Category: The Wandering Writer

Doing the Wild Thing – on paper

I worked on a sex scene for my novel all morning.  In case you’ve never written about sex, let me tell you that it’s not as easy as you might think.  I mean, everybody’s done the deed, so it should be just a matter of recreating experience, right?  That is definitely not the case.

There’s a balance that’s sometimes hard to find in writing about sex.  You don’t want to come off as a play-by-play on ESPN, but you don’t want to sound like something on the Playboy channel, either.  And National Geographic’s tone is really not an option, at least not in my book.

What do you call the various body parts involved?  Unless you’re writing a romance, the whole heaving bosom and throbbing member thing just won’t cut it.  But the technical route doesn’t work for me.  While I’m not opposed to saying penis and vagina, somehow those words don’t flow well on the page.

For those of you who think maybe I’m prudish (total strangers?), let me assure you I’m not.  I’m probably way more open about things than many of my friends are comfortable with, and I’m certainly not opposed to using some offensive language every now and then.  OK, frequently.  Anyway, it’s not Puritanism that makes sex hard to write about.  It’s the fact that most people make it out to be such a serious act, when in reality there are knocking elbows and knees and misplaced parts.  Sex is sometimes plain out ridiculous.

So I decided that my sex scene would be where I have fun in the book. Where I let things be ridiculous.  Or at least moderately so.  Once I decided that, I had a great time writing it.  The point of putting a sex scene in my book is not to describe a private act with minute accuracy, but to use it to show the relationship between two people.  Good relationships are full of fun, and so is good sex.

Oh, and no offense meant to the heaving bosom and throbbing member crowd.  Just not what I’m going for.

It takes a village to write a novel

Today I realized that there is no choice – I have to finish my book.  Otherwise I’ll be letting countless people down.  Friends and family who believe in me, despite the odds.  People who take for granted there will be a book.  I have to finish, if for no other reason than to live up to their expectations.  There really is no other option.

It’s amazing to me to discover how many people in my life have a stronger belief in my abilities than I do.  In the solitary world of the writer, I often forget that.  And then an old friend steps in to remind me that my writing is not just mine alone – there are many others vested in my success.

Jenny Stott at King Family Vineyard
Jenny, one of the peeps in my village

So, Jenny, as much as it might embarrass you to be singled you out, thank you.  For reminding me that I’m not alone in this crazy dream, no matter how alone it feels.  For reminding me yet again how blessed I am to have so many wonderful friends, and to have such a wonderful support system.  For making me want to succeed.

I don’t care how successful a writer is.  We all need to have a support system.  A support system with people out there waiting anxiously for our masterpieces.  A support system full of people who truly care whether we make it or not, who truly care about our work.

If you are a writer but don’t feel supported in your work, you really should rethink your relationships.  Because if you are a writer, you need to feel safe and loved and believed in.  Period. There are too many rejections on a daily basis to do it alone.  So hold tight to those people who support you  in your dreams.  And dump the ones who don’t.

Maybe that sounds harsh to you.  But what you are doing is important.  Trust it. Believe in it.  And when someone else believes in you, cherish that, and honor it.  There is no greater gift.

Where are you at home?

Yesterday in my book club one of the members mentioned that we read a lot of books about home: going home, finding a home, displacement from home.   And it’s true.  But then, much of literature is concerned with the idea of home.

Which made me think about what home means to me. It’s been a while since I’ve been still long enough to have what most people think of as a home in the traditional sense.  One day I’ll do the whole permanent address thing again, but for now, I’m content to wander.

When I travel, I say almost everywhere I go, “I could live here.” I’ve said it about Ireland and Florence and Key West and Montreal and dozens of other places, and I really mean it, every time I say it.  I probably could live in any of those places and be completely happy.  (In the summer,at least.)

Another room with a view
My latest view

So what does home mean to me?  Here’s my short list:

1)      Peace.  I’m not a city dweller, am not interested in the hustle and excitement and noise of a metropolis.  I’m a small town girl.  I need quiet time to read and write and daydream.

2)      Nature.  I need trees around, and green living things, and birds, and spaces not covered with concrete.

3)      Water.  The ocean is preferable, but a lake or river will do.

4)      Books.  I am lost without a stack of books beside my bed.

Otherwise, everything that makes a place home I carry with me:  my upbringing and my values, my dreams and my passions, and the love of my family and friends, no matter how far I am from them.  Wherever I am is home, as long as I remember who I am and where I come from and where I still want to go.

What means home to you?