Writers are often asked “where do you get your ideas from?” It’s a valid question. My usual response (I steal plots) is probably not a valid answer. However, “where do you get your ideas from?” is not a question that’s often levelled at erotic fiction writers. I think the reason for this is that most people know where we get our ideas from. We erotic fiction writers get our ideas from having sex.
Admittedly, this is the other reason why I invariably take a fat pencil into the bedroom. I did try using a pen in the bedroom but it would often lead to making a terrible mess on the sheets. And sometimes the pen would dribble ink. There were occasions when I tried to take a laptop into the bedroom for the purpose of making notes for story ideas. However, I can’t do that any longer since my floppy has become obsolete.
Of course there are disadvantages to using this method for collecting and remembering ideas. The main problem is that it means having to have sex with the lights on. I don’t like this kinky variation on traditional missionary-position-in-the-dark-lie-back-and-think-of-England sex. If the good Lord had meant us to see what we were doing in the bedroom he wouldn’t have made sex happen at night.
And I’m not alone in thinking that sex with the lights on is unnatural.
My wife (rightly) objects to sex with the lights on unless she’s wearing the blindfold or (as an alternative) I’m wearing the gas mask to improve my appearance. I’ve repeatedly told her that the gas mask doesn’t improve my appearance – it hides my face. However, she insists that this is a considerable improvement.
So, we get our ideas whilst we’re having sex.
I don’t just mean erotic fiction writers get their ideas whilst having sex. My wife had an idea to plaster the bedroom ceiling the other week. That thought came to her whilst she wasn’t wearing the blindfold. By the time we’d finished that particular session she’d come up with ideas for new curtains, improved wardrobe space and an improvement on the room’s Feng Shui that would harmonise our entire lives. It had clearly been quite a productive three minutes.
She’s also had ideas for modifying my gas mask so that it doesn’t make a Darth-Vader-esque wheezing sound every time I happen on the prospect of an exciting story development. That idea wasn’t particularly great because the modification meant my brain stopped receiving oxygen for half an hour, although it’s not like it caused any permanent brain lettuce.
I find it’s quite stimulating to think about character development, plot lines and Freytag’s pyramid during intercourse. It certainly beats trying to remember the more mundane things relating to sex, such as where I put the salad tongs and whose turn is to use the stapler.
Only last week, during our monthly episode of congress (please excuse the dirty language there but we’re all adults reading this, aren’t we?) I had a brilliant idea for a novel. I say it was last week, it could have been the month before because we’re like rabbits and we do it every fourth Saturday night whether I want to or not! But, during coitus (there’s some more of that dirty language) I had a brilliant idea for a novel that I knew would be a bestseller and the source of international literary acclaim.
Unfortunately, the idea for the novel was The Story of O, so I might have to learn French before I can write it down. Nevertheless, I shall struggle on to try and get other, equally brilliant ideas for my readers.
It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.
