My career in writing began as a technical writer, which requires
a high degree of exactness and brevity. So when I started writing fiction, my
sex scenes tended to be highly accurate. And short.
He
thrust. He grunted. Two minutes later, he groaned and rolled over.
"Is
that all?" she cried. "I want more!!!"
"Zzzzz…"*
My Critique Partner, at the time, was a kind woman. Upon
reading my scene, her brow knit and she worried her lower lip.
Mrs. Snark: "Well?"
CP: "Well, dear. It's very nice…"
Mrs. Snark: "But?"
CP: "Maybe if you included a bit more detail…"
Thus began my Purple Prose Era.
With a grunt, he thrust his
burgeoning, throbbing love torch into her honey pot.
Fireworks ensued.
He groaned and rolled over.
She floated on a golden cloud of
post-ecstasy and then sighed with dreamy contentment. "What are you
thinking?" she asked.
"Zzzz…"
Even after I published, my hero never tended to talk too
much. I'd write pages of steamy sex and hundreds of words of dialogue and yet
it was always my heroine doing all of the talking.
Accurate is best, right? Right?
Wrong.
My editor always says: "He needs to say something. Anything. He
can't just grunt, groan, and moan at frequent intervals."
Mrs. Snark: "All
right, fine."
He groaned and rolled over. "I
love you, baby."
"Zzzz…."
Because turnabout is
fair play.
*This was, of course,
before I met Mr. Snark, because I would not wish to impugn Mr. Snark's considerable
skills as a lover.
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