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By
Thomasnovels
I blame my proclivity of writing erotic stories on my childhood reading habits. I was a voracious reader. I read anything I could get my hands on. If I wasn’t allowed a book at the table, I’d read the cereal box. (Although, I recently found a report card where the teacher informed my parents I needed to read more at home while my mom was always complaining about me having my nose stuck in a book.) I read school assignments (no sex). I devoured ghost stories (lovers’ triangles, lost loves but no sex). Under my covers at night, I consumed the smutty pulp novels my older cousins smuggled in to me (lots of very kinky sex). I laughed through the true love story magazines my mother (yes, the same one) bought me. She thought they would teach me that bad things (sex) happened to girls who go off with (poor) guys. I read gothic romances where good things (sex) happened to girls who went off with (rich) guys. Then I discovered mysteries where sex was never mentioned but it could be used for a motive for criminal acts, reuniting lovers, revenge or any scenario you can imagine.
My love of writing took hold somewhere around high school when a teacher assigned one of those writing exercises that goes, “This is the first sentence and this is the last sentence. Now write the story in between the two”. I loved it and discovered my thoughts could flow through my fingers onto the keys (typewriter keys … it was a long time ago) and out onto the page. I never stopped writing but life and the need to earn a living (or whatever excuse I could come up with) always seemed to be in the way. I piddled at it for years. (Writers say this is a good way to learn the craft, while others say this is the stage where you’re writing all the crap out of your system before the good stuff starts to flow. The person going through it thinks their brain should stop pissing around and produce a New York Times Bestsellers List novel.) I didn’t think I was accomplishing anything until I tried to move and picked up the filing cabinets I had filled with words. I was producing pages (and killing small forests) if nothing else.
I tried those gothic romances I had loved but my female character kept mouthing off to the lead guy then would wander off and do her own thing. I could write a great plot and who-done-it mystery but the characters just sat around sipping tea, talking to each other and didn’t do much of anything else. I attempted romances but the women refused to be submissive and wouldn’t heave their breasts at anyone. My ghost stories sounded like those from the nineteenth century where you just want to tell them to knock it off with the flowery language and get on with the story. The science fiction I wrote … well, you don’t even want to know about those.
I finally got serious about my writing for three reasons: I had out-read everybody else and there was nothing new to read, at my advanced middle-age I figured I had better get started or give up and the voices in my head wouldn’t leave me alone until I told their stories. I thought back through all the thousands of books I’ve read to see what I could remember and what I remembered were the characters’ relationships, interactions and dialogues. Oh, I know the blue carbuncle is in the Christmas goose but I would rather read about Amelia trying to pull one over on … trying to solve a mystery with her husband Emerson.
Then I asked myself if I had unlimited funds (I did not) what type of book would I buy. (I had five thousand … books not dollars … when I moved.) What kind of book would I pay full price for just to have and hold and read. (I love the feel of books. Shit. I’m an eBook writer. Forget I said that.) And when I couldn’t find a book to read that satisfied that story craving, what were the stories I told myself in my head until I could get my next fix. And the answers were … I would give anything (okay, a lot) to have those smutty, trashy, kinky novels back I hid from my mother (and could never find again) and of course the stories I told myself right before sleep were … well … sexual fantasies.
As a reader, I hated it when characters went and hid behind a closed door (or the nearest bush). I wanted to know what was happening. As a writer I decided to add a little erotica (defined as sex) to my mysteries (the genre that’s my first love). Suddenly, characters got up off their butts and started interacting. Really interacting. Adding sex created emotions, feelings, relationships, conflicts and resolutions. My sex scenes were very descriptive and peppered throughout the story. The basic who-done-it stayed the same but I found a little spice added to the mix helped to fully develop my characters into real (and much happier) people.
How two people (or three or more) relate to each other during sex helps the reader (and the writer and the characters) understand the full realm of their relationship. Sex is a natural part (desire, craving) of life and we all (hopefully) do it. I had been leaving the sex out of the story and that was like leaving the potatoes out of the roast beef and carrots. It was not a complete meal and didn’t please the appetite. Everyone skips the carrots but the potatoes are an essential part of the story.
