On Those Naughty Sex Books

Remember when your mom hid that paperback in her purse growing up? She'd get flustered when you went diving into it's depth for change or a lollipop or a tissue. Its cover was white, its title was in big red letters, there were certain pages dog-eared, the crease so over-folded it was tearing a bit in the corner. You'd try to pull it out and your mom's face would whiten, here eyes would widen, and she'd grab it from you and stuff it back inside. "That's Mummy's book, honey. What do you need? I'll get it for you."

You took your quarter or lolly or tissue and went along your path. 

And maybe, later, if you were a precocious brat like me, you'd sneak into her purse after she went to bed, to see what was so forbidden.

That's how I discovered a few books that I perhaps didn't really understand completely. The Kama Sutra. Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask). Hot, steamy romances (those were most of the ones with the pages dog-eared.)

My parents, God bless them, were (and still are) huge readers. I was encouraged to read, and took advantage, because the escape, the imagination, matched my temperament perfectly. I read adult books alongside children's books. I read Roots in preparation for the miniseries, the same with The Thorn Birds. (Don't I remember a steamy sex scene in that? Forbidden sex?)

Every generation has their "book". You know the one I'm talking about - it's naughty. It's got sex - real sex, not the longing kind of stuff that fast forwards through the act itself. One of the more adventurous women in the neighborhood would get the book, read it, dog-ear the good parts, and pass it around.  Down and dirty and real. Women discuss it in hushed whispers, in person, passing along the books like contraband. 

Even teens always find a book that they relate to. In my time, it was Judy Blume's Forever. The concept of losing our virginity was fast becoming a reality, and that book taught us how it should be - with someone we love - and what can go wrong - free milk from the cow syndrome. It was titillating and terrifying, and so very adult.

This generation had Twilight - and yes, I know it's dumb that the vampires sparkle, but the message of abstinence until marriage - coming from the BOY - wasn't the worst thing our teens could hear. I don't know of anyone who was hurt by waiting to have sex.

Contrary to some schools of thought, we women do like sex. How else do you explain all these kids running around, not to mention the huge demand for birth-control, and the too-high abortion rates? And we like to read a bit of spicy writing. I daresay some of us even like to watch a little spicy television and see some spicy movies, too. A little spicy on the screen and inside the book covers equals a little spicy inside the bed covers, if you catch my drift.

So why has the worldwide phenomenon that is 50 SHADES OF GREY become a practically overnight sensation? It is hardly the first book featuring kinky sex to hit the marketplace, to get passed around, to have blow out book sales, to have everyone's tongues wagging.

BUT.........

It is the first of the digital age. It is the first completely private, far reaching book of erotica. It is the first time a private woman can go to a private bookstore with utter anonymity, ie: sitting by herself on her couch, and download a word of mouth sensation. She can read it, and be titillated by it, in private.

This is powerful. A major shift in the delivery method of the written word. I would bet that the erotic market is going to have a nice boom from this, at last. Some superbly written erotica exists already, so I hope the phenomenon continues.

I haven't read the book. It has absolutely nothing to do with anything I've heard from the book's detractors - the writing is terrible, it's just like Twilight (Hey, I LIKED Twilight), it's smut. No, I haven't read it because I don't get my jollies from S&M. Remember 9 1/2 weeks? I HATED how that went. His dominance, her submissiveness. Same thing here. I think we should all be equals. It's just me. Not saying S&M is bad, or anything, it's just not my particular kink. 

But if 50 Shades of Grey gets us talking about sex, gets us in bed with our partners more, helps save a few relationships, then I'm all for it.

See Page 76. I hear that's where all the good stuff happens. 

On Murder Most Foul and Abandoning Roots

I saw this tweet the other day, and it really resonated with me. 

Sarah Hilary (@sarah_hilary) 

Bored to death with grisly crime. Headless this and severed that *yawns* Psychological suspense is the way to go crimewriting

I have to admit, I feel the same way. I don't know when my - shall we call it squeamishness? I think we shall! - began, but it reared its head during the writing of The Immortals. And trust me, that isn't exactly a book for the squeamish. Or maybe it was after 14, which has a scene that turns my stomach. Honestly, it must have been, because Judas Kiss is a straight up murder mystery, not a serial killer book, and The Cold Room, while a serial killer book, has no blood in it. Which was a fun challenge.

I remember having this exact conversation with an author I greatly respect. I told her I was starting to get put off my lunch by my work. That the violence against women didn't work for me, that I was scaring the crap out of myself, that I was having such vicious nightmares I considered seeking help. She very adroitly pointed out that suspense could be just as intense with the threat of blowing up a mall at the heart of the story as could the threat of dismemberment.

Her words stayed with me. I knew I had one more bloodbath of a book to write, and I dove into it with all my heart. But it wasn't gross, it wasn't freaky, it was simply violent. And that was better, but not quite enough.

I followed that book with one without a murder. No one dies in Where All the Dead Lie. On purpose.

And my Samantha Owens books are straight up suspense, heavy on the mystery, with a strong dash of romance. 

