Writing: Finding Your Voice

I've been both writing and reading erotica more than ever of late. Well, it's a pretty awesome way to spend your time and when you're asked what you've been doing sitting in bed with your laptop all day, you can say you were working. With that comes more thought about the sorts of themes I cover, the sorts of characters I prefer to write about and the style I want to develop.

Reading widely in your chosen genre is, of course, highly recommended. It has helped me to focus on cliches and stereotypes to avoid (they're the ones I don't review but put quietly aside), as well as themes and settings I might enjoy reading about but wouldn't use in my own work. The BDSM 'scene', clubs and major lifestyle stuff spring to mind. But there is also a danger that you can start to subconsciously mirror the writing style of your favourite authors and you're suddenly in dodgy territory, at risk of sounding like a cheap rip-off and failing to find your own unique and original voice. And that's why I'm going to intersperse reading Charlotte Stein's entire back catalogue (why does that sound rude?) with reading a variety of other authors. And going that bit deeper (again, rude) into why certain things make me smile and others make me go 'huh?'.

I've been writing a wider variety too. I've toyed with fiction for years, sending off the odd story to magazines or anthology submission calls. It was an acceptance for a short story from Xcite Books that spurred me on to take it more seriously. I wrote one for another Xcite anthology and got it published in a spin-off ebook. Both stories were about straight pairings with plenty of kinky shenanigans. But now I've started to explore other areas, venturing into a gay story, some fantasy and historical and a couple of much lighter-hearted 'smut' pieces. One even has absolutely no bondage in it, for goodness' sake! Anyway, the point is that it's useful to do these things in order to flex your writing muscles and hone your style. And for me, writing without the hardware of kink has made me think much more deeply about how to describe doing the deed without it sounding like an instruction manual. Speaking of which, I'm off to finish a story about what happens when your partner wants to follow an instruction manual...

Review: Control by Charlotte Stein

Okay, I meant to review Make Me. Then I read something else by someone else. Then, before I knew it I was being lured irresistibly back to the mighty Charlotte Stein and started to read Control. I couldn't put the damn kindle down. 

The sheer intensity of Stein's writing, her quirky and witty turns of phrase, her ability to get you so deep under the skin of the characters you should probably be arrested for some kind of violation - they all amaze me. As a writer, I'm deeply envious of this woman. I love the way she comes up with unexpected ways to describe something that have you thinking, 'Yes, that's it exactly.' But which you would never have come up with yourself (speaking for myself; I don't know about you, maybe you're Shakespeare reincarnated, in which case would you like to come over for dinner?). Anyway, I mean things like this: 'Blissful bonelessness takes over. I think I sag all the way through the mattress to the floor below.' I love the way her heroines can be unsure of themselves in their inner monologue without ever falling through doorways, biting their lip or flicking their hair. 

Control is an exploration of dominance and submission totally without any of the usual cliches or stereotypes. It's pure, tweed-clad joy in giving in to your fantasies. Madison is looking for an assistant for her erotica bookshop. The dirty-talking, order-giving Andy is not suitable, although his interview at the kitchen table proves interesting. Quiet, repressed Gabe, who is secretly a seething mess of kinky desires, gets the job. And Madison sets about finding out what makes him tick. Which is mostly being ordered to do things he's ashamed of.

Make Me was damn fine too, full of the subtle power play of a kinky threesome. I love the way the heroine is perfectly happy having two men at once. Greedy, in fact. Anyway, I'm quite sure I'm going to devour everything Stein has ever written, but I promise to stop wittering on about it so much because I'm starting to feel like a crazy stalker fan.

Control is published by Xcite Books and Make Me by Mischief Books.

Review: How to Write Hot Sex

This guide, edited by Shoshanna Evers, should be a must-read for anyone in the early stages of becoming an erotica writer. It combines a wealth of useful, practical information with some thought-provoking debates on the nature and appeal of erotica. I didn’t always agree with the authors but I did welcome the range of points of view.

