don’t. I hate drafting. In fact, writing first drafts is something I do because I need something to revise and edit. It doesn’t even matter than I outlined this book before I began to draft (for better or worse, I’m a planner). I’m just not happy until I have a mess to clean up.

My comfort is in brevity – flash fiction, short stories, articles and essays. As a writer, I like tight arcs and tiny details. I like snapshots in time, and little human moments that betray universal truths. I’m not good at being thrilling or even entertaining. I have no confidence in my ability to hold a reader’s attention past 5,000 words, which makes longer form fiction territory I need to explore. I have five novels simmering on the back burner, all unrelated, some erotic, some not. Every one of them is a demon I need to address, because I’m tired of being cowed by a word count.

But let’s go back to that whole, I hate drafting thing. This novel that I’m working on, tentatively called The Briary, is the simplest of the bunch, or so I thought. It was meant to be a fun, erotic romp through a Victorian manor house, but it’s turned out to be something else. The problem is that I’m not sure what the something else is, and that uncertainty froze me up.

The wise thing to do would be to keep drafting and not worry about it. Explore. See what happens. But I’m a control freak and that’s easier said than done. Drafting is difficult for me, regardless of length – 500 or 50k, it doesn’t matter. I don’t like finding out how a story ends. I like knowing so I can  figure out how deep it goes.

Pygmalian and Galatea by Jean-Leon Gerome ca. 1890. Image courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Pygmalian and Galatea by Jean-Leon Gerome ca. 1890. Image courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art

When I was an undergraduate, I took a handful of courses in the classics, and read a lot of Aristotle along the way. In addition to the Poetics, which I think every writer should read if only to understand the foundations of narrative structure, the thing that has most affected my writing was his philosophy of causality and the example commonly used illustrate it – that of a sculptor working in bronze or marble.

Around that same time, I spent many afternoons at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, journaling in the sculpture garden, so this notion of the creative  process being a tangible series of causes and effects wove itself into my subconscious and became fundamental to the way I work. Here are the Four Causes applied to my writing process:

1. Material Cause: Out of what has a thing come?

What’s the germ of the idea? In the case of The Briary, I had originally thought it was just my love of Victorian literature and threesomes (because threesomes are great), but once I began digging into it, I realized that the foundation of this book is a relationship I once had, and my need to work through unfinished business.

2. Formal Cause: What is it?

Could I tell this story, this germ of an idea, as a short? A novella? Fuck me, no. It has to be a novel. Time to get over that fear of running the writing marathon then.

3. Efficient Cause: Who makes it? Who causes the change?

The writer. The artist. The sculptor. As applied to any art, it’s the creator who molds the idea into its proper form. Sculptors have a block of stone to start with, but writers have to create the material they are going to change. Which means drafting. A lot. Fuck me, again.

4. Final Cause: Why? To What purpose?

Why do you create what you create? For writers, this is authorial intent, which is usually a form of communication – the subconscious dialogue between you and whoever receives your work. Do you want to make people think? Feel? Do you want to turn them on? The answer is unique to the writer and the story, but for most writers (though there are exceptions) the writing is, at least in part, done in service to the affect she hopes her work will have.

The Final Cause is what I love most about writing. It’s what drives me happily through multiple edits, because that’s where I uncover what the story wants to say. Many writers are able to find this in drafting, but for some reason I’m not. For some reason, my process is to coax the story open later, once it’s no longer a figurative block of stone.

This is where the sculpting metaphor comes in handy. I can’t sculpt the story out of nothing, so I need an idea, a foundation and a ton of material – what I call narrative clay, for lack of a better word. Writing the initial draft is where the clay comes from. For me, it’s lumpy, messy, chaotic, and yes, full of promise, but also in desperate need of refinement. I get impatient to dig in – I want to find the form hidden inside the lump.

Once I have that great lump of clay, I slough off the mess and slowly uncover the story underneath. This is where I feel like a writer, (whatever that means). This is where I hit my dreamy, natural stride, chiseling away like an archeologist on 12 square inches of Roman wall. Once I can see the thing for what it is, I edit for style, which is totally satisfying in a different way. And when I’m finally done, I have the final cause  – a finished story that will hopefully connect with its reader.

This novel, The Briary, got off to a difficult start. I began it last year, but put it aside several times because of deadlines, work and other obligations. In that time, it became a bogeyman, the symbol of a marathon I didn’t feel I could run. But I am running it now, very slowly, chapter by chapter (because I’m a sprinter so I have to trick myself 5k at a time).

