By Ashley Lister

“A month’s worth of unplanned and directionless writing can save you hours on plotting.”
Anon

I’m not sure who is responsible for the quote above, but I have to admit it has a terrible ring of truth to it. My PhD thesis focused on the intricacies of plotting. My latest non-fiction book, How to Write Short Stories and Get Them Published, has a substantial chapter that looks at approaches to plotting. My most successful stories have been plotted meticulously before I got into the process of writing them.

And yet, still, I will often try to coast my way past the plotting part of the process as though it’s simply a matter of sitting in front of the keyboard and hammering out words until everything falls into place.

Before I continue, I want to say a brief word about the notion of plotters and pantsers. There are some people who believe that writers fall into these two categories when it comes to writing: with the plotters making extensive notes before beginning, so that the journey of their story is always known to them, and the pantsers (so-called because they write by the seat of their pants) who simply write until the story concludes, without much of a preconceived idea of where the story is going. Whilst I’m not going to argue against the idea of anyone identifying as a plotter or pantser, I do believe that most of us writers inhabit the middle ground of these dynamics. Some stories come to us in such a way that there is no need to map out the structure. Similarly, some stories benefit from mapping so that their nuances and complexities aren’t lost in the white-hot rush of getting the words on the page. And then, there are stories that can be plotted, and still manage to branch off into surprising new directions as they are being written.

I mention all of this because I’ve spent the past month busily not writing a novel. Each time I try to sit down and plot the story, I tell myself that plotting is the antithesis of creativity and this novel deserves better. Each time I try to sit down and explore where the next scene is going by simply writing it, I find myself tying up loose ends early or opening subplots that look set to take over the entire narrative.

All of which is my way of saying enough is enough. I’ve spent the last month trying to write this story without giving plotting or structure any of the credence it so justly deserves. I’m now going to spend a week plotting and planning and I shall see how that pans out. Hopefully, having explored so many ideas with the pantser approach, I should now have sufficient material to plot something exceptional.

I shall let you know how this adventure transpires next month.

Ash

I’ve celebrated the new year twice this month: first at the New Year’s Eve bash at the community-run LGBTQ club in my town, where my spouse Mirtha and I spent an afternoon chopping vegetables for the midnight buffet, and then at a Chinese New Year banquet in a local Chinese restaurant, where spouse and I were invited by a Chinese friend. (As paying guests, we dined luxuriously.) In the Christian reckoning, we are in the year 2020 since the birth of Christ, but in the Chinese reckoning, we are in the year 4718, the Year of the Metal Rat.

Aside from the ongoing disaster of world politics and climate change, I’ve wondered whether the year 2020 (or the brand-new Year of the Rat) has a different theme or flavour from any previous year.

If you didn’t consciously know that a “new year” had begun in the middle of winter, would you be able to feel something new in the air?

The theme I’ve noticed in my own life could be called “recycling.” Old things tend to return with a new twist.

For example, I’m still teaching first-year English courses in the local university, as I have for the past thirty years, but every time I meet a new class in early January, there is a different atmosphere in the room. This is probably why Show Biz never gets stale for some performers: no two audiences are exactly alike. I try to vary my course outlines from one semester to the next so as not to get burned-out, but certain basics always have to be covered. No matter how many times I explain the relationship of a subject and a verb, or the significance of an epiphany in a work of fiction, I never get tired of watching the look of discovery in the eyes of certain students. The best epiphanies happen on the spot, in real time.

Then there is the withdrawal of a royal couple from the Royal Family of the United Kingdom and Commonwealth. The decision of Prince Harry and his wife Meghan (still the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, although no longer their Royal Highnesses) to escape to Canada has been compared to other abdications, which were supposedly shocking.

Personally, I’m not shocked. I’ve seen examples of the snark aimed at the Duchess by the British media, and I doubt if I could just ignore it either. This is essentially the same snark that was formerly aimed at Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, until she split up with her husband, Prince Andrew, and then at Princess Kate, a.k.a. the Duchess of Cambridge, until a new victim appeared on the scene. Note that while “Fergie” was judged to be too fat, Kate Middleton was judged to be thin, waif-like and undignified. And could complaints about the vulgarity of Duchess Meghan have anything to do with racism? Not according to those who claim that she simply doesn’t know how to behave.

Most objections to the monarchy as an outdated institution seem logical to me, but firing darts at relatively harmless individuals, especially women who were not born into royal families, is just nasty. I’m reminded of the French porn that was written about Marie Antoinette, the last Queen Consort of France, before she and her husband, Louis XVI, were beheaded during the French Revolution. Apparently some anti-monarchists could find no better way to attack the Ancien Regime than by claiming that La Reine was a nympho who couldn’t get enough.