One of those debates is the distinction between porn, erotica and romance. One chapter, Writing the Fine Line Between Erotica and Porn by Kate Douglas explicitly attempts to differentiate with a view to avoiding being labelled as porn. Personally, I’m not so precious about what people call my work as long as they enjoy it. But I can see Douglas’ point in that porn may have no real story behind it. In her piece, she explains how motivation, strong characterisation and plot are what make the difference. And that’s good advice for any kind of writing, whatever you want it to be called.

On the other hand, running throughout the book is another debate about the place of plot in erotica. Controversially, Cara McKenna writes: ‘When I write erotica, I don’t saddle myself with the burden of plot.’ In her view, this avoids making the sex scenes seem like they’ve been ‘crow-barred in’. And sure, you don’t want your characters suddenly dropping everything because you’ve gone 500 words without them getting down and dirty. But other authors bring different perspectives and flesh out what plot means in erotica. Christine d’Abo writes about how sex, although a necessary component, is not the heart of what’s happening and must be a means for the characters to develop. Isabo Kelly writes: ‘They want story with their sex’ and explains how the sex must mean something to the plot. Delphine Dryden, writing about BDSM erotica, advises to ‘think of yourself as writing a story first,’ while Cari Quinn says you are ‘telling a story through sex’.

Douglas’ debate about whether or not we’ve crossed the line into porn feeds into another debate over crossing our own personal lines as writers. Several of the authors mention the need to avoid self-censorship, not worrying about what people will think of you for what you have written. Quinn tells us ‘Don’t be afraid to go there,’ don’t hold back on an idea because our inner critic is telling us it might be too much. And as McKenna puts it, it’s that ‘edge’, the nudge into feelings of emotional discomfort or shame for our characters that can make a story sparkle. It’s when your brain says one thing but your body’s not listening.

That inner censor is a real demon, telling you that if you write about BDSM everyone will assume you have a fully equipped dungeon in your cellar. But as Giselle Renarde recalls the words of Selena Kitt: ‘You don’t have to be a murderer to write a murder mystery’. McKenna adds her voice to this side of the debate, assuring you not to worry about readers thinking everything you create is autobiographical. But you do have to do your homework and in the days of the internet you can engage with people who do know and find out an awful lot without leaving home. Christina d’Abo writes about how you can produce m/m romance if you’re not gay, and indeed not actually a man at all, giving a useful tour of the biology and logistics of gay sex and a warning to avoid the stereotypes of drag queens and fashion designers. Dryden’s advice on writing BDSM is similar; you may not have to practise it, but you don’t want to make it obvious you don’t by getting it wrong.

As well as d’Abo’s guide to gay sex, there are other practical tips and glossaries from Renarde on the nature and psychology of fetish and Dryden on the terms used in BDSM. Jean Johnson goes over the physiology of arousal and the difference between the genders, with an anatomy lesson of the all-important naughty bits. Editor Shoshanna Evers gets down to basics with a survey of the publishing industry and how to make a professional approach.

But what about the writing itself? Tips please... Well, Charlotte Stein talks commas, sentence length and repetition, showing how a little finesse with these can help your reader get under a character’s skin. She also explores the issue of deep point of view, the emotions and inner dialogue that bring an erotic encounter alive. I swear that woman could write about grass growing and she’d have readers dashing off to the loos for a quickie. But I guess to watch grass growing, you’d have to be lying in it. Up close. Maybe the dew is dampening your skin... but I digress. When it comes to erotic content, Quinn reminds us of the value of talking dirty, how realistic dialogue can bring out the emotion. Desiree Holt goes over ways to use all five senses, while McKenna suggests cutting through the dullness of perfection in our characters and their sexual encounters and into the ‘ugly’.

With Evers’ advice on reviewing and the importance of avoiding pissing people off in mind, I’ll keep my criticisms short and sweet. My main gripe with the book was how the self-promotion sometimes leaked out of the ‘about the author’ section into the main pieces, including sometimes overly long extracts from their own work. I also thought it would have been nice to hear from some male writers.

