…and that’s how the literary world ended.

The unimaginable has happened.

Close on the heels of finding out that E.L. James, author of Fifty Shades of Grey, has begun writing a “How To” book on writing (which makes me throw up in my mouth a little every time I think of it) came the suggestion from Kobo that I pre-order her next novel. It may or may not be entitled Grey – it was hard to tell through the blur of tears as I read the devastating news email. What I did get was that the book is, get this, Fifty Shades of Grey AGAIN but through the eyes of Christian Grey instead of Anastasia (aka Mrs.) Grey.

I’ve mourned the loss of the money I threw away spent when I bought the trilogy enough, I think, to know better than to buy the same thing AGAIN. But fans of the first three books surely will.

Will millions of readers die of boredom? Or worse, will they live to take advice from Ms. James on how to write a novel?

Stay tuned. And don’t worry, I’ll be there to hold your hand when the literary world gets whipped right out of existence.

 

What I should have said was…

Are you ever so stunned by the things people do – so taken off-guard – that you don’t say anything?

Yesterday I went to the grocery store to buy some of my favourite pasta and arugula salad from the deli counter. I stood there being ignored for a while by the two ladies behind the counter and was about to give up when a young guy in a baseball cap and t-shirt, with nothing to indicate that he worked there, walked behind the glass-fronted display and asked me if he could help me. Since the ladies didn’t kick him out, I assumed he did in fact work there so I asked for a medium. He scooped my salad into the container with a plastic serving spoon, which was all fine, but then when he saw there were bits of arugula hanging over the side, he shoved them in with his bare hand and put the lid on.

And I didn’t say anything.

Now as I sit here enjoying my questionably diseased salad I feel as though the time has come to get my word in edgewise…

If I turn up dead of the plague, you’ll know who to blame.

Yeah, me.

On the heels of EM the Merciful

I hate the feeling that my goodwill and compassion is being taken advantage of. Without any word of a lie, as much of the time I spend looking after myself, equal to or more time is spent on looking after everyone else. I’m always the first one to say, “don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.” And so I take on everyone else’s burdens. I have a hard time delegating. Especially when I can do most of the things that need to be done faster and more efficiently than those around me can.

I’m exhausted. Both physically and mentally. My frozen shoulder won’t let me sleep during the 5 hours I night I manage to be in bed. The pain is inhuman. When I am awake I’m being pulled in a thousand directions at once: have you done this for me yet? Have you called this doctor for him? That doctor for her? Can you come with me to this or that appointment? Sorry, I’m too busy to help you. Maybe next month… You want the money I owe you? Fuck you.  This is what I listen to every day. And yeah, I allow it. But the truth is, I’m the only one who CAN do three quarters of what I do. It’s why I don’t have a job. Pfft. Like I sit around watching soaps all day.

And then everyone wonders why I go away on vacation alone.

I need a vacation. Again.

B is for “Blow Me,” and Other Onomatopoeia

My A-Z Challenge this year is about writing adult content in fiction – you will not find any adult fiction within the parameters of the challenge, except for illustration purposes.

Over the years I’ve discovered that there are tricks to writing tantalizing sex scenes. First is not employing overused phrases like “engorged member” and “heaving bosom.” Let’s face it, they’ve been done to death and thus have become fodder for ridicule. Inspiring an eye roll from a reader is more anti-erotic than titillating. So what is erotic?

The second thing on my personal list of how to write a good sex scene is subtlety. There’s really nothing worse than the feeling that you’re reading an organ owner’s manual. i.e. Her bosom heaving, she grasped his engorged member and rubbed it. Then…

No. Just no. Step by step instructions don’t work for anyone with experience. So unless you’re writing specifically for virgins, I’d suggest allowing the reader to use his or her own imagination. Think of it this way – your target audience likely knows what they’re doing even with the lights off. They don’t need you to show up with a megawatt spotlight and a bullhorn to ruin it all for them. Rewriting the previous example with this in mind; With a deep exhalation she reached down and took him in her hand, stroking and guiding…  You get the picture, right? And if you don’t, you’re probably too young to be reading this. Go away.

The third and final point–and the one for which this post is titled–is onomatopoeia. For those of you who have grown a distance from grade six grammar, onomatopoeia is “the use of words whose sound suggests the sense.”* Depending on the softness or the urgency of the sex scene in question, there are just some words that sound better; that roll off the tongue and slip easily into place. “Blow me,” for instance comes across better as a whisper, whereas the phrase “suck it” has the sharp consonants that depict more of a demand. Shorter sentences provide a sense of breathlessness as the scene progresses toward its climax.

These are but a few techniques which, subtle in and of themselves, separate the passages that have a reader reaching for a fan from the ones that have ’em running for the toilet before they pee themselves with laughter. There’s an art to writing an effective sex scene. When you read one, you know it. Writing them takes practice, like anything. Like sex itself.

*Merriam Webster online

 

A is for … Ahem

My A-Z Challenge this year is about writing adult content in fiction – you will not find any adult fiction within the parameters of the challenge, except for illustration purposes.

At the risk of scaring off any potential readers of my A-Z Challenge, I want to start by talking about something that’s been on my mind for a while. I thought, very briefly, about writing the subject of this post in the title but I realize though people may want to read my blog, they surely don’t want anyone looking over their shoulder, seeing it in nice big letters. Are you ready? Here we go.

Anal fisting. So that you know which page I’m on, let me first say, “EWW.” I’d never have brought it up, nor would I have contemplated such a thing had it not been for E.L. James of 50 Shades of Grey fame. Just imagine if Ana had said, “Oh my!” in a positive rather than a negative way when it came to that little proposition? I mean seriously, what better way to say I love you than to let you stuff your hand up my poop-hole? But will you still care for me when I’m wearing Depends at the age of 30? NO, Ana. NO he won’t! But still, it’s sooo romantic, isn’t it?

Okay, I hold no judgement over people who are actually into this stuff. What you do in the sanctity of your own space is entirely up to you. But I don’t want details, thanks. I dread the idea that I might actually accidentally come across pictures on the internet… one of the main reasons I fear getting viruses on my computer.

I can promise you, you will never see any of my character get their rear-end cherries popped unless it is during the most horrific rape scene during which I will be cringing in a corner denying the fact that I’m writing while my bad guy does the deed. I don’t want to write about it and I certainly don’t want to read about it. When I come across such things as anal play in sex scenes I skim the words until I figure it’s safe to start reading again – but that’s just where I draw the line.

Everyone has their own literary lines in the sand. What’s yours?