Weather Permitting

Ok, I admit it. I have sex on the brain.

I spent this weekend trying to write some pretty graphic sex scenes for my current novel. Which is challenging all on its own, even ignoring the fact that I am --at the moment, at least -- significantly light on material to draw on from my own life (if you don't count fantasy). I really haven't written this graphically before -- it's a lot harder than I thought it would be. Unfortunately for me, it's pretty critical to the entire plot of the book. Now I understand what Anne Lamott really meant when she wrote about shitty first drafts and KFKD radio -- when all the voices in your head combine to convince you that you don't have a clue what you're doing. I'm right there with you, babe, god help me.

Maybe I need to practice by reading some letters to Penthouse. Or Cosmo -- I understand they've become quite graphic recently. 75 Positions for Naughty Girls or something similar might provide some welcome inspiration. If I dictate my sexual fantasies while I'm at work, d'ya think it will affect my job performance?

Unfortunately, it felt like the ghost of my grandmother was sitting on my left shoulder while I tried to write yesterday. "Oh, my goodness," I could almost hear her laughing, "Surely she's not going to do THAT? And how in the world do you even KNOW about that?" And don't even get me started on my father's imaginary reaction. I know, I have two kids, but I'm sure my dad would rather believe I found them under a cabbage leaf than think about whether I have anything at all to do with a penis. Let alone read what I might write about it.

At any rate, mostly I felt like I was writing the screenplay for a really bad porn film. Or a really bad romance novel. Or some combination of the two.

I need some new material. Oh, I'm really going to have to work on this. Not that that's a bad thing. I can always hope that life will imitate art.