Now, in 2020, I feel mildly pleased that the newly-escaped royal couple plan to settle in Victoria, a small city on Vancouver Island off the west coast of Canada, which has been luring British expatriates for generations. I found out last year that a group of retired academics from the prairie university where I currently teach have settled in Victoria, and meet regularly for lunch. I was told that Mirtha and I will be welcome to join this group if/when we escape the harsh prairie climate to enjoy the gentle rain of Victoria in our old age. So there is a chance that someday, I might pass by the Duke and Duchess on the street, or even meet them through mutual acquaintances. Or maybe not. The prospect doesn’t keep me awake at night.

I’ve been warned in the press that Canadian taxpayers will probably have to pay for the security of the Duke and Duchess, but this was always the case during royal visits anyway. I can think of better things to worry about.

Then there is the imminent release of my revised novel, Prairie Gothic. I wrote the first version in 1998, before I even joined the Erotic Readers Association, as it was called then. It featured a lot of sex, mostly between women, and a network of relationships in a “gay” community based on the one I knew. The novel was divided into nine rambling chapters. For some reason, it was accepted for e-publication by Roy Larkin, then a member of Erotic Readers, who wrote BDSM erotica under the name “Laurie Mann,” and ran an on-line publishing company, Amatory Ink. After complaining that good material was hard to find, he closed shop in 2006, which meant that my novel was no longer available to paying customers. I tried submitting excerpts, repackaged as erotic stories, to editors of anthologies such as Best Lesbian Erotica, with no luck. I let the novel gather virtual dust on my hard-drive.

During my sabbatical year, 2016-17, I decided that I needed to take another look at Prairie Gothic, and decide whether it was worth saving. I was amazed at my own chutzpah in writing a novel when I really didn’t know how, but I was also somewhat surprised by the novel’s good bones. On rereading scenes that I had almost forgotten writing, I could feel the energy in them.

I also noticed that my narrative of the 1990s had a complete lack of visible computer technology. The characters can’t contact each other by cell-phone, nor do they meet in on-line dating sites. The only way they know to find a same-sex date is by going to the obscure local “gay” bar. (In real life, some male regulars objected when “lesbian” was officially added to the name of the elected board that ran the bar. Such exotica as transpeople or a non-binary crowd seemed literally unthinkable, while self-proclaimed bisexuals were seen as gay but shifty with it.) The way my characters find sexy reading-matter is by going to an actual store called “Dirty Harry’s.” The retro flavour also came from the incorporation of some real-life local scandals: the destruction of the local Conservative Party in a series of trials for financial corruption plus a lurid murder trial which I attended because the two young male killers were friends of my teenage daughter.

In short, I came to realize that my raunchy novel had become historical fiction. I decided to keep it that way, and add the subtitle: “A Tale of the Old Millennium.” I revised the story substantially and divided it into 22 chapters while adding 10,000 words. Strangely enough, the fear of some of my characters that the world might end in “Y2K,” the year 2000, seems current, since fear of a coming Apocalypse is still with us. Do we have until 2025 to enjoy our unsustainable lifestyles? It’s debatable.

I now have a proof copy of the new version of Prairie Gothic from Lethe Press, the new publisher. I need to go over it with a fine-tooth comb, and add some acknowledgements. I can hardly wait to see this piece as an actual book that I can hold in my hands for the first time.

Sometime in 2020, my blog Beyond Romance will probably hit a million views. I’m at 957,000 right now. That seems like a lot – until I remember that I created the blog ten years ago!

Still, an average of one hundred thousand views per year… not too bad for an obscure author of smut. Some people, at least, are paying attention.

I’m always trying to figure out, of course, how to attract more of them.

Blogging is my primary form of online promotion. I don’t do Facebook or Instagram, and spend only a few minutes per day on Twitter. This is partly due to privacy concerns, partly because I’m in a different time zone from most of my readers, so real-time engagement doesn’t mean much. The blog lets me accommodate my irregular work and travel schedule by setting up posts in advance. It also permits me to be as long-winded as I desire. No obscure, hash-sign-laden snippets for me!

These days I know that some people view blogs as incredibly antiquated. The typical attention span seems to have decreased to the point that nobody wants to read more than headlines. A few thousand words is just too much work. The Oh Get a Grip group blog recently shut down after more then ten years, because we felt like we were writing for nobody but ourselves, and I suspect that other authors are considering whether blogging is worth the effort.

For me, the answer is obvious. Aside from the convenience issue I raised above, blogging offers many advantages not provided by other forms of social media.

