My free advice of the day is to keep a document or lots of little notes on phrases, conversations, idiosyncrasies, character traits. Then use them for inspiration, and—behold!—you’ve become a writer full of gemstones. (Hint: F. Scott Fitzgerald did this.)
It's a great idea. Memory, as we all surely know, is not only fallible, but extremely selective. We have evolved to notice only things beyond the norm, unexpected changes to our immediate environment, and thus have we avoided predators and become, for our sins, the ultimate predator. Without this 'selective memory', our senses would be overloaded by our surroundings, our brains overwhelmed by information, unable to process it all and leaving us vulnerable. The upshot of that is that we don't really observe the everyday, don't see the unchanging daily detail, the detail that, when writing, is the magic touch that brings our characters alive, makes them 3-dimensional.
Short but sweet! In conclusion, I'll proffer a short extract from my naughty novella, Literal Fantasies. It's the start of chapter 2 and Harry, a writer and the narrator, has arrived at the hotel where four female fellow writers of erotica are waiting to meet him, to allow him into their circle, and commence a day that will change the lives of all involved.
Extract from Literal Fantasies
I knocked. Laughter and cackles from within drowned me out. What was I doing here? Christian to the lions. I glanced at my watch - exactly eleven-thirty a.m. as arranged - and knocked again. There was a muffled ‘shush’, a baffled giggle, then the door clicked and opened. A pretty freckled face peered out. Blonde bunches dangled and big blue eyes looked me up and down.
‘Harry?’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘It’s him!’ she called excitedly over her shoulder. The door swung slowly open as if by itself. ‘Thought you'd stood us up! Come in!’
Turning on her plimsolled heels she skipped down the hall. The back of her green and white gingham dress was tucked into her dark blue knickers displaying her tight rounded arse cheeks. Her tanned thighs contrasted starkly with the white socks pulled up to her knees and I thought if it ended now I wouldn’t go home totally disappointed. That was hot. My heart was racing anyway but it pumped harder and louder, pulsing blood to my extremities.
I passed a bedroom - the door slightly ajar - from where a warm dark voice called.
‘Hi, Harry, won’t be a minute.’
The suite comprised of two double bedrooms, one on the left of the hall and one on the right, each with its own en suite bathroom. The hall then opened out into a large living area which was sparsely furnished, but beautifully presented. Plush, black-leather couches hugged the walls and two deep matching chairs divided the room into two sections. Palms splashed vibrant green into the corners while wide windows offered stunning second storey views across the lush green golf course. The floor was light oak; the Persian rugs thick and luxurious. White walls were punctuated by large modernist canvasses. A glass coffee table supported an open laptop and a couple of half-empty wine glasses. The facing wall's central feature was a huge plasma screen that held the attention of two seated women. They ogled stills of naked, anonymous flesh - probably their own if I believed the emails I'd received.
The two women turned from the TV, looked up at me and smiled, but stayed seated. Both wore similar clothes to the one who’d answered the door: short-sleeved gingham dresses with white collars; white socks; black plimsolls. The prettier one wore a dark green cardigan. The plainer one avoided eye contact; she hugged a cream cushion to her chest, merely crossed her legs and exposed a white thigh. Cardigan girl bit her index finger, drew one leg onto the couch and exposed her own navy gym knickers. She held the pose for what seemed an age. There was silence. I tried not to look, but couldn’t help myself and eventually surrendered to the naughty schoolboy within. My capitulation made her clap her hands and leap to her feet. Her laugh was sparkling and warm and instantly melted the ice.
‘Sorry about that, Harry. We couldn’t resist a special introduction. And what about Sue? Tucking her dress in her knickers like that! Naughty girl! I’m Cath.' She stepped towards me, all the while maintaining eye contact. 'Lovely to meet you at last.’
I was almost lost for words.
'And you.'
Cath was diminutive and sexily curvy. She reached up and kissed my cheek, grabbed my palm, then stepped away, still holding my hand.
‘You look great. You’ve met Sue.’ Sue curtsied and her bunches bobbed up and down. ‘And this is Vicky.’
It was hard to tell how old this cushion-hugging, thin and nervous-looking woman was. Short brown hair accentuated her slightly hooked nose and thick brows crowned her dark eyes. She almost cowered. I offered her my hand.
‘Hi, Vicky.’
Her handshake was limp. Fathomless eyes barely flickered into mine, and she drew her hand away before I’d really taken hold of it.
‘Hi, er…’ Vicky croaked and then coughed. Half of me wanted to hug her, reassure her, while the other half had already written her off. I thought she might burst into tears, but instead she smiled weakly and apologetically. ‘Good journey?’
‘It was fine, thanks. Not far for me. How far have you ladies travelled?’
If any of the women wore make-up it was subtle enough to be invisible to the untrained eye. A man’s eye, that is.
‘Oh, a couple of hours. Not bad, really.’ Cath spoke for them with a slight Irish brogue, her young voice slightly at odds with the gentle creases around her green eyes. Her hair was a mass of dark red curls and her womanly curves strained the seams of her tight, short dress. She was open and attractive and I reckoned she was in her late thirties. ‘We came up last night. Been swimming and in the gym this morning, then had a sauna, a facial - look at these nails - couldn’t resist. Nice healthy early lunch and here we are. Drink, Harry? We’ve got lager, white wine…’
I shook my head.
‘Bit early for me, thanks. Cup of tea would be nice though?'
Cath smiled and nodded.
‘Put the kettle on, Sue.’
Cath had been cagey from the start about where they'd come from. The accents told me nothing. They were from all over the place.
‘How do you like it, Harry?’
Sue lisped then pouted and giggled, her knees together, toes turned inwards. She was much closer to schoolgirl age, shape and demeanour than the others and was easily the most convincing. It disturbed me just how strongly I was drawn to her in her current persona.
‘Just as it comes… but not too strong, and no sugar. Thanks, Sue.’
She curtsied once more and flaunted her arse cheeks again as she turned away. They were playing with me in a nice way. It was fun.
I sat on a sofa and Cath flopped down a short distance away. Sue handed me a steaming cup perched on a slender saucer, then perched herself astride the the sofa's arm.
‘Are you single, Harry? Sorry to ask, but…yer know.’
Sue obviously hadn’t been fed all the information from my emails. I wondered just how in-the-know she was.
‘I was married but…’ I hung my head, ‘there was another man.’
‘Oh sorry, didn’t mean to pry…’
‘No problem.'
Sue bit her lip and looked concerned. It took her a few seconds to ask the obvious question.
'What happened?'
My answer, like the best punchline, was perfectly delivered.
'When the wife found out about him she kicked me out.’
They all stayed stock-still for about five full seconds till my smile gave me away then they laughed long and loud.
'What really happened?'
'Do you really want to know?'
I glanced around at the three serious faces all nodding their encouragement.
'To be honest, I'm still not really sure, but when Janice left me, I was completely devastated. I'd not the slightest inkling she was even unhappy. Being on my own after all those years was the strangest thing...'
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