I’m about a third of the way in now and beginning to hit my stride. I still don’t know what this book is going to be, but I need to learn to suck that up like I do with shorter works. I’ll uncover it revisions. Right now, I have to focus on making the clay.

The Semantics of Sex

A few weeks ago, Jade A. Waters and I went to see Fifty Shades of Grey. Afterwards, we recorded a review in which we discussed the movie as objectively as we could. We had a lot of fun, but something kept tugging at my coat, despite the fact that we made a point to cover it. It was this line:

“I don’t make love. I fuck…hard.”

When I hear that line in the theater, I cackled for a couple of reasons. The first was pretty obvious – Jamie Dornan delivered it like a 6 year old trying to be his dad, which was especially funny given the hard-ass, bad-boy sentiment behind it.

The other reason required introspection because I was laughing at myself. The truth is that I actually do feel more comfortable referring to sex as “fucking” rather than “making love.” In fact, I once jokingly said, “I don’t make love. I fuck” (years before Christian Grey, thanks) to a friend whose idea of dirty talk involved words like “reverent” and “darling.”

MakeLoveDrunk_YourCardIt seems pretty widely acknowledged that, as a society, we reflexively make a distinction – making love is one thing, while fucking is another, even though they are, mechanically speaking, the same act. Why would I feel more comfortable with the more commonly pejorative, less openly sentimental of the two?

I’m not entirely sure. On the surface, making love implies particular things to me—pink lighting, chocolates and maybe a feather drifting over someone’s skin. Is this an objectively accurate association to have? Not really. Making love can look like the roughest combative sex if that’s what making love looks like to the people involved. Intellectually speaking, I know that making love implies a connection to your partner that I am wholeheartedly a fan of. I’m just a fan of it under the label of fucking. The label is the sticking point for me, not the connection.

On the surface, it has something do to with that rosy picture “making love” conjures. (I’m not really a feathers and chocolates kind of girl). But beneath that, there is a certain vulnerability implied by the phrase that is absent in the word fucking, and I’m afraid that vulnerability makes me instinctively edgy. I’ve already written several pieces on vulnerability, but it was only when I started considering the semantics of how we talk about sex that I realized how deep my discomfort with vulnerability runs.

In many ways, the things that make me feel vulnerable (as well as strong, ironically) – my emotions, my needs and my history – are associated, in my head, with my femininity. While “fuck” is a very versatile word – you can fuck romantically, or mechanically or lovingly or intensely— “making love” comes with it’s own attendant context, one associated with a feminine softness, and while I embrace my femininity, there are certain things that make me, personally, uncomfortable because they are laced so tightly in with lessons, both good and bad, that I’ve learned. Being open, needy or sentimental are high on this list, not because I don’t feel these things, but because I feel (or have felt) them to a massive degree at some point or other. My discomfort is a kind protective measure – one that makes me outwardly appear to be, as my brother once said, “kind of a dude,” while inwardly being all of those associatively feminine things.

There is nothing wrong with the softness I associate with “making love.” There is nothing wrong with sweetness and reverence and, to a limited degree, there is nothing wrong with neediness. I just have baggage that accompanies the rosy-tinted image conjured by that phrase, which means that, even if I spend the week-end having the sort of sex that most people would call “making love”, I will almost invariably think of it as fucking – just fucking in a connected, loving way.

The contextual limitations I perceive in the term “making love” got me thinking about semantics, (and who doesn’t love semantics?) Why is it that we do have two different phrases with such vastly different connotations to describe one act? Why is it that in mainstream media, making love is something that women say, while fucking is something men do?

It’s a matter of what’s operating beneath the implied meanings of each phrase. The words I prefer – cunt, cock, fuck – have a hard, unapologetic sound, very much at odds with the euphemisms of my youth. People didn’t have sex when I was growing up. They “made love” – but only when they “cared for each other very much.”

As I grew older, “making love” became the phrase used by the heroines in romance novels – a bold alternative to “take me” or “make me yours.” Somewhere along the line, I began to associate “making love” with an apology. Pleasure wasn’t enough—sex was wrong, unless you make love. Making love was sanctioned by the good people of the world, whereas fucking…not so much.

Fucking was what dockworkers and whores did. There is no apology in the word fuck, just ownership – of your actions, your body, your needs and your pleasure. I wanted that ownership so badly; seeing no other way to claim it, I appropriated the word “fuck” and renamed sex for myself.

That’s why, in the end, “making love” embarrasses me in a way that “fucking” doesn’t—because sex used to be an embarrassing thing, all the more so because I wanted it so badly…or maybe it was the wanting that embarrassed me. Either way, there is nothing embarrassing about fucking. I can look at fucking straight on and want it in any number of ways. Fucking is an expression of my ability to own, without apology, myself and my desires.