Blogs are persistent. If I post an excerpt from one of my books, I can link to that material in the future, for instance when I release the next book in the series. When I post a review, I can include references to previous reviews by the same author. It may seem like a lot of effort to create a blog post, but once it has been created, it doesn’t evaporate into cyberspace.

I can blog to suit my mood. If you browse Beyond Romance, you will find a wide variety of different material: essays reflecting on my life or my writing career; discussions of sexuality and society; articles about the writer’s craft or about publishing; humor and parodies; flash fiction, short stories and poetry; posts about my favorite charities; book reviews; and of course promotional posts highlighting my books. The blog is my personal notebook, my soapbox, my playground. The content and format are totally up to me.

The blog helps me network. I usually host two or three guest authors and promotional tours per week. This gives me the chance to connect with other writers, who are often willing to reciprocate by helping me promote my work.

Hosting other authors brings new readers. Every time I share information about a colleague’s books, that becomes an opportunity to draw her fans to my site and introduce them to my work.

Syndication increases the blog impact. A standard Internet protocol called RSS (Really Simple Syndication) makes it possible for other sites to easily republish blog content. In my case, I use RSS to feed my blog to my Amazon Author Page and my Goodreads Author Profile. I also use Triberr to extend the reach of my posts. This is a collaborative social media platform where “tribes” (in my case, groups of authors) commit to sharing each other’s content. Beyond Romance feeds to all my eight tribes, so my blog posts get liked and shared on many people’s Twitter and Facebook streams. As far as I know, no other form of social media provides this sort of syndication.

Blogging can earn you money. I don’t have ads or affiliate links on my blog, but many authors do. I have no idea how lucrative this might be, but if you couldn’t make some cash, nobody would do it!

Of course, blogging requires a certain level of commitment. You don’t need to post every day, but you have to post regularly. Go a week or two without any posts, and readers will lose interest.

Hosting other authors adds some stress. It’s awful to realize that you’ve scuttled a colleague’s tour by forgetting her post, publishing it on the wrong day, or messing up the format.

However, blogging allows more flexible time management than other forms of social media. As long as you plan ahead, you can set up your posts during the days when you have time, and let them do their work for you while you’re busy with other things. Since I’m quite busy Monday through Friday, I usually spend Sunday preparing the week’s posts.

Are there other, more effective ways for me to be spending my scarce marketing time? Maybe. If you know of any, I hope you’ll share! For me, blogging seems the most practical way for me to have a presence in the online world, while still managing the demands of my real world existence.

By Tim Smith

Here’s something you don’t run into every day — a man who writes straight contemporary erotic romance for a traditional romance publisher. Okay, I know what you’re thinking — “A man who writes romance and gets the details right? It can’t be done!” Trust me, I get that a lot.

I began published life writing mystery/thrillers set in the Florida Keys about a former CIA spy named Nick Seven, who tries to stay out of the intrigue game but always gets dragged back in. He lives with a former co-worker, a beauty from Barbados named Felicia. My first three novels in this series won awards, did well commercially, and I had a nice following. While they contained romantic undertones and sexual encounters, I never considered writing a full-blown romance novel. Why should I, when I had what appeared to be a niche career?

That’s when I decided to wade into the quicksand known as contemporary erotic romance. I had become disenchanted with my publisher and was looking for something better. I wrote my first romantic comedy, “Anywhere the Heart Goes,” and found a publisher who was willing to take a chance on it. It did well, and I followed it with two more lighthearted rom-coms before getting back into more familiar territory, writing romantic spy and private eye thrillers.

When Heart came out, my friends and followers who had been anticipating another Nick Seven thriller were aghast. “How could you do such a thing???” they asked. The reason is pretty simple. I was attending a large book festival and while my books were selling well, I noticed other authors drawing bigger crowds and wandered over to see why. They were romance writers. After reading one of their books, I thought it would be fun to write one of my own, told primarily from the man’s POV and with more humor. I also knew I could write something better than the one I had read.

That was more than ten years ago, and it’s been an interesting journey. Acceptance from the romance community is still a challenge. I’ve had women writers tell me to my face that I couldn’t possibly write a credible love story because “Men just don’t understand romance.” I was tempted to ask if they ever voiced that opinion to their husbands or boyfriends, but I was polite. Another time, a romance blogger trashed one of my books, then attacked me personally because I was a man who dared to try out for the women’s soccer team. I was also barred from a popular romance convention because of my gender.

