Writing from the dark.
Yes, I’ve been taking something of a break, the last week or two. A break from writing, that is, though I’m pretty sure I now need a break from painting the kitchen. And the living room. And hallway and bathroom. With that in mind, I’m now back to the writing.
I’ve actually discovered that I tend to get a little irritable these days when I’ve not done any writing for a while (you can confirm that with my wife). Or maybe that was just the paint fumes. Whichever, it was a good feeling to sit back down at the computer today, open up a blank word document and type in those magical words – chapter one. But starting a new book always makes me nervous, as well as excited. That blank page can be damned intimidating, and knowing that there’s more than one blank page to fill – in fact, you’re looking at putting down around 70 000 words in an order that no one before you has ever come up with – well, it’s enough to put hairs on your chest. It’s a strange job you have when you’re excited about doing something that quite frankly scares the crap out of you.
Of course, that trepidation is never enough to dissuade me. The excitement (and sheer bloody-minded determination) always wins out. With the use of a few tried and tested coping methods. Which, for me, basically consist of not thinking about it. Don’t think about those 70 000 words. You only have to write one to start with, then another after that. Do enough of that, and you’re not even counting anymore, the story has you in its grip and after that, well, it’s a walk in the park.
Thinking about not thinking about things I do more not thinking (yeah, I just wanted to write that, because it tickles my funny bone) about my books than ever before. It used to be that when I sat down to write, I had quite a few ideas in mind about what I was doing and what I wanted to achieve. I’d thought about the characters, I’d thought about the premise, I’d thought about the tone, and the voice I wanted to use. Not in any great detail, certainly not to the point of being compelled to write outlines and character diaries, but enough to feel fairly sure of what I would be doing when I started typing. But this has changed. Now I shy away from thinking about the book at all. Except for strictly technical matters such as point of view, I pluck a likely idea out of my head, which usually consists of a static image of a place and a character, or two if I’m lucky, and a what-if question. Sometimes it’s not even a question, but just a word that passes for a theme. Once I’m sufficiently intrigued I discover myself leaving it alone, not thinking about it, in fact, refusing to think about it.
I sat down today to start my new book. I had the idea for it perhaps a week ago. The snapshot looks like this – there’s a woman, she’s been jogging, by the look of it, and she’s standing in a garden in which someone has placed a spiral of smooth white stones. And the word/ theme for the book is ‘passion’. That’s it. The whole enchilada. Not even any sauce on that baby.
I sat down, planning to write a whole novel founded on those two things. Have I gone totally nuts? Shouldn’t I need just a little more information than that? Shouldn’t I want to know more than that? Apparently not. Every time I found myself sidling up to the idea in my mind, wanting to have a better look at it, I shoved it away, back into the dark recesses of the old brain and told myself to leave it alone.
I always knew I tended to write into the dark, not planning where I was going, but now it seems I write from the dark too, not even planning where I’m starting.
Does this extreme form of seat-of-the-pants writing even work? Yes, it actually does. I wrote the fourth Reality Dawn book with little thought, and my last novel Don’t Go There, with basically no conscious thought at all, and today I wrote three thousand words of this new novel and met both my main characters, learnt that one woman is a carpenter and the other’s a psychic and everything is off to a promising start. I’m looking forward to writing more tomorrow, so I can find out more about these two, and what’s going to happen. Because I really haven’t a clue. Not consciously anyway. Deep down I know there’s a story brewing, and I can’t wait for it to come percolating to the surface.
By the way? This wasn’t the blog post I set out to write, either. It was supposed to be one about how my three lesbian historical erotica stories are now available for purchase. Set in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, they’re short but sensual tales of around 5000 words, because I know, dear reader, that after almost a whole year of being so very nice, you’re in need of something a little bit naughty.
Early summer, 1914 and the shadow of war is hanging over the country. All the more reason to grab what pleasure comes your way – at least, that’s the way Tilda feels. Of course, she felt that way even before Britain seemed sure to go to war. She’d be the first to admit she has trouble passing by a pretty woman – especially one determined to catch her eye – and Ava is provocative indeed. There’s only one thing to be done when a beautiful woman is determined she needs some attention, and Tilda knows exactly how to give Ava what she wants.
Excerpt:
For a moment, Tilda thought the woman might not have understood her English, but, the tip of that pink tongue making another appearance, Ava reached down one delightful hand and caught the hem of her dress. She moved slowly, eyes locked on Tilda’s and the tingle in Tilda’s palms spread in a warm flush to the rest of her body. She became aware of her own breathing, her own chest heaving as the white wisp of fabric inched its way up to reveal bare and shapely legs, the curve of a thigh and then further, a hint of rounded hip. The hand fell away and the fabric puddled in the glorious dip between Ava’s legs.
A friend. It was all she wanted. A special friend. One person in all the world to walk and talk with, share confidences, someone who would look at her tenderly, reach fleetingly for her hand, a slight grazing of fingers against the pulse point in the wrist, the sudden upwelling of breast.
In the heart of shy governess Edith burns a secret desire. Longing for one special friend, a woman who will look at her and see someone worth loving, Edith prowls the gardens and woods in the evenings and spends her nights tossing and turning upon her narrow bed, tormented by needs that can never be spoken of, and never hoped to be fulfilled. Until a chance encounter one fine, summer evening brings with the dusk a magic better than she’d ever dreamed of.
Excerpt:
‘No, no, don’t fix it. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.’ There was a smile in the voice from that pale face with its intense, dark eyes. Edith dropped her fingers from her hair, and bit down on an instinct to touch that white cheek. Her hand fluttered in the dim light and before she could drop it back to her lap, the other woman’s hand flashed out and caught it. Long pale fingers caressed it, turning her palm in their smooth grip and lifting it to the nymph’s face.
A kiss was dropped upon her palm.
The new parlor maid is something very special. Just what a lonely kitchen maid has been waiting for. Sharing a room, the two young women soon discover far more they want to share with each other than just confidences. Uninhibited and lusty, their new-found friendship turns into much more than either expect, and it might just be far too good to last.
Excerpt:
I grinned right back, all my exhaustion vanishing like dust under a cloth. I didn’t even bother to tidy my kitchen maid’s uniform away as I shucked layer after layer. Just dropped them on the floor. Weren’t even thinking about them, to be honest. I never took my eyes off Minnie’s face. She was watching me, her red lips spreading in a smile, and her eyes wandering all over my body. I never thought my body were such a wonder, but Minnie, she told me it were a positive garden of delights. That was her all over, pretty turns of phrase and a wicked turn of humour.
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Filed under: Writing Journal