I know that my shrinking from poetic language and softer words could easily imply a preference for colder, less emotional sex, but if anything, the opposite is true. There is almost no sex I prefer more than the kind of intensely connected, emotionally charged sex that happens when you’re with someone you’re truly connected to. I just prefer to use language that allows me to own that act and my sexuality, even when I’m at my softest and most vulnerable.

This thing is that the relationship I have to this lexical phenomena is extremely specific to me. My semantic understanding of these words is wholly informed by my youth, upbringing, experiences and slow, haphazard growth as a person. It’s informed by the fact that, for many years, I did not have my own vocabulary with which to talk about sex. That’s why, despite the fact that I do make love, I will always say that I fuck instead – unless I give the word a wry, winking twist, like Lauren Bacall, because when Lauren Bacall said, “make love,” the quirk in her mouth said something else entirely. But I digress..

Because my point of view is so particular to me, I’m curious about how it is for other people. Is there a difference for you? If so, what is it? Does gender or gender identity have anything to do with it for you? Does being kinky or mainstream or vanilla or straight or gay or bi affect what you call, or how you think about, sex? Is another phrase more powerful for you than either “fuck” or “make love”?

These are personal questions, I know, but if you feel so inclined, please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know.

Pillow Talk Secrets: All About the Dirty Deeds

PIllow Talk Logo - girl with black hair on pillow making red pouted kissy faceWelcome, once again, to another edition of Pillow Talk Secrets. This time around, Jade guides us through a chat about pairings, positions and preferences. We’re dishing some dirt, so feel free to join us on the Pillow Talk blog, or reading down to the bottom of the excerpt and clicking through at the jump. Either way, we hope you enjoy! xx.M

Pillow Talk Secrets

Jade: Hello, ladies! How are you both today?

Malin: I’m doing really well, thanks! How are you, Jade? Tamsin?

Tamsin: Very well, thank you.

J: I’m so glad to hear you’re both well. I’m very excited for our session today, and I suspect there’s some real dirtiness ahead. 😉 Shall we get to it?

M: Sounds good!

T: Fire away, Jade.

J: All right then. Today, we’re talking about favorite pairings and acts to write in erotica. Hot! Let’s kick off with pairings: one-on-one, threesomes, different gender combos, etc…any particular preferences?

M: Well, I’ve always loved writing m/m/f threesomes—my WIP is about how one develops longer term, (among other things). That said, I just wrote my first m/m last fall and kind of loved that too.

T: Yeah, I enjoy the old m/m/f—my novel Her Boss & His Client was about one—and that was so much fun to write. Double penetration and the rest! 😉

J: Right! You know, I haven’t written a ton of threesomes myself, but I did love penning the few I tried. So far I’ve only run with m/m/f. Have either of you given f/f/m a whirl, and if so, what do you feel are the differences in actually writing them (besides the obvious, of course)?

M: I wrote an f/f/m very early on—the story is awful, though the pairing was fun. I think the biggest difference, (for me), is that with m/m/f I feel free to just go to town, whereas with f/f/m, I’m very conscious of the fact that the f/f portion can accidentally come off as a bit performative, (as in “bi for his benefit”). While there’s nothing wrong with that in print or in life, there are other aspects of that dynamic I want to explore more.

J: That’s a really good point, Malin. That performative piece is so ingrained as a societal fantasy, it’s something to be mindful of.

M: It’s true…that said, I’ve read a lot of stories that dig into powerful, sexy stuff with f/f/m’s. There are a lot of different power dynamics to play with—same with m/m/f.

T: One thing about writing anything with three people involved is the need to be a little more specific about whose body part is whose—you can’t just say “his cock” if it could be Tom’s cock or Dick’s cock. And you need to be really clear for the reader on the logistics—it can certainly get confusing when there are six hands, six arms and legs, and multiple genitalia!

The kissJ: And that’s the same for more than three, too—I wrote a fourway orgy (in space, no less). It was three men and a woman. Mind your pronouns was the name of the game!

M: Absolutely—pronouns and body parts get really interesting when there are more than two people to manage. Same with action—it’s easy to accidentally focus on two of the characters and leave the third (or fourth) in some sort of sexy holding pattern. It’s like juggling balls (ha). You’ve got to keep all of them in the air.

T: Smart analogy!