During one of the rom-cons I was allowed to attend, I noticed on the list of attendees an author whose book I had recently reviewed, and liked very much. My publicist was there, said she knew the person and would arrange for us to meet. When she introduced me as a romance writer, the woman looked at me like I was a homeless guy she found camping out in her living room, and stammered “B-But…you’re a man!” I smiled politely and said “Thank you for noticing. I’ll try to do better next time.”

The biggest difficulty I had to overcome was the way I wrote erotic scenes. They were present in my first three books in a mild form, but for this new market of e-book readers who wanted erotica, I had to turn up the heat and be more explicit. I’ll admit it was a bit awkward for me at first, but I soon reached a comfort level and stopped blushing when I wrote something down and dirty.

I think of fiction writing as being in the entertainment field because that’s what writers do — we write to entertain. Good reviews are nice and make you feel warm inside, but I don’t write for the critics. I write for the person in Parma, Ohio or Rugby, North Dakota who wants to escape the daily grind with a good story. At the risk of shooting myself in the foot, I’m not convinced that a good review has that much impact on sales. I say that because no one has ever told me they bought one of my books because so-and-so gave it five stars. I once made a comment during an interview that literary critics are as useful as training wheels on a bowling ball. The nicest compliment I can receive is when someone tells me they can’t wait to read my next book. It doesn’t get much better than that!

by Ashley Lister

Aside from wishing everyone reading this a wonderful 2020, and hoping it is a year that brings you all the satisfaction and fulfilment you crave and deserve, I also want to offer everyone an opportunity to reflect before we hurtle into the first year of this decade.

With the start of a new year we have a symbolic opportunity to be reborn. This is why so many people vow to quit smoking, drinking or eating unhealthily: in order to stop the bad habits of the previous year. Or they vow to eat better, exercise more regularly and moderate their language so the expletives aren’t so powerful as to make sailor’s blush.

My new year resolutions are simple ones, no different to friends and colleagues from all over the world. I’m sharing them here so I can look back over the next twelve months and make sure I’m continuing in the correct direction.

I want to write (and publish) more
I love short stories. My PhD was devoted to the genre and my most recent non-fiction title, How to Write Short Stories and Get Them Published, is focused on short stories. Consequently, before the end of the year, I want to write and publish half a dozen short stories. I also want to publish my next horror novel and produce and perform two new poems each month, so writing is pretty high on my personal agenda for 2020.

I want to do three 10K runs
I did a couple of 10K runs last year and they were exhilarating. The second one, I managed to complete in under one hour. Admittedly, both runs screwed over my knees for a week afterwards, but, on the plus side, training for these events has meant that I’m in a healthier condition than I’ve ever been in my life. And, as a sedentary writer, who spends most of his working day pushing his ass into an office chair, anything that improves my physical health has to be seen as a benefit.

I want to do at least one act of kindness each week
We live in a brutal world. Global politics currently seem to be driven by the machinations of hate and divisiveness. The divide between those who have plenty and those who have nothing is growing wider and wider.

So, I’m going to try and do one act of kindness each week. This might involve making a charitable donation. It might mean giving my time to a good cause. It might mean giving something of personal value to someone in need. Or it might mean doing something I haven’t yet considered.

I’m not trying to suggest that this will change the attitudes of those in the world or address those matters that divide everyone: but I’m hoping it will make someone feel better, even if that someone is only me.

We’re at the start of a new year: a new decade if you want to be pedantic. I genuinely hope this next twelve months brings you everything you desire. And, if you feel up to sharing your resolutions below, I’d love to know what you’re planning to do to make 2020 special.

During my winter holiday break from teaching, I have time to ponder sexual mysteries that I feel I should understand better. In my former column on this site, “Sex Is All Metaphors,” I talked about the amazing versatility of sex as a language to express almost anything: love, affection, gratitude, curiosity, disgust, even genocidal hatred.

The problem with most discussions about sex is that they simply can’t do justice to the full spectrum of sexual behaviour among human beings.

Complaints about sexual harassment (which someone once described as the intrusion of sex into non-sexual situations) trigger a backlash response of “But what’s wrong with flirting?” I often wish we could all live in the kind of fun world in which this response would make sense.

Men have often lamented to me personally and to larger audiences that it’s hard to get women to “loosen up” because they don’t have the same sexual needs that men have. I suspect that such men have no idea what a tidal wave of lust would be released if women could express themselves sexually without risking drastic consequences: unwanted pregnancies, diseases, loss of relationships, social status, income, and even life.

This brings me to the mystery of rape, legally defined as “sexual assault” in Canada, where I live. I’m not confused about the fact that it happens. I’ve heard explanations of why assailants, mostly male-identified, feel they have no other choice than to take what they want by force. I’m mystified about why forced sex would feel better for the perpetrator than consensual sex, when that is an option. And it always is.