I guess somewhere along the way I lost my bloodlust. Even my reading habits bore out this theory. I steered clear of the writers I knew were going to have gorefests, and went back to some of my previous favorites - historicals, romances, mysteries and psychological suspense. 

Have I abandoned my roots? Perhaps. But my writing is stronger, it's more appealing to just about everyone, and I don't cringe when I have to discuss the plots. And boy, how, have I been sleeping better.

So what about you, chickadees? Have you ever been into the freakily frightening stuff? Who's your favorite suspense writer these days? Recommendations wanted!

On Changes Afoot

You will be so proud.

Those of you who know me know I am a world-class control freak. World. Class. I am also a Taurus, which means I don't do well with change. But of late, I'm spending much too much time on the business of being a writer instead of the writing part of being a writer.

This is in part my inability to allow others to help me, a trait I've exhibited since I was a young child, one that isn't necessarily a good thing, and in part the sad reality that I started programming computers in the 7th grade, and have always been comfortable with code. You know how we all have special, idiosyncratic little talents? One of mine, probably as high up the food chain as my innate ability to spill tea on my research materials, is the bizarre ability to spot discrepancies in large chunks of seemingly indecipherable code. I probably could have gotten work with the NSA. Can't balance a checkbook or tell time, but give me a 17 digit number for my library card and I'll have it down pat after a few reads. What's worse, I know my credit card numbers. Dangerous, that.*

This isn't a strong ability, but one that drives me to Figure Things Out. As such, I tend to be able to teach myself computer stuff without a problem. Which means, of course, that I've been running my own website, newsletter, Facebook, Twitter, etc., from the beginning. It hasn't made sense to give over to someone else - in the time it would take me to compose the email asking for a change, I can just do it myself.

That's not to say I'm good at it. On the contrary, just because I can doesn't mean I should. Because it isn't my main focus, I don't necessarily know all the tricks, so it takes me ten times as long as it would an expert. Plus I'm a perfectionist. I'll do something ten times over that's probably just fine the first time.

And so. I've decided to hire an expert. Content will still come from my brain, but the techy aspects will be controlled by others.

I only have a few hives. I trust they will get better by the end of the day.

A few changes will be quickly apparent. A monthly contest will be instituted, as will a monthly newsletter. The content therein will have more of an "insider" bent than what you're currently seeing, so be sure to sign up. I've killed the Twitter feed to my personal Facebook page, I hope you understand. The two mediums are simple not congruent. But I will post the blog there, with links I think are worthwhile included.

Also, more housekeeping details: Comments have been turned back on. It came to my attention that not everyone uses Facebook and Twitter (GASP. Say it isn't so!)** and emailing me comments is a pain. You have been heard. Forgive me using Captcha, but it at least arrests some of the spammers.

And now is the time. Seize the day! If there's anything you'd like to see - changes you think need made to the site, to the blog, things I'm missing, topics you'd like me to write about, etc., leave a comment.

I'm off to immerse myself back in my research. For your reading pleasure in the meantime, please see the following blogs of writers I admire:

Laura Benedict

Deanna Raybourn

Greg Rucka

Laura Lippman

Dani Shapiro

Louise Penny

Murder She Writes

Stephen Pressfield

Gwarlingo

Doug Richardson

Jeanne Veillette Bowerman

Happy Wednesday to you all!

* Yes, all of this is probably undiagnosed Aspergers, but quirky is just a nicer term, don't you think?

** Kidding. I actually greatly admire folks who can manage without being sucked down the rabbit hole.

On Vertiginous Moments

Have you ever driven along a familiar path, lost in thought, and suddenly came back to reality not know exactly where you are? Car coma, they call it. It's like being on the Penrose stairs, going around and around and never climbing any higher. Your mind winds around itself, blocking out at the reality to allow for fertile imaginations.

I had one of these vertiginous moments Friday. They're dangerous, truth be told, because if your mind isn't on your driving, your hurtling two tons of car down the road going forty, fifty, eighty miles and hour, people can get seriously hurt. But fun, for all that.

I'm underwater at the moment, working on two major projects. One is incredibly research heavy, one is fertile imagination land. Both, though, have me in fits of distraction, as was evidenced by my getting lost on Old Hickory Boulevard, a road I travel weekly. I came to and literally had no idea where I was. It took a full thirty seconds for the familiar to reassert itself. Gives lost in thought a whole new meaning.

This spatial oddity was further compounded by a mini-plague, which created actual vertigo. Hubby had a walloping plague, two doctor visit, highly miserable week. I attended to him with all the loving kindness I could muster, and was rewarded with a cold. So it was a quiet weekend as we both finally started recovering: a couple of nice, ambling walks, loads of chicken soup, and catch-up. Sundays are my favorite, really. A nice breakfast out, some work, then catch-up on whatever needs attending to. I like to read magazines on Sunday afternoons, Architectural Digest being one of my favorites, and Elle, and of course, People. I managed to eliminate everything on my online reading list that had been building since January, and feel so much more caught up. Rode roughshod over my inbox and got it down to zero, unsubscribed from several blogs that are no longer giving me what I need, and added a whole new category to my RSS feeds - Yoga blogs. I'm anxious to see if that helps my practice solidify.