J: Yes. Body part circus! 🙂 It’s something we have to pay attention to no matter what, but it’s certainly heightened in the three-four-five-(whoa wouldn’t that be fun?)-ways. So, while all the pairings are lovely, it’s clear we tend to gravitate to one-on-one for the majority of our writing. Let’s focus on specific acts in couple erotica then, no matter what the gender pairing. Shall we start at the beginning? They meet, they make eyes, and then…there’s the kiss! What are your thoughts on writing the kiss?

If you’d like the answer to that question, (and so many more), click HERE.

Traveling Books & Coming Together: Among the Stars

Among-the-StarsWhen you get right down to it, I’m kind of a geek. The Use of Weapons by Iain M. Banks is one of my favorite books and I fell permanently in love with Han Solo the second he shot Greedo (first, goddamnit). Sci-fi is a cozy place for me, which is why I was so happy to be included in Among the Stars, an anthology of erotic science fiction for Coming Together, and edited by the most excellent Lynn Townsend.

The other reason I’m so glad to have a story in there is because the proceeds from this anthology go to charity, as is the case with all titles published by Coming Together; in the case of Among the Stars, it’s the International Still’s Disease Foundation, an organization aimed at benefiting those who suffer from the debilitating effects of Still’s Disease.

Putting all of that together, I knew that I wanted to submit something to this anthology, but I didn’t know what. And then I very randomly came up with a first line:

“The last thing Lieutenant Jack Bolton expected when he took the job was that he’d end up a sex slave on a distant planet.”

Sex slave + distant planet = something I could work with.

The first line changed as the story developed, due mostly to Lt. Jack, who ended up being the answer to the age-old question of what would happen if Jason Stackhouse and Mal Reynolds had a love child raised by Han Solo, (see? There’s Han again). Far from what I’d originally intended, “The Power of Positive Thinking” was irreverent and slightly ridiculous, complete with sentient manacles, a disembodied Master and a hard-on that grows to truly troublesome proportions

Thankfully, Lynn Townsend has a great sense of humor and was kind enough to include it in the anthology along with a collection of fantastically sexy, probing (ha!) and /or hilarious stories that show how flexible sci-fi and erotica can be. Two great tastes that go great together, and all for a good cause.

Which brings me to the point of this post.

IMG_6806_monkeyTwo writers whom I’m lucky enough to call friends – Jade A. Waters and Rose Caraway – also have stories in this anthology, so when Rose suggested we team up to help promote the book and raise funds, I was completely on board.

Because all of the proceeds from Among the Stars go to charity, we want as many people as possible to pick this book up, so Rose suggested that we surprise Lynn Townsend with a signed traveling edition to drum up some visibility. This little book has made it’s way all over Northern California, getting signed and having its picture taken with each of us, (there’s mine! –>), before being sent to Ms. Townsend for the final leg of its journey.

So, if you like science fiction, sentient manacles, nictitating membranes and subjective sexualities, OR if you just like sexy stories and want to get off while giving money to a good cause, please pick up a copy of Coming Together: Among the Stars. There’s something in it for everyone…unless you prefer the Star Wars DVD release to the original, unaltered trilogy, in which case I just don’t know what to tell you.

Buy the Book!

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Amazon, UK

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Best Women’s Erotica 2015

BWE 15 There are certain brass rings that I wanted to grab when I started writing erotica. Getting a story in the Best Women’s Erotica series was, for the longest time, the biggest of those brass rings. I feel very fortunate to say that I was able to cross this goal off my list when my story, “Star Fucker,” was accepted into Best Women’s Erotica, 2015 – the last of the series that will be edited by Violet Blue.

Far more than the title though, I feel extremely lucky to have my work included in an anthology with stories by so many authors whom I both respect and admire, including Tamsin Flowers, Valerie Alexander, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Lana Fox and J.T. Louder. To see the full table of contents, pop on over to Tamsin’s blog – she has one up, in addition to an excerpt from her contribution, an f/f take on Cyrano de Bergerac called “Roxanne”.

In the meantime, I want to share a short excerpt from “Star Fucker”. It’s a lot lighter than most of the stories I’ve written recently, but damn was it fun to write, and not just because it’s about a writer, a famous actor and a mirrored elevator. It also features a character that has become one of my all time favorites – see if you can guess which it is. Hope you enjoy! xx.M

Excerpt from “Star Fucker”

“Star fucker.”

I barely look up. “Star fucker” is one of Jane’s favorite insults. It’s gotten a lot of play recently—almost as much as “useless douche.” But “star fucker” is special. If “useless douche” were a pair of granny heels, “star fucker” would be stilettos. Jane’s virtuosic scorn twists and hardens the r’s so that it sounds more like Strrrr Fuckrrrr by the time it leaves her mouth.

“Strrrrr Fuckrrrr.”

