Anthony Pacheco: Hack Writer

We are born with a sexuality. We carry genetic traits and evolved behaviors that mix and mingle with our experiences starting before we are born. Our human makeup, culture and even luck play a part in how we go about sex, which in turn influences our writing, for good or bad.

Now I know what you are thinking. You are thinking “duh”.

Just getting warmed up here, folks!

Duh factor aside, I believe some writers, novelists in particular, confuse sexuality with explicitness. That is, the written description of the act(s), rather than the voice of the story. And as we know, voicing is everything.

Well that’s a fine and dandy statement, but what does it mean?

A writer’s voice is using words to tell a story in her particular literary style.

And this is where some writers fail. I’m not talking about neophyte wankers like myself, but published writers. They develop a unique voice that clicks with a reader, and then, like a bad date, that voice turns into something else as soon as a boob comes out of the bra.

Ah ah ah! It goes further! Sometimes the voicing goes flat even when there is no boob. Now I have no boob, and two people, who are going to shack up, suddenly go from three-dimensional characters to flattened literary sexless wonders.

I cry when this happens. It’s like the teen two hour make out session and then being shoved out the door when her parents came home just as her right hand is moving like it was going somewhere really interesting.

Oh. Sorry. I digress. That did not happen to me, by the way. That, um, happened to, um “Ralf”. Yes. My friend Ralf.

Inadvertently, this is caused by telling, not showing. A classic example is using dialog to profess desire and passion. Dialog is show, right?

No, it’s not!

“Oh Bob, I’ve never felt this way about another man. Kiss me! Kiss me now!”

“Yes, Martha, I find you irresistible! You light me on fire!”

(door closes)

(implied, but never shown, wild monkey sex commences)

Okay, I admit this is an exaggeration. My point still stands: your lovebirds have a sexuality, and how you portray it is your sexual voice. Let’s fix these two, shall we? Here is Bob and Martha, again, this time with a back-story.

To Martha, Robert suddenly seemed different, even appeared different. Normally he looked at her with a smirk and a side-glance, but now, it was almost as if he was altogether another man. His eyes, normally sly, were large and luminous, as if he was drinking in the sight of her and could not stop.

His sadness was a mantle, and her heart went out to him. She realized his previous bravado was just an act. His grief was all too real, and it tugged at her. She wanted to know the real man, and here he was, and she was afraid because she could not think of anything else but him. She had the tiger by the tail, and she dare not let go. All she could do was stand there and stare, and try to breathe. But every measured breath brought her closer to the words she was so very afraid to say. Soon her skin was tingling.

It was then, she knew, she wanted him, not because he was wounded, and he needed her while she wanted so desperately to be needed. No, she realized she loved him, in her own broken little way. Suddenly she had to speak. To remain silent would kill her—surely stop her heart.

“Robert, I…”

He walked closer to her.

She couldn’t breathe.

He was staring at her face—eyes looked into hers, the irises a perpetual question, confusion over her obvious desire when before she said no so many times.

She couldn’t breathe.

She had to tell him. She had too. If she did not, in mere moments, he would be gone, and she would be alone.

“Robert,” she whispered, “I want you.” She placed her hand on his face.

His face was hot. He leaned into her hand, closed his eyes and actually sighed. She could literally see tension leave his body, and it was almost as if he transferred it to her somehow, because as soon as she touched him she started to ace.

Suddenly he stood tall.

His eyes flashed.

His nostrils flared, gulping air.

He took a step closer.

Martha closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was music.

And here we end this scene. Note there is no boob or mashing of body parts in this sex scene. These two characters, which I invented right on the spot, have a sexuality, which I not so much described to you, but showed you. I spent twenty minutes on their back-story for these 361 words. This is my epiphany I alluded to in yesterday’s post: As a writer, I have a voice, but my characters, have their own distinctive voice. And if I stay true to the character, instead of me, they are not stilted, nor are they pornographic. They just are.

The elements of desire are tricky things. Because we are sexual people, it’s easy to let our own internal biases cloud the writing when the writing turns to sex. But, ultimately, there is no magic pill here. Should I go on and describe the tender lovemaking between Martha and Bob?

Here, no. Nothing further needs showing.

Most of the time, the answer is, it depends.

Depends on what?

Tune in tomorrow to find out!