Thoughts: A bit of rough

I read something that got me thinking about romantic heroes the other day. It's probably a good job I can't remember where I read it. But it suggested that the chiselled, strong, successful Alpha male is universally loved by female readers of erotic fiction. It definitely used the word 'universally', which first made me think, 'What about lesbians?' and secondly made me think, 'What about me?' Because I like my romantic heroes to be quirky, flawed, rough around the edges, sometimes unsure of themselves like the rest of us. I wondered whether I am truly perverse in the widest sense of the term. I don't equate money or status with success, for example. I find perfection dull. I find glistening, muscular, hairless torsos objects of bizarre fascination rather than desire.

And there's a major subgenre of romantic fiction dedicated to the admiration of 'a bit of rough'. I was thinking about this as I re-read DH Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover a while back. First published in Italy in 1928, it wasn't openly available in the UK until 1960 because of its graphic descriptions of sex and use of words like 'cunt'. But its dangerous subversion of class boundaries was probably equally to blame. Compared with the wonderful erotica we have around now, it's pretty tame stuff. But what it does share with a big chunk of today's sex fiction is the fascination of a well-bred woman fucking a bit of rough. It's just that in contemporary terms it's a professional career woman perhaps seeking excitement with the pool boy, a squaddie or the scruffily gorgeous rogue from the travelling fair.

And no, this whole post wasn't entirely an excuse for a picture of Sean Bean, seen here playing Mellors in the 1993 BBC adaptation. No, it really wasn't.

Research: Spinning a Yarn

In the course of planning a short story about Penelope, the wife of Odysseus in the ancient Greek epic, I've found myself needing to research spinning and weaving to know how to use words such as spindle, whorl and distaff, and to explore the erotic potential of the upright loom. It happens to be a large, upright wooden frame from which the warp threads are suspended with weights, allowing the weaver to pass the weft threads through to make the cloth. All useful stuff to a warped mind. Especially when Penelope has 12 loyal maids and 108 boisterous suitors who all want to convince her that her husband is dead and she should marry one of them instead. Endless possibilities. 

Anyway, I found the following passage at the Fiberville USA website and found it amusing enough to want to share (yes, I really do find yarn sexy):

 WARNING!!! Spinning reduces stress and promotes well being. It can also be habit forming and lead to obsessive behaviors such as, but not restricted to: caressing and hoarding all fibers; dying them with food colors and things from your garden or whatever you have laying about; spinning the fluffy bits of the weeds in your fields, the cotton wad in your vitamin bottles and even the lint from your dryer! Proceed with extreme caution!

In Homer's tale, Penelope spends twenty years waiting for her husband. He's away fighting at Troy for ten and takes another ten to make his way home to Ithaca, whilst falling prey to various perils including being forced into being the lover of the witch-goddess Circe and the nymph Calypso. Doesn't sound so bad. I think it's time Penelope had some fun.

Incidentally, if anyone knows how to avoid getting the white background on text pasted against this blog template, do tell!

Published: Miss Pemberton's Drawers

I have a story in this fabulous new anthology from Xcite Books and am so excited about appearing alongside the likes of Lucy Felthouse and Zara Stoneley. It's a collection of six erotic stories covering a range of themes and is currently available for the Kindle at Amazon.

In my story, Ideal Homes, Amy’s looking for a house to buy after moving to a new town for work. The fact her estate agent is hot is an added bonus. But after one drunken fumble with the gorgeous Michael, she can’t work out how to tell him she prefers her men tied to the bed and eager to please. Fortunately for her, the ideal opportunity arises when he takes her to see a house and she finds two sets of handcuffs in place in the master bedroom. And it turns out Michael is more than happy to play the submissive. The pair find themselves in a sticky situation with the unexpected arrival of the property owner – but he has a proposal of his own for Michael.

Alongside that tale, you'll find Miss Pemberton's Drawers by Lucy Felthouse, Dinner Break by Ariel Graham, Suitable Punishment by Abigail Thornton, Elevator Pitch by Zara Stoneley and A Night Off by Jenna Bright.

Very short story: Cosy

Drum roll please... I present Cosy, my flash fiction response to the Erotic Tea Cosy Challenge. It stems from Twitter, where, amongst other dazzling insights into my true nature, I trumpet myself as a Knitter of tea cosies. 'I'm looking forward to seeing how erotica and tea cosies go together,' wrote The Dirty Romantic. See what you've started @youmakemeneed. The picture, incidentally, is from the only tea cosy pattern I've actually got round to knitting, although I haven't even sewn up my version yet.