The words flowed, the stories got written and the books got published. Sex saves the day. Rejoicing. Swinging from the chandelier. Celebrating. Only … well … ah … I should warn writers of premature (add sexually related words to text) spending of the royalty check. I’ve had publishers tell me “Sorry, way too much sex”, “Sorry, sex is way too weird”, “Sorry, not enough sex” and my all time favorite … “Sorry, had to read too far to get to the sex”. You can’t please everybody so please yourself (sexual allusion).
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
A Profusion of Plots
By
Thomasnovels
People are always telling me they could not write a book because they could never come up with all those plots and how do I ever manage to think up all those stories. I usually mumble something, pretend I see someone I know on the other side of the room, move off and don’t try to explain it because I don’t look good in white (as in a straight jacket). My problem is too many plots and ideas. I won’t live long enough to write out all the story lines I have in my head. I have filing cabinets full of notes even I cannot decipher anymore.
So I am going to try to answer the question of how I come up with an idea that develops into a book by using the plot of my current novel (and not give away the who-done-it because even I don’t know … yet) as an example. Please remember, this is what it looks like inside my head. It’s sort of like those math word problems I can never figure out. If a plane leaves Boston and the sun is shining and a train leaves Richmond when it's raining, I take the bus cause it’s cheaper and carry an umbrella because it will protect me from both. Good luck in following the trail and I’ll see you on the other side … hopefully.
Two hints. I live in Virginia and I write romantic mysteries.
One night, I dreamed about a skeleton being discovered behind a wall. (I watch way too many true crime shows on television.) There was a large open space behind it, water was running in from somewhere and there was a lot of mud. When I woke up, I wondered, if someone had all that space, why bury the skeleton right up next to the wall, where was the water coming from, who were they before they became bones and how did they get there. That’s the mystery part.
Around this time, a relative had trouble with a broken water pipe and did not have water for two days except where it filled up their dirt floor basement. Perfect. A broken pipe leaking water, creating mud, damaging a wall and exposing the skeleton was a great idea. And as a survivor of the 2009-10 winter season in Virginia, I could reason our freezing temperatures, heavy snows and melt offs would have damaged any underground, secret enclosure.
My heroine would wake up to no water and have to deal with all the dilemmas that created. And being the independent, capable, single woman that she is, she would have to call in a hunky male plumber to work on her pipes … her problem. That’s the romantic part.
Back from my days of helping my father do repairs around the farm instead of being inside with a good book where I really wanted to be, I remembered to backtrack a leak, you can color the water with food coloring to indicate flow direction and source. (See, Dad, I was listening and not daydreaming.) Now my heroine is running around allover the house with a bucket of red water, dumping it down drains and commodes (bet she never gets those stains out) while the hunky plumber watches the water coming into the basement.
Several years ago, a friend of mine found a mummified arm on his property. (That one is real and not made up.) Turns out his home belonged to a doctor during the civil war. (I am writing this in April which is Confederate History Month and our governor is still wiping the shoe polish off his teeth where he stuck his foot in his mouth.) Owning pre-civil war homes in the Shenandoah Valley means you have status and can hang a big ole plaque out on the front gate for everyone to see. But what if her house was built during the war? No plaque, no status, lots of repair problems and the bones in the basement could be modern or just some really old guy whose been hanging around.
And has he been hanging around? Does she have ghosts? (When I’m not watching true crime, I’m watching true paranormal shows.) Civil war plus ghosts equals (see, math) a local battlefield near where I live that’s reported to be haunted. One form this haunting takes is a knocking on the front doors of all the houses on the battlefield. Okay, she just might have an infestation of ghosts (or ghost singular) as well as plumbing problems. Right after I decided to include a haunting knock on her front door, I read (when I’m not watching television, I’m reading) something I’d never heard of before. Three knocks on the door (when no one’s there) is an omen of death. So now she has someone rapping on her door three times.
Anytime you find a skeleton on your property, it’s probably a good idea to call the police. I have a job in the justice system and have just finished working a missing person’s case with a totally dreamy detective. Guess who’s going to show up in answer to her 911 call of finding the remains? I promise to change the names to protect the good looking.
