Yesterday evening, it occurred to me that I have a short novel (based on my 2013 National Novel Writing Month’s literary blathering) which is practically finished, except for one small issue. I haven’t written in the sex scenes yet. Okay, I know that most novels don’t need to portray nookie in any of its many forms. And, I know that when nookie is required within my own work, I have a tendency to get my characters only so far and then I politely shut the bedroom door for the main event. Maybe I’m becoming a prude, or maybe I’m just totally disenchanted with stock phrases like “the throbbing steel of his manhood.” (What, did someone smack it with a hammer?)
But this story is different. Why? Because while the plot is more or less romantic as it is, my intention was to write it as –ahem- erotica. Why? Well, the fact is that I’ve shied away from writing such things for several years. This is an indication to me that maybe I should. It’s good for a writer to leave the comfort zone occasionally. It’s good to set a challenge for oneself.
For instance, when I wrote THE BLUFF, I named only one—yes, one—character. That character was not even the protagonist. It was intentional for many reasons, but believe me when I say it was also really hard to do. In SERVANT TO THE WOLF, the challenge was to write about a slave who actually liked being a slave, and to do it in such a way that it made sense while in no way promoting what was (and is) a vile institution. I’d like to believe I accomplished that.
I thought this challenge would be easier.
I mean, I really have written Insert Tab A into Slot B scenes before. Years ago, as I said. And while my love/sex life is currently about as exciting as three week old roadkill, in the distant past I was married and even managed to procreate twice. So yes, I do have a hazy recollection of the fundamentals, and I have a vivid imagination, and I’m not dead. I can even read erotica, and if it’s very well written erotica (which is to say not Fifty Shades Of Ridiculous) I occasionally enjoy it.
So, anyway, last night I determined that as soon as I woke up today, I would toddle to the computer and launch right into writing raw unbridled full-on passionate explicit f-dash-dash-dash-ing. By my count, I need to write four orgasmathons and a quickie.
Right on schedule, I woke up and toddled to the computer. Checked the news quickly, because if the world is ending, even good erotica is probably not going to have much of a market. It’s good to be prudent. Oh, and I had to get some schmucks to harvest my wheat on FarmTown, and since I’m on FarmTown, I’m also on Facebook, better check statuses. Sometimes that’s the only way I know my children are still alive. Anyway, I did drag myself away from that in less than an hour. Time to write.
Except that I need coffee. It’s a writer thing. No coffee = no productivity.
And, as I set up the coffeepot, I decide logically that I should have some breakfast too. It’s the most important meal of the day. I have bananas, but…no. Not bananas.
So, bacon. Bacon is good. But I nuke bacon in the microwave usually, and to do that, I need paper towels, and the roll in the kitchen is down to the cardboard. This is not a problem since I store ample back-stock of paper towels in the basement.
But if I’m going into the basement, I should probably take the laundry basket with me. It’s full and it’s my day off, so laundry should happen. I go back into my bedroom and grab the laundry basket.
And think to myself that if I’m doing laundry, I should probably wash my jammies. Which I’m still wearing. Okay, that makes sense, and besides, the house is a little cold so putting on more clothes will ultimately keep me from becoming distracted while my characters are taking off theirs.
As I change, my junior cat, “Neuroti-Kitty” jumps onto my bed and prances across the comforter, apparently delighted to realize that Food-Dispenser hasn’t gone to work. As she prances, I can hear one of her claws catching at each step with a dainty little ripping sound that does not bode well for the bedding. Neuroti-Kitty’s talons grow somewhat unevenly.
So I catch her unawares and trim the talons, much to her squawling dismay. Senior cat Bartholomew (who likes a good spectacle) has jumped onto the bed to watch the martyrdom, and since I have the clippers and he’s in range and laughing at me, I trim his claws too. He is more gladiator that martyr. I bleed, but only a little. It only takes a minute or two to clean the wound and apply a band-aid.
I take the laundry basket into the basement. While I’m loading the washing machine, I automatically check all the pockets. I’m usually pretty good about emptying them before they hit the basket, but to my surprise, I do find an ancient lottery ticket in a pair of jeans. I can’t remember if I’ve checked it. I can’t actually remember when I bought it. So, after I start the washer, I bound upstairs and hop back onto the internet. If I’m a millionaire, I might take the day off from writing after all.
I’m not a millionaire.
And I forgot the paper towels.
Back into the basement I go.
I cook the bacon. It is good. While eating, I think that this morning’s activities, culminating in the lack of my characters’ activities, could be a nifty little blog entry, so I type away at the computer and chug coffee.
Of course, now the blog entry is done, and the bacon is done, and the coffee is done, so I can definitely start writing what I promised myself I’d write…
…except that it’s time to put the laundry into the dryer.
It’s okay though. I’m sure I’ll get to those scenes.
Eventually.
This is precisely why my most productive years of writing were while I was working 12 hour days away from home. I wrote in the evenings, and since I wasn’t home, the only thing I could do was write… or drink. Home is where the distractions live. I congratulate myself for not drinking away those four years.
I wrote “Why Nothing Ever Gets Done Around Here” maybe 20 years ago while I was supposed to be sitting at home and writing–and oddly enough your saga sounds soooo familiar; everyone I know who has ever worked at home has stories like this, although not everyone tells them as well as you do. My most productive writing period was 6 weeks at Clarion West. No house, no yard, no chores, no cooking, no cleaning, no dogs, no spouse, just writing. I loved it. Hoped that that laser focus would last after I got home, but noooooo.
Oops, here’s my link: http://dogblog.finchester.org/2013/02/why-nothing-ever-gets-done-around-here.html
If you want cheering on with the sex scenes feel free to message me 😉 When I started writing fiction I started out in a chat room full of erotic romance, erotica and porn writers (some reasonably well known)