I am sorry, but I have to take a break from my backlist party today, to post some more personal considerations.
Ever since Doris O'Connor posted a link to this astonishing article
here I have felt a “Wyvern Rant” building up. Those who know me well know that
I don’t rant halfway, but no, this time I will be moderate... more or less. We are
all authors here and I don’t want to hit anyone on the head (well, I do want,
but we can’t always have nice things, can we??)
So why do we write “pornography”?
Unlike some of my colleagues I don’t even object to my books
(at least some of them) being called pornography. I didn’t exactly overexert
myself coming up with a plot for Black Carnival, for example. Let’s face it,
there’s just enough plot to string the sex scenes together. Still, it is considered
poor taste to call it Porn. We do strive to write about lovable characters, not
just about mating bodies. Still. Nowadays even calling a book Erotica is dicey.
So, let’s agree to call it Erotic Romance. Whatever you call it, it’s still
sex.
Why do I write about it? Because I love words, and I love
sex. I like flowers, horses, ducks and ships too, and I like to write about all
these things too. But I got to admit that writing about sex is more intriguing.
I don’t think there is anything in life more fabulous that
good sex. What can I say.
We all have our little manias. Like, you, Philippa, have
this thing for dead kings and queens, and that is fine, fine. I mean, my
publisher probably would not touch it because it’s necrophilia, which is
considered poor taste in some circles, but it’s ok, I don’t judge you, we all
have our little quirks. I have this thing for carpentry. Once had a memorable
orgasm, while reading a very technical
book called “The American Built Clipper Ship”. To this day, the words “black-locust
trunnel” sends a sinful shiver up my queer wood-working back. As I said, we all
get off on something or other, live and let live, right?
Why do we write about sex… Jesus, have you ever written
poetry? Have you EVER had an orgasm, Philippa? Tell me, as a writer, is there
anything more challenging than describing the utterly indescribable, flirting
with disaster, always on the edge of the dreaded precipice, that purple prose,
always wondering if that one metaphor is one too many, one too far? Always
wondering if you can capture at least the ghost of that fantastic moment… Always
wondering, are words, ever, enough?
In the
bound red obscurity
Of my
blind, tied body
My world is
only – you
Your
silence is my dark night-sky
Your skin
is the warm earth upon which I stand
Your
fingertips open the path for me
Your tongue
is the river that sweeps me away
From the
darkness
Into raging
phosphorescent seas
Floating in
silver waves – foam and salt tears
And your
member - deep inside me
Is the life
tree of this world
Its roots
hold me fast into time and place
But its
wind-blown top
Is the
sea-voice of the storm
No, I mean, I am a gardener, and I love flowers, but even a million squillions daffodils won’t bring me to such a pitch of
poetic fervour. No, it takes a lover and a good oestrogen high to get me in
that state of wordy passion.
I write about sex because it is beautiful and immensely powerful
and ineffable. Because it is alive, it is life, and one good shag is worth a thousand dead
kings. Have you ever had oral sex so mind-bogglingly good that you had visions?
(yes, this literally happened to me, no I don’t do drugs, and yes, my husband
is that good, what can I say, suck it up, Philippa). Have you ever longed for
somebody so much that every curve of
their body became an object of agonizing worship? Have you ever loved someone
so painfully that the first touch of their skin brought tears to your eyes? Are
you seriously telling me that these things, some of the most elemental things a
human being can ever experience, are not worth writing about, are not worth
deploying excellent prose for, when so many words are wasted every day on so
many trivial objects?
Why do we write about sex?
Because so much we do and are in our life, whether we like
to admit or not is dictated by our subconscious, and boy is our subconscious
bashed about by our sexual instinct… I think the way people have sex, tells a
lot about them. When I was writing Spellbreakers, there was so much world-building
in it, that I seriously considered stripping the sex scenes out of it, and
submitting it as a fantasy novel. But then I realized, while rewriting it this
way, that I had lost a very significant chunk of the characters’ personas and
development. I don’t think you HAVE to use sex to explore your characters’
psyche, but it is one hell of a way to do
it. We are (sometimes) at our most raw and unguarded during sex. It is
something worth exploring.
Am I saying that all romance is excellent literature? Hell
no. But then, MOST LITERATURE is not excellent literature. Quality, or lack of it, is not confined
to some genres or other, dear Philippa.
Ok, rant over. Do leave a sexy comment below for a chance to
win a e-copy of either Black Carnival or Spellbreakers, your choice. Let’s
celebrate.