Despite the double standard of sexual morality, which still seems to exist even in the most avant-garde urban milieu, there are places where heterosexual men can find heterosexual women who are willing to hook up. Nowadays, there are also places where the LGBT community can meet and mingle, even in small towns on the Canadian prairies.

All this was true even before the rise of the internet, which has been steadily eclipsing physical cruising spaces and watering-holes.

Finding a mate for an hour, for the night, for a few weeks, or possibly for a lifetime is probably easier for more people on earth than ever before in history. In cultures where few people can afford to buy their own computers, there are internet cafes where anyone can access a dating site. And hanging out at the café is a social experience in itself.

It truly amazes me that there are still young men who invoke a tragic image of themselves as haggard waifs, crawling through a sexual desert alone, because what they need is not available to them. And some of these guys admit to spending many hours a day on-line, communicating with other people.

Years ago, a man I went to high school with told me it was hard to know whether women were interested in sex with him or not. I asked him if he had ever invited a woman out for coffee, lunch, or dinner. He said yes, of course.

I asked how he responded to a refusal, and I proposed two scenarios: the man could express disappointment and say, “maybe we can do this another time.”

Or he could become enraged, wrestle the woman to the ground, pull out a sausage, force her mouth open, and shove the meat as far down her throat as possible, while giving her any of these messages:

1) “You don’t say no to me, stupid bitch.”

2) “I know you want this. You’re just playing hard to get.”

3)” I know you’re a slut who likes to eat. I’ve seen you doing it in public, with other eaters.”

4) “If you didn’t want it, why did you lead me on by talking about food?”

Meanwhile, the victim would be choking, gasping for breath, and desperately trying to push the assailant off or attract help.

I asked my old high-school classmate which of these scenarios seemed the most logical. He laughed and said that accepting disappointment gracefully was the only sane course of action for the man. The sausage-down-the-throat image sounded like a description of a psychopath at work.

Well, yes, at least we agreed on that. But I was still left wondering what would motivate anyone to force sex on anyone else.

“Rape” fantasies and consensual scenes seem like a completely different topic. I even remember being impressed by a description of an elaborate abduction scene involving willing (eager) “victims” and lusty pirates on a real ship. Clearly, a scene like this required considerable preparation beforehand, including negotiations about bondage, knifeplay, and flogging. This sounded to me like a grown-up version of a childhood game based on Peter Pan. I hope it was exhilarating for everyone involved. I didn’t wonder why anyone would sign up for this adventure, as long as personal limits would be respected.

As an English major in university, I studied numerous works of fiction in which an angry man is presumed to represent the Human Condition, or sometimes the Modern Human Condition under Late-Stage Capitalism. Male profs have invited me and the other students (usually a diverse mix of genders and races) to consider the likelihood that we all have dangerously aggressive impulses that we have to control in order to stay out of jail, including the impulse to just grab and rape any attractive person we see.

My short response: No. My longer response: Hell, no.

As a much younger, closeted lesbian, I sometimes tentatively suggested to female friends that some women go “beyond friendship.”

I usually had to explain that I was thinking of physical activity that went beyond a hug. Or to put it bluntly, sex.

One woman responding by saying, “That’s disgusting.”

Her disgust was so instantly contagious that I couldn’t imagine pressuring her any further to accept what I was hinting at. I couldn’t be sure whether she found me disgusting on a personal level, or whether she was appalled by the mere idea of making close acquaintance with another woman’s plumbing. It didn’t matter to me. I knew I would have to go find someone more compatible.

I wanted the combination of direct and vicarious pleasure that happens when two people want each other, and love being wanted. I wanted the ambiguity of simple but effective comments like “Oh, baby.” I wanted someone to want my breasts and my clit as well as my fingers on their own deliciously sensitive parts.

Later, I tried dreaming about forcing myself on another woman to try to figure out why this might be satisfying. I imagined a scenario just before falling asleep, hoping that my deepest urges would rise up and answer my question.

As far as I could remember the next morning, the rape scene just didn’t work. In my dream, I kept threatening to humiliate someone who clearly didn’t want me, and who turned me off by repeatedly telling me this. I didn’t really want to touch her, and before long, this became obvious to her as well as to me. Even in the privacy of my own mind, I let my designated victim get away.

So the concept of really non-consensual “sex” is still a mystery to me, and even calling it sex seems inaccurate, because for me, that word summons up feelings and images of mutual consent, agency, and interaction.

It seems I will never be able to write a story about sexual assault from the assailant’s viewpoint. I’m still not sure if this means I’m hopelessly naïve or relatively sane.