She says it again. For emphasis. Jane is good at scorn. She always has been. I think she’d shrivel up without it. She’s an agent, after all—balls and scorn have fueled her career. But then, of course, you know that. Jane is your agent. And the girl, the Strrrrr Fuckrrrr, who has been judged not once, but twice with enough scorn to kill a Borgia, is hanging off your arm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, shoving her drink at me. “Viv, I’ll be right back.”

I nod, and take a sip. I’m not really paying attention. This party isn’t how I’d have chosen to spend my last evening in town, but unless you’re into celebrities, Hollywood isn’t paradise to begin with. I’m mostly immune to celebrities. Mostly. There is one exception. But then, you know that too.

I scan the busy bar, looking for Jane. She might be 5’1, but her presence is huge. It’s only a second before I see her, bearing down on a man whose back is to the room. Her shoulders are set like a boxer’s. Our grandma would be proud. Meanwhile, her target is disentangling himself from a slinky, little blonde. The Strrr Fuckrrrr, I presume.

The blonde pouts in the parody of a come-on—hips cocked, breasts pert, no underwire needed. The man regretfully shakes his head just as Jane the Mighty arrives. Apparently delighted, the man swings her up like a rag doll until she whacks him on the arm. The blonde slinks away as he laughs and puts her down. And that’s when I see his face—your face—clearly for the first time.

Michael Spencer.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I nearly drop Jane’s drink. You are the exception to my celebrity thing. I am not immune to you.

Best Women’s Erotica, 2015 is available HERE in trade paper and ebook formats.

On Writer’s Block

For Christmas, someone gave me a book called 642 Things to Write About. It was a sweet gift and very well-meaning, but I tend to avoid books like that because, if anything, I have too many ideas to manage already. The thought of 642 more is, quite frankly, terrifying, so I set the book aside and forgot that I owned it for close to three weeks because I rarely get writer’s block. Which is when the universe decided to smirk at me.

Note: For the record, I don’t actually think the universe gives a damn about my writing. My atheistic self just can’t imply, even in passing, that a god exists to give that damn so “the universe” got the job instead.

Now, getting back to it. I’ve been ironically stymied for nearly a week. Aside from a piece of flash that wrote itself for me, I haven’t produced anything that I wanted anyone to read. I felt so blocked yesterday that I even asked Twitter for suggestions, which is something I never do. I deleted the tweet less than five minutes later because, as much as I love Twitter, I’m not going to hand it editorial control of my blog, (sorry Twitter – no offense). Before I deleted it though, I got a DM from the lovely F. Dot Leonora, asking me if I was all right. We chatted a bit and I told her how blocked I felt. She suggested I write about that.

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The zoological incarnation of my magpie metaphor

I thought about her suggestion and realized that what comprises my writer’s block is an odd little cocktail of different but related issues. The first is what I’m going to call the magpie problem – one that goes directly back to 642 Ideas to Write About.

Magpie’s love shiny things. They collect and hoard and collect some more. In my case, ideas are the shiny things and my magpie brain hoards them like winter is coming. I have a running list of post topics three pages deep, another for articles and essays, a folder stuffed with short story ideas, another with outlines for eventual collections, and that doesn’t even count the novel I’m five chapters into drafting. Eventually, there are so many ideas stored up that I get paralyzed beneath the weight of their possibility.

Usually, my focus is fairly good and I compartmentalize my shiny ideas so that the flood doesn’t distract me from the tasks at hand. But every so often, they spill and it takes my brain a day or two to sweep the ideas back into their compartments. It’s like watching glitter spill. Despite the massive mess, it’s hard not to stare at the lovely, shiny jumble because it’s beautiful and oddly thrilling to see all those little pieces scattered on the floor.

And then there’s the second issue – also related to writer’s block, but separate to the magpie problem. This is one I have to watch carefully. It’s the tendency to want perfection in every thing I do. I take great care with my prose. I try to say exactly what I mean in the most effective way possible. Very often, this means trying to tap into a universal experience – one that stretches beyond my own life and opinions to encompass a wider, more resonant truth.

I love this this kind of writing. This is the kind of writing that I’ve worked towards for years, and am still working towards now. Some of the posts and stories that I’m happiest with are pieces in which I feel like I’ve managed to come close. But not every piece requires that level of diligent crafting. Sometimes, like now, there is just something that needs to be said, and the most effective way of saying it is simply to do so. I may want every story to be brilliant; I may want every post to resonate with truth and meaning, and yet, neither is realistic – not every time. That desire is a product of my ego. When I start to hesitate and assess and think rather than write, I know it’s time to check my ego because it very likely needs to get turned down a notch.

