getting the dirty deed down

Alright, to begin with, Ernest Hemingway did not say, “Write drunk; edit sober.” Ever.

not ernest

It fact, apparently, Hemingway liked to write stone-cold sober at 4:00 in the morning, according to the people who knew him best.

Of course, he was also probably drunk by noon on a regular basis.

The quote actually comes from a novel made into a film called Reuben, Reuben.

I mean, okay, the late great Charles Bukowski probably wrote drunk, but he was a poet.

Like Vonnegut with his Pall Malls, and Kerouac with his benzedrine and marijuana, Bukowski always had his particular vices within easy reach.

So, do I have the right, as a fledgling writer, grinding away somewhere in the same general galaxy as these authors (and yet I am proud of my writing, especially my poetry, and I think some times, but for an odd twist of fate, I could be in their grand company)… to say this much about the job: alcohol really does help you write the sex scenes.

The problem is that alcohol doesn’t play by your rules. It does whatever the fuck it wants.

And yet, as an individual who checked herself into rehab once (I wrote a poem called Purgatory about it, but I can’t link it because it is only available through Amazon), I can tell you that total abstinence from alcohol (or meat, but that’s a convo for another time) isn’t really the answer for everybody.

I’m not trying to glamorize alcohol, but the truth is, there’s a little Miss Pomeroy 1926 in all of us, and if not, perhaps there should be.

If you don’t get the joke, then you need to watch some classic American cinema.

Philadelphia_Story

Okay, Miss Pomeroy 1926… where was I? Oh yes.  Which is why there is a new movement within the temperance community that is called Moderation Management.

I cannot tell you the number of times I have poured out a drink and thought to myself, “Okay, this is good. I have some time, whiskey that I like. A few drinks and I can hit it.” Only to end up adding songs to my YouTube playlist and singing along until I pass out.

So you have to use the muse, and not the other way around.

Also, there are two caveats to this advice.  If you’re an angry drunk who might verbally or physically assault those around you, or if you’re unable to resist getting in your car and driving, then total abstinence from alcohol is your only option IMO.

Beyond that, here are some tips for erotic writers who might be reading my blog.

1) Know what you like in bed.

For example: I am not a big fan of anal sex. So you’re not going to find it happening in my stories. Maybe a rusty trombone, at some point. Maybe.

trombone

Not that there is anything wrong with anal sex. 37% of women are okay with it.

And, truth is, I did write a male homosexual sex scene for my fanfic about Harry/Cedric. Because the story dictated it (hahaha… dick). And that story is precious to me.

HarryCedricBanner

But, since it isn’t my groove, I really can’t write convincingly about it via hetero sex.

I do like dirty talk, but it has to be intelligent and well-thought-out dirty talk.

In fact, one of my novellas has no actual sex in it, just extensive dirty talk.

I haven’t written a “bow-down-goddess” sex scene yet (sure, you can call it doggy-style, but I prefer something more dignified, thank you very much).  But I think reverse cowboy is a gimmick for male-gaze porn, so you won’t be seeing that either.

2) Swing for the fences.

It’s a crowded market out there. And even if, like me, you’re not in it for the money but the feeling of freedom and power, then why not give those impulses full rein?

Write-what-you-Like

At least then you will be proud of yourself. And nothing else matters.

Metallica? What you doing here? Go home, you’re drunk.

3) Honor your ancestors.

That is to say: know who influenced you,  and stay humble.

Me, I am a cross-blend of moderately explicit bodice-rippers like those by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, plus historical romances by M. M. Kaye, and the erotica of Anaïs Nin.

Hopefully, one day, someone will hyperlink to you and say, “She made me what I am.”

In the meantime, here’s another poem. So far, this new book of poems includes rooms in a house and musical instruments, as well as furniture and clothing items.

guitar

come finger a fret,
I want to forget
everything except your name.

pluck my deepest note
(your thumb on my throat).
my pulse to throb, be your aim.

my honey-hued wood
sure makes you sound good.
we fill up the room with noise.

just a touch right there.
but, darling, beware:
my strings are too taut for boys.

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