I started a book a few months ago. And by a few, I mean six-ish. It originally started as a short story. I wanted to try my hand at erotica. I figured I had enough experience, I could totally write about it.
So I wrote a short story about a guy and a girl. When I got to a stopping point for the story, I realized that I really liked these two characters and I wanted to see where it would go.
My writing process is one of a “pantser” as it is called, which is the opposite of a planner. I don’t plan anything. I just fly by the seat of my pants. I let the story tell itself. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. In this particular case, I couldn’t get enough of the story. And even as I wrote it, I had no idea what was happening until it happened.
Like some literary out of body experience. The short story just kept getting longer and longer until eventually, I was 25,000 words in with no end in sight. I didn’t want to rush it. I hate reading books that are rushed. And I didn’t want to end it on a weird note, which I guess would be nearly impossible considering I don’t really feel like I have anything to do with the story. I feel like I am just a vessel to tell the story. Like one of those old grannies in a rocking chair on the front porch. It’s just a story that I’m telling as it’s told to me.
I know it sounds like I’m crazy. And maybe I am, but crazy is my process.
So over the last month or so, I have had a really hard time sticking to a schedule to get this written. I have a publisher waiting on it. And that may have been part of the problem.
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times. Sometimes I’m scared of getting exactly what I want. And I let the fear take over and hinder my progress. It doesn’t matter in what. It just happens.
But today, I buckled down. I was so close to the end. I could feel it. I didn’t know what was going to happen when I sat down to write. I just knew that I had to write. I had to see what it was I had been so afraid to write. About four hours and four thousand words into my day, I was sitting at computer sobbing. Ugly crying. Dripping snot and tears on my favorite purple sweatshirt.
Shit happened. Heartbreaking shit happened. And I cried on and off for the next 3 hours. Just when I thought I was OK, I would find out something else and I would be sobbing again.
My son asked me how I could cry when I was doing the writing. I didn’t have an answer for him. I don’t know how I could cry. But maybe it’s because I had known these people for over six months and you always want the best for your friends, especially when they are good friends. I’m not going to give any spoilers just in case erotica is your thing and you decide to pick up a copy after it’s released next year, but I feel accomplished today. And slightly heartbroken. And a little empty.
It’s an odd combination. I told a couple people that I finished it. I let two read it. One has given me feedback (through tears of her own). I’m waiting on the second person.
If you are a reader of erotica, I will be looking for beta readers soon (I think). So you can message me and let me know. It’s OK if erotica is not your thing. I don’t actually even know if this would be considered erotica. I think it would just because of the hardcore sex scenes in it, but it turned in to so much more than that for me. I am reluctant to put that label on it.
I’ll keep you posted on the progress. And I am going to take a week off before starting another book on November 1. Wish me luck.