What I’ve learned about writing erotic scenes

I write about people,  so once in a while, my characters will have sex. Oddly enough, it’s these rare scenes that take the longest to write, because I find it so easy to make a complete sow’s ear of it (which explains why the latest book is taking so long to write: it’s my first attempt at erotic fiction).
Fortunately, I’ve found that writing erotica is a bit like good punctuation: there’s room for flexibility, but certain rules should never be broken. So, using the latest , still un-named, work as a template, here’s what I’ve learned about writing erotica (so far):

1) Throw yourself into it.
Now is not the time to be self-conscious, especially if you’re at the initial drafting stage. I think a lot of writers hit an erotic scene and think, ‘My God, what if my readers think I spend my weekends doing this?’ And this comes across in a scene that’s reserved, detached and with the author’s embarrassment oozing through.

Get over it.
Really.
Just let yourself go.

No one’s going to judge you for it, and no one is going to think it’s you (unless your readership also believes you butcher people at weekends because your main protagonist does).
And what you write may be ridiculous, but that’s okay; once you’ve got the raw down on paper, you can always come back and fix it after a cigarette and a cold shower. But when you start to write, abandon reason, always.

2) Get someone to read it . . .
You should be doing this with the book anyway, but it’s sometimes worth having someone read the scene in isolation. Watch for sniggers and guffaws and comments like, ‘Well, that was certainly . . . different.’
Once you’re happy with the scene then you’re ready to see how it fits in with the wider piece. Now this is very important because some folk have a tendency to switch styles when they’re writing an erotic scene; why, I have no idea. If you’re writing a gritty detective drama, then don’t drop into a dreamy DH Lawrence style of prose as soon as your ex-Navy SeAL street cop jumps into bed with his  favourite informant/hooker; it looks weird.
Likewise, if you’re writing a period piece set in a country house, then think carefully about how the scene sits within the rest of the book. Before the master of the house is chanced upon in the privacy of his study, stop! Remember, you’re writing a period piece of literary, poetic genius; chickens should not be choked; bishops should not be beaten and carrots, most definitely, can not be whacked.

3) . . . other than family
Again, this is a general rule; it doesn’t just apply to erotica. Your family will say everything you write is fabulous and brilliant; they love you and it’s their job to encourage you, but that won’t help you as a writer.

4) Establish some ground rules.
I wrote a scene once which had atmosphere, flow, tension, and then it ran into a brick wall when ‘He entered her.’ I got the piece back from my editor, and she’d scribbled a note (capitalised and in red ink) after the offending phrase:

He entered her.

. . . threw his coat on the hook,  himself into an armchair, found the remote and started skipping through the TV channels.

There’s nothing wrong with the folk being ‘entered’, but it’s been used so much that it’s got no strength behind it, and when a phrase loses its strength then, in writing, it becomes a cliché.

She’s a person, Dom; not a three-bedroom maisonette in Cricklewood.

Okay, I get it; fair enough.

I’m also building a list of words and phrases that I will steadfastly avoid during an erotic scene. Top of the list: engorged, with gasp(ed) and thrust running equal second.

Changing things . . .

Over the past month or so, I’ve been serialising Regarding Avalon on WattPad. It’s an experiment in getting a bit more exposure for my writing, which by happy coincidence has also given me an excuse to read the whole book again. (Being a vain sort of writer, I don’t need much of an excuse to re-read my own books, but if I do it as often as I’d like then I’d have no time to read anyone else’s.)

Odd thing about reading your old stuff though: new stuff pops into your head. You think to yourself:

‘Oooh, now what if she’d said this?’

or

‘Now hang on; it would have been a lot funnier if he’d done that!’

Ideas that are sometimes better, sometimes just a different take on things.

In the bad old days, once your book was out then it was out. If you wanted to make sweeping changes then tough buns (This is probably why I’ve come across so many spelling mistakes in books over the years.) But now, with the miracle of digital distribution, you can go back, make changes and release it again. Hell, you can rewrite the whole book under the same title if you want to.

But that doesn’t mean you should.

For one thing, it’s a little bit unfair on the folk who’ve already bought your book, unless you can get the revised copy to them with a note of apology:

‘Dear reader; I woke up in the middle of the night and decided I’d prefer to kill Susan in chapter 4 instead of chapter 9. Here’s the new book; just start reading from chapter 4 – everything else is more or less the same.’

No, not fair, especially if, a week later, you decide that Susan’s one-in-a-million mishap with the power drill was better in chapter 9 after all:

‘Dear reader; you haven’t started on that new revision yet, have you?’

I’m a consummate meddler (I think the correct medical term is ‘George Lucas Syndrome’); if I let myself then I’d be changing released works every week. So years ago, I established a single, simple rule for myself:

Once it’s out, it’s done.

Sticking to the rule means that I don’t rush stuff out because I think I can fix it later. The book gets read, changed, edited, changed, read, edited, copy-edited . . . You get the idea; it has to be best it can be before I hit the ‘publish’ button.

And if I have new ideas and new directions for the characters then that’s what the sequel’s for.