This week, the “writer” in me quelled at that idea of simply writing – no agenda, no higher purpose, just words on the page. It was a sure sign that I was too wrapped up in my tools – metaphor, language, imagery, allusion – to properly write with  the purpose and intention I value and work to cultivate…. The anxiety this produced made my magpie mind go into overdrive looking for shiny new ideas and distractions, anything to keep me from focusing on the fact that I was getting in my own way.

It’s an uncomfortable thing. My usual impulse would be to shield those insecurities and flaws – they are nothing that I’m proud of and nothing that I particularly want to discuss. And yet…this is the idea that finally stuck. So here I am, uncomfortably coaxing my ego back down to size and quieting my magpie mind in the hopes that the next time I sit down at my desk, I will well and truly write.

Pillow Talk Secrets: Details, Details, Details

PIllow Talk Logo - girl with black hair on pillow making red pouted kissy faceIt’s time for another installment of Pillow Talk Secrets! This time around, Tamsin, Jade and I are dealing with the devil – the devil in the details, that is. How much physical / erotic detail do we prefer a story to contain, both as writers and as readers? And we’d love to know what you think. Would you rather the protagonist have “dark” hair, or do you want a fully painted picture of her “curling raven locks”? Feel free to leave a comment below or, even, better, follow the link and jump over to the Pillow Talk website to finish the conversation and let us know what you think there. Either way, I hope you enjoy! xx.M

Pillow Talk Secrets

Jade: Hello, ladies! So nice to be back together again! How are the both of you?

Malin: Hiya! I’m doing good—got my first cup of tea right here, so I’m feeling fine (though I’ll feel better after the third!).

Tamsin: Hello girls—hope you’re both well!

J: Good to see you both. I’m very excited for today’s session! Shall we dive right in?

T: Absolutely!

J: All right—today is all about the dirty deets. As in, how much specific physical detail do we like to read and write in our erotica? It’s a pretty broad topic. Any initial thoughts?

T: Just to explain how this topic came up—I was having a chat with Malin as she’d been beta reading something for me, and I pointed out that I’d never mentioned what colour hair the protagonist had. So I asked her if that mattered.

Eye Color Detail

Her eyes were the most amazing shade of…

M: And my response was that, for me, it definitely didn’t. I actually preferred it. I’m a “less-is-more” kind of girl whether I’m writing or reading. I like selective amounts of specific detail, and then I like to let my brain, (or the reader’s), fill in the rest.

J: I get the sense this is a common feeling for the three of us—and maybe a lot of other erotica authors as well. Sometimes, too much detail can throw things off. For example, if a character is described as having enormous breasts, or a certain color hair, or a freckle on the forearm… that paints a very specific image.

T: I find there’s nothing worse when I’m reading a story if the action breaks off for a whole paragraph of physical description, like the writer’s going down a checklist of hair, eyes, height and so on…

M: Absolutely. It feels manufactured. You basically want your reader to identify with the characters—if you lay in a ton of generic detail (large breasts, curly hair, etc), it can make it more challenging for the reader to put herself or himself in the story.

J: I don’t want to discount some detail—I think some detail orients the reader. The key is just enough, without becoming overkill.

T: Drip feeding it is the preferred way, I think. A small, specific detail here, another there, to build up a gradual picture—not all at once.

M: It’s also important to drip feed those details (I love that, by the way) in as they become relevant. Don’t give us a dossier the moment the character walks into the room…

Click here to continue the conversation!

Let Me Know You: On Pseudonyms

partial black and white nude on bed with photograph of man looking down on her.This essay appeared nearly a year ago on my other blog before I had really conceived of having a site devoted to my erotica and sex writing. Now, that this has become my primary home online, however, I thought it might be appropriate to move some of the relevant content over here. I hope you enjoy. xx.M

I write erotica under a pseudonym. Many authors writing in this genre do. It wasn’t until recently that I considered why that might be.

When I first started writing erotica, I took a pseudonym for two reasons. The first was fairly frivolous – I thought it would be fun. The second, and far more practical reason, was that I freelance in a number of different markets and the pseudonym would allow me to keep the two halves of my writing career separate.

I suspect that, for the majority of authors, the use of a pseudonym is equally practical. Many writers have primary careers that could be negatively affected if the sexual nature of their writing were to become known. People expect their educators, therapists, and doctors to be above moral reproach. Erotica, though mainstreaming, is not yet above reproach.