So put the kettle on, here's my attempt to make chunky handknits into a real winter warmer. Oh, those sharp steel needles...

She’s knitting again tonight. Each time I feel the shift of weight as she swaps needles from hand to hand for a new row I hope she might say, ‘I’ll just finish this one and then take you to bed.’ It’s her bare heels I feel, pressing hard into my back where she is using me as a footstool. Soon my shoulders will start to ache and I will have to fight the urge to collapse onto her handmade rag rug.

She’s been so busy since she launched her new design. The fetish tea cosy. A stripy pot warmer in cashmere merino blend, with appliquéd patches in Daisy Chains® floral cottons to make a cute face pattern: two eyes, button nose and a quirky embroidered smile. Suitable for all medium-sized teapots. That’s the cosy part. The fetish part? Well, it fits snugly over the head, a multi-coloured hood with appliquéd eye covers to prevent the submissive peeping out between the stitches. Quite endearing on a female; completely humiliating on a man like me.

Click, clack. She’s stuck to steel needles for this one. Size 6. That’s British sizing; I learnt early in our relationship not to get US and UK numbers mixed up. It caused a major disaster in my first attempt at socks; I had to rip it all out and start again under her guidance. Tonight, her fancy new double-pointed bamboo needles were free for her to use on me. Size 9. That’s just 3.75mm wide. Two clamp my cock, placed just beneath the glans and fastened tight with elastic bands on each end. Two more lock my balls into place, holding them firm away from my crotch. The sharp ends are starting to dig into my thighs. My cock is semi-hard. If it gets bigger, I’m going to really feel that top pair. At least she hasn’t done my tongue today. She tried it once, stretching the cosy over the ends of the needles to keep them in place through the rows. But she didn’t like the damp mess my saliva made when I couldn’t swallow. That wool’s gentle handwash only.

Fibres tickle my face. I’m sure there’s one, just one, fine wisp of cashmere, sticking up my left nostril. I twitch my nose to try to shift it. And fail. But really, this yarn is deliciously soft, like a caress on the cheek. It reminds me of the first time I met Diane. I had finally braved the Wednesday Woollies meet at the arts centre in town. I fancied learning to knit. Maybe even crochet. But I had agonised over going for weeks. My cock would be the problem. How to control my cock when I longed to bury my face in those big balls of super chunky pure wool Aran, with their maddening mix of smooth and scratchy.

She’d welcomed me in. Took time off her own project to teach me the basics of knit and purl, rib and garter. And then she did it. I almost burst with the effort of remaining polite and decent. She held out a ball of a new blend she’d found: mohair and silk. Hand-dyed in aubergine. Oh God, that mohair. Torture on the nose. Exquisite torture. She understood even then. Teased me with it, letting me nuzzle as my cock twitched, then snatching it away and tapping me on the fingers with her needles like a naughty schoolboy. I wanted to bury my face in her baby pink Angora-clad bosom.

She invited me to her place for private tuition. We’ve never looked back. I’ve moved in and now I support her as she gets her fledgling business off the ground following redundancy. And at night, she indulges my desperate passion for yarn. Once she used an entire ball of fingering weight acrylic to tie me up. And that’s harsh stuff. She’d had it at the bottom of her stash for years, bought before she learnt the difference between those cheap yarns from the market and the softest, finest wools a sheep has to offer. Goats even. Alpaca. That acrylic cut into me, absolutely unyielding, the squeaky texture enough to set your teeth on edge.

My face is getting hot beneath its hood. Cosy. That’s the delight of the knitted fetish mask. That intense feeling of warmth and constriction without any restriction to breathing. My forehead is growing damp. The yarn is tickling in at least a dozen spots now. Involuntarily, my tongue flicks out to taste the stitches and is rewarded with a tiny strand, stuck there until she allows me to move. Like a pube picked up during cunnilingus. I wish she’d shift her heels to new positions. But no, she digs them in a little more as she starts a new row.

‘I’ll just do one more darling. Then I’ll take you upstairs.’ God I love this woman.