Since the big project involves more reading than writing at the moment, I'm feeling a bit at loose ends. So I may be here a bit more, just to keep my fingers engaged a few times a week.

Have a lovely Monday. Remember, I turned comments off here, so we can chat on Facebook and Twitter instead. Tell me how you're liking the new set up, if you will. Like it? Hate it?

On The Dangers of Writing Fast... Faster... FASTER!!!!!!

Many of you saw the story in the New York Times this weekend about how the ereader phenomenon of consumers wanting their books NOW is driving established authors to write faster. It was an interesting piece, but one that I think struck a note of fear in all of our hearts. The story posits that authors who used to write one book a year are now being pushed to do more: two, even three novels, with shorts stories and novellas thrown in to bridge the gap between books, because ebook original authors are producing at an alarming pace, and traditionally published authors must do all they can to keep up.

I don't necessarily want to get into a discussion about the Us vs. Them mentality that is starting to emerge between traditionally published and self-published authors. A few vociferous people are leading this charge, and it won't take you many keystrokes to find them and their opinions. Nor do I want to delve into the fact that quantity does not necessarily equal quality.

No, I'd rather look at this phenomenon emerging of fast writing, and this sudden conversation cropping up in the recesses about how fast you really can write a book.

How fast is fast enough?

Different books take different efforts. Some are hugely labor intensive. Some are research heavy. Some tap into terribly difficult emotions, and are just plain difficult to write. Some write themselves. Each book is an entity unto itself.

Each writer is an entity unto him or herself, as well. Some of us can write a book in three months. Some claim to be able to write one in two weeks. For some, five years, ten years, are the norm. For most, one book a year is a steady, reasonable pace. It allows for research, writing, editing, proper time for reviews and marketing and tours. If you're familiar with everything that happens in the course of writing a book, you'd know that it is hardly languorous. Yet suddenly, people are claiming one book a year is too slow.

I personally write two books a year. Not because that's what the market is demanding of me, but because it naturally takes me on average six months to write a book. But I don't have children, and writing is my job. I've been a full-time writer from the beginning of my career, and have been blessed with the right mix of people and timing and mastering my own learning curve to figure out an appropriate, comfortable pace for ME.

But there are many ways up the mountain.

Listen, literature is not one size fits all. Every writer I know, regardless of how quickly they produce books, are working hard, every day. Grinding it out. I have a friend whose output is maybe 100 words a day - 100 proud, keepable words a day. I have another who feels short if she doesn't hit 5,000. I fall in between - averaging 1,000 minimum, and when I'm really in the groove, easily in the 3-4,000 range. I write fast, yes, in comparison to some, but not in comparison to others.

The premise of the article hinted that readers may start abandoning their favorites who put out one book a year in favor of lesser known, new-to-them authors who are cranking out a book every two to three months. This is a theme in the new Us vs. Them mentality, and it's one that's going to get all of us in trouble.

Thriller author Steve Berry is quoted at the end of the NYT article with what I felt was the most salient thought in the whole piece. He said, "You don’t ever want to get into a situation where your worth is being judged by the amount of your productivity.”

I couldn't agree more with that statement. Especially for the writers who do take a full year (or more) to write a book. We've got a lot of pressure on ourselves as it is, with the advent (necessary evil?) of increased self-promotion - social networking, marketing and PR - in addition to writing. To start getting into the mindset that oh, hey, I'm not a good enough writer because I can't crank out five books a year is dangerous.

It will stifle creativity. It will drive the muse off a cliff. It will cause divorces and suicides and make writers quit entirely. You think I'm kidding? I'm not. We are artists, for better or for worse. And while not all of us are long-suffering, the artistic mentality is, at its heart, a delicate creature that must be fed and nurtured if it will continue to produce. Think of a farm, with acres planted, rows and rows and rows of corn. If the corn isn't watered and fertilized and cared for, it dries up and rots. Words, and Muses, and Writers, are the exact same.

I often gets fan mail that ends with the words "Write Faster." It's actually kind of a joke in my house - hubby tells me that all the time. Because ultimately, the more we write, the more we get paid, and eating and paying the mortgage is a Good Thing. We all want to make money at this, and the simple fact is, more product equals more money.

But we have to take care of our gift, as well. The Muse doesn't delight in being shackled to a desk and forced to spill words onto the page all day every day. Yes, we want more readers. I want more readers. But if I start mentally outsourcing my Muse to a factory in China, chances are, there's going to be some problems. Strikes. Lawsuits. Closures.

Writing fast is becoming expected. And that could lead to some serious burnout, and the loss of some great writers.

One of my favorite quotes is from Lao Tzu: "When you are content not to compare or compete, everyone will respect you."

I think that's doubly true for writing. Work hard. Meet your deadlines. Write smart. That in and of itself will make you fast. But don't try to compare yourself to other writers and their output, and don't cave to the pressure of writing fast if that's not your nature. That way lies madness.