What’s more, the moral / ethical concerns mentioned above can, at times, extend themselves into an author’s private life, particularly when the writer’s parents, children or partner might be negatively affected. A teen-aged boy may prefer for his friends not to know that his mom “writes porn,” and a father’s custody could be contested if his career as an eroticist were brought to light in court. As a result, it’s easier for many erotica writers to allow the nature of their work to remain selectively ambiguous.

There is a lot to say about the stigma associated with reading and writing erotica, a genre that is, for many, still negatively associated with historically pejorative terms like “porn,” “smut,” and “dirty story.” Despite the fact that these labels are being slowly reclaimed by those who read and write in areas of the genre, the stigma still remains. There is quite a lot to say about why this might still be true, but I will resist the impulse to digress and focus instead on one, specific point – that of how my pseudonym, the ubiquitous accessory of pornographers, eroticists and writers of dirty stories everywhere, has come to function for me.

Let’s start with what my pseudonym is not.

My pseudonym is not an apology for what I do. It is not a way to distance myself from what I write. I am proud of my work in this genre, and I am equally proud to be part of a community of writers that displays a level of causal curiosity and acceptance that is admirable in an openly cynical age.

Rather, my pseudonym is two things. It is an invitation and a boundary; a welcome and a wall. It provides me with an identity that can be publicly shared, while remaining separate from the life I have with my family and close friends. It gives me a persona to extend to my readers, so that I might explore sexual topics freely while still maintaining a protective distance from my everyday, mundane life.

Invitation. Wall.

Why, as a writer, would I need such a thing?

Because when you write about sex, particularly intentionally provacative, fictional sex, people react, often more viscerally than they would to material that is not sexually explicit. My pseudonym invites the reader, (or public), to engage and connect with my work, while allowing my non-public self a certain degree of anonymous privacy.

After all, there is that long-standing assumption about writers that an author’s work must be, in some way, autobiographical. In my experience, this assumption is heightened with eroticists. Our work is inherently sexual and very often kinky, edgy or taboo. We write about sexual fantasies with the express purpose of eliciting a response in the people who read them. Because of this, the perceived intimacy of autobiography, when it arises, can be particularly intense.

For most readers, this perception of intimacy is not an issue. They read a story, they enjoy the story, they move on to the next story. There is, however, a small minority of readers who crave access to the writer beyond the limits of the page. They want the personal connection they made with a story to extend to the author who wrote it.

Some time ago, a reader contacted me in a manner that can only be described as overly attached and profoundly curious. This reader had connected, romantically and sexually, to a story that I had written and published under my pseudonym. He confessed that he wished to gain deeper, truer access to the woman who had written it; he wanted to share my mind and, somewhat chillingly, my “soul.” “Let me know you,” he said. This reader, caught in the illusion of sexual intimacy that the story had created, wanted exclusive access, not to what I had written, but to me.

What’s more, this gentleman had constructed around my work and pseudonym, a persona that he desperately wanted to believe in – that of the sophisticated vixen and dominant mistress who would grant privileged access only to him. It was a fantasy that he’d spun with no input or encouragement from me, save for the story that I’d written and that he, in turn, had read. This is when my pseudonym became more than a lark or professional preference. This is when it became a wall. It gave this man something to attach to, without attaching dangerously to me. It gave me the space I needed to diplomatically end his fascination. And so, we were both able to moved on.

Interestingly, this has never happened with any of the essays, articles and reviews that I’ve written under my own name. Nonfiction has never elicited this kind of intensely personal response, though there is far more of me on display in that work than in the fantasies I spin.

Why is this? What is it about erotica and erotic fiction that has the power to inspire such an emotional, sexual and even psychological attachment? Why the need to possess?

I believe it comes down to connection. People crave connection. We want the exclusivity of understanding. To paraphrase Mary Rakow, it’s shockingly erotic to be understood. So, when a story resonates with a reader, that resonance can, at times, go beyond the page to creates the illusion of kinship, sympathy and intimate understanding. That illusion can be a very intense, indeed.

The strength, as well as the challenge, of public / private divide as regards writers and readers, is that the reader gets access only to what the writer allows. Only the writer herself knows the degree to which her mind, soul, psyche or heart appears in her work, and she is under no obligation to say. The publication of a piece can be seen as a sort of offering. It is an author’s consent to grant public access to whatever appears, both explicitly and implicitly, in her text. This does not, however, equate to full, private access to her.

When someone reads my work, I want her focus to be on the work, not the shadow of my authorial presence. I don’t want the roles I inhabit in my personal life to muddy the ink on the page. That ink represents the access that I grant. My pseudonym invites the reader to enjoy my writing, while giving him a safe avatar to attach to, if only until he moves on to the next story.