So my heroine has a broken pipe, no water, a flooded basement, a secret underground enclosure, a ghost rapping (not a music genre), a hunky plumber and a dreamy detective. And people say they can't find anything to write about. I just want to see her explain why the skeleton has been dyed red with food coloring.
You still there?
Thomasnovels
People are always telling me they could not write a book because they could never come up with all those plots and how do I ever manage to think up all those stories. I usually mumble something, pretend I see someone I know on the other side of the room, move off and don’t try to explain it because I don’t look good in white (as in a straight jacket). My problem is too many plots and ideas. I won’t live long enough to write out all the story lines I have in my head. I have filing cabinets full of notes even I cannot decipher anymore.
So I am going to try to answer the question of how I come up with an idea that develops into a book by using the plot of my current novel (and not give away the who-done-it because even I don’t know … yet) as an example. Please remember, this is what it looks like inside my head. It’s sort of like those math word problems I can never figure out. If a plane leaves Boston and the sun is shining and a train leaves Richmond when it's raining, I take the bus cause it’s cheaper and carry an umbrella because it will protect me from both. Good luck in following the trail and I’ll see you on the other side … hopefully.
Two hints. I live in Virginia and I write romantic mysteries.
One night, I dreamed about a skeleton being discovered behind a wall. (I watch way too many true crime shows on television.) There was a large open space behind it, water was running in from somewhere and there was a lot of mud. When I woke up, I wondered, if someone had all that space, why bury the skeleton right up next to the wall, where was the water coming from, who were they before they became bones and how did they get there. That’s the mystery part.
Around this time, a relative had trouble with a broken water pipe and did not have water for two days except where it filled up their dirt floor basement. Perfect. A broken pipe leaking water, creating mud, damaging a wall and exposing the skeleton was a great idea. And as a survivor of the 2009-10 winter season in Virginia, I could reason our freezing temperatures, heavy snows and melt offs would have damaged any underground, secret enclosure.
My heroine would wake up to no water and have to deal with all the dilemmas that created. And being the independent, capable, single woman that she is, she would have to call in a hunky male plumber to work on her pipes … her problem. That’s the romantic part.
Back from my days of helping my father do repairs around the farm instead of being inside with a good book where I really wanted to be, I remembered to backtrack a leak, you can color the water with food coloring to indicate flow direction and source. (See, Dad, I was listening and not daydreaming.) Now my heroine is running around allover the house with a bucket of red water, dumping it down drains and commodes (bet she never gets those stains out) while the hunky plumber watches the water coming into the basement.
Several years ago, a friend of mine found a mummified arm on his property. (That one is real and not made up.) Turns out his home belonged to a doctor during the civil war. (I am writing this in April which is Confederate History Month and our governor is still wiping the shoe polish off his teeth where he stuck his foot in his mouth.) Owning pre-civil war homes in the Shenandoah Valley means you have status and can hang a big ole plaque out on the front gate for everyone to see. But what if her house was built during the war? No plaque, no status, lots of repair problems and the bones in the basement could be modern or just some really old guy whose been hanging around.
And has he been hanging around? Does she have ghosts? (When I’m not watching true crime, I’m watching true paranormal shows.) Civil war plus ghosts equals (see, math) a local battlefield near where I live that’s reported to be haunted. One form this haunting takes is a knocking on the front doors of all the houses on the battlefield. Okay, she just might have an infestation of ghosts (or ghost singular) as well as plumbing problems. Right after I decided to include a haunting knock on her front door, I read (when I’m not watching television, I’m reading) something I’d never heard of before. Three knocks on the door (when no one’s there) is an omen of death. So now she has someone rapping on her door three times.
Anytime you find a skeleton on your property, it’s probably a good idea to call the police. I have a job in the justice system and have just finished working a missing person’s case with a totally dreamy detective. Guess who’s going to show up in answer to her 911 call of finding the remains? I promise to change the names to protect the good looking.
So my heroine has a broken pipe, no water, a flooded basement, a secret underground enclosure, a ghost rapping (not a music genre), a hunky plumber and a dreamy detective. And people say they can't find anything to write about. I just want to see her explain why the skeleton has been dyed red with food coloring.
You still there?
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