Authors want desperately to connect with readers. We want our work to be enjoyed and understood. For me, the public / private divide allows me the security and the freedom to pour words, uninhibited, onto the page and strive to make that connection. It frees me up to engage and explore and write with far more abandon and honesty than I otherwise might. My pseudonym allows me to walk the delicate line between my private and public selves. I could never have predicted the depth of my relationship to my pseudonym, my lark of a second-name, but I am profoundly grateful for it now.

Confessions and an Excerpt: Barcelona

I’m of two minds regarding confessional style erotica. The first is fairly straight-forward – Oh! Confess away you naughty thing! pretty much sums it up. The second is a bit more serious and a lot less fun. It stems from the fact that, as an ex-Catholic who still has slightly bitter memories of confessing to a faceless priest while kneeling in a small, poorly-lit box, I don’t like the whole notion of “confessing” in a non-criminal context. While totally appropriate in the cases of rape, murder and assault, I just don’t see the inherent harm in masturbating on a regular basis.

That said, my ideological proclivities and righteous opinion-holding didn’t stop me from writing a little piece of confessional erotica about a woman who sleeps with her first cousin. Ha! Take that, ideology! That story, “Barcelona”, is part of what’s shaping up to be a pretty fabulous collection – The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions, edited by Barbara Cardy, now available here in the US and here in the UK. As part of the Mammoth Book series, you know it’s.. big, (I’m not just saying that – it really is). Moreover, it’s full of really lovely confessional erotica. Take that again, ideology!

So, in honor of the release, I’m posting an excerpt here. After all, who doesn’t love a confessional literature.. Ahem..  And so, without further ado, I give you “Barcelona” –  just one of many sexy, sexy confessions about sexy, sexy sex, in sexy sexy places. I hope you enjoy! xx.M

Excerpt: “Barcelona”

9780762452286“I’ve always wanted you.”

He said this quietly, as if it were simple fact. Maybe it was. More blushing as years of suppressed attraction shot straight through my body, peaking my breasts and slicking my thighs. I was vibrating with arousal and he hadn’t even touched me.

“Eric…” I said, trying to think of something to say and coming up blank.

He stopped in front of me and, carefully, warily, as if he were afraid I might bite, lightly cupped my neck. My breath caught.

Kissss, my brain whispered.

Kissss.

We were finally going to kiss. We both knew it, and the ache of wanting it was almost too good to end. Electricity shot straight through me as he lowered his head and stopped just before meeting my lips.

“Do you remember when you all came to visit me in Barcelona,” he murmured. His mouth was whisper from mine.

“Yes,” I said.

A little thread of something nervous and giddy coiled through my belly. My hand reached up around his waist, and he shifted closer, closer but not so close that our bodies touched. Not yet.

“Do you remember that night…” he began.

“… we went out with our parents,” I finished, evoking the nearly that had carved itself so deeply on my brain. “It was hot and we’d had too much to drink and I wished they’d go away and leave us alone.”

He nodded. “You were wearing a black and red dress.”

“I know that dress,” I whispered. He was leaning closer. I could smell rosemary and lemon on his hands.

“I brushed against you so many times that night, daring myself to take your hand. I wanted to fuck you in that dress.”

My hips canted, instinctively trying to find his. When they did, I all but moaned. God, he was so hard. He pressed himself into me, fitting his cock into the hollow of my thighs. It fit, we fit perfectly, even through out clothes. Still we did not kiss.

“How?” I said. “How did you want to fuck me?”

He was pushing me back now, walking me into the counter. My arm tightened around his waist. We were both breathing hard.

“I wanted to pull you down an ally, push you up against an ancient stone building and make love to you in the middle of the dark city.

My hips started to move, rubbing against him. I was so hot, I couldn’t breath.

“Tell me. Tell me more.”

He started kissing my neck.

“I imagined lifting that dress up over your hips and touching you through lace panties. I imagined you hot and slick and ready for me.”

His lips found my pulse as my hand snaked down past his waistband and pressed against his ass. My voice, when it came, was thick with invitation.

“I wasn’t wearing any panties that night. I was thinking of you slipping the straps off my shoulders and sucking my breasts, touching me, quickly, so no one would see.”

He mouth stilled on my skin. I could feel his heart hammering under my hand as he lifted me up onto the counter and stood between my legs. Slowly, his long, blunt-tipped fingers slid beneath the strap of my top. I caught my breath as he looked into my eyes and drew my camisole down, baring a soft expanse of skin. Then he bent his head and brushed a kiss over my tight, aching nipple.

“Tell me,” I whispered, “what did you want to do me up against that wall?”

 

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