Monthly Archives: May 2017
Happy Masturbation month, everyone! I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am. Aside from the obvious, May is my favorite month for a lot of reasons. The flowers are blooming and the birds are singing … and mating themselves silly and everything is suddenly made new. As is always the case in this glorious month, I can’t keep myself from thinking about those new beginnings and the fact that many of them seemingly come from nothing.
At the moment, I’m finishing the final rewrite of Blind-Sided, the second novel in the Medusa Consortium series. Like all the Medusa tales, it’s a big book and, as I work through the final draft, reading it out loud as I go, occasionally I find myself wondering how we writers can create something out of nothing, from the tiniest seed of an idea. And that’s all any novel I’ve ever written is in the beginning. Honestly, I’m amazed at what results. But this is masturbation month, so how can I not think about the absolute pleasure I take in creating something out of nothing, in the solo act of sitting in front of a laptop for months and hammering out a tale that didn’t exist before. Oh yes, my dear friends, for me, writing a novel is very much self-pleasure.
The ancient Egyptians believed masturbation was a creative act in its own right. In the Heliopolis creation myth, the
god Amen rises from the primeval ocean and masturbates the divine son and daughter into existence. Then they, of course, populate the world. Even the Judeo/Christian myth of the first two chapters of Genesis, in which God speaks the world into existence, is a solo act. And what writer of stories and teller of tales can’t identify with ‘the word becoming flesh,’ or with the ritual of creating a world using nothing but words alone.
If creation is, in the great myths, masturbatory, then it makes sense that so many writers I’ve talked to, myself included, find their work, whether it’s erotic or not, to feel almost sexual. That leads me to wonder if perhaps the writing of story is a form of masturbation, a form of solo creation. Certainly for me, when I’m in the throes of story, completely in the thrall of something that seemingly came from nothing, there is a physical response, and it’s quite often arousing. But then how could the visceral euphoria of being The Creator not be a total turn-on?
A writer friend once told me she’d had a novel rejected by an editor who said that, while it was beautifully written, there was no blood on the page. Every novel I’ve ever read that sticks with me has demanded something physical from me. I’ve felt the story in my body and not just had an awareness of it in my mind. That being the case, it’s not much of a leap to think the power of the written word, the power of story, comes as much from a writer’s body is it does from the mind. It also isn’t much of a leap to think that writing from the gut stimulates the libido. When I’m under the spell of story, the physicality of the experience, the way I feel it below my waist, is as much a part of the creative process as the hours spent in front of the computer.
While I can completely see writing a story as a masturbatory act, even a curmudgeonly introvert like me needs the social connection with people, and the flip side of my masturbatory acts is that they’re also exhibitionist acts. Creation, from a writer’s point of view, may take place in solitude, but the resulting story is very much meant to be shared far and wide. While story telling is an act of love for me, it’s not complete until I can share my creation with someone else. What comes from my isolation is meant to be exposed for the world to see. I suppose like the gods of the myths, I want adoration. I want people to look and see and gasp in awe at the power of what I’ve created. (Can’t you just hear my sinister laugh as I plan world domination?)
Masturbation as a creative act, to me that’s what Masturbation month is all about. There are connections, deep connections to the Self and to the mysterious creative force curled at the center of all of us that, I’m convinced, can only be accessed through solo acts of exploration and pleasure. Those places within us are places only we can discover, and the discovery is, indeed a cause for celebration.
Elizabeth Black writes in a wide variety of genres including erotica, erotic romance, horror, and dark fiction. She lives on the Massachusetts coast with her husband, son, and her three cats. Visit her web site, her Facebook page, and her Amazon Author Page.
Her new m/m erotic medical thriller Roughing It is out! This book is a sexy cross between The X Files, The Andromeda Strain, and Outbreak. Read her short erotic story Babes in Begging For It, published by Cleis Press. Her story Neighbors appears in the new lesbian anthology The Girls Next Door. You will also find her new novel No Restraint at Amazon. Enjoy a good, sexy read today.
As anyone familiar with me is aware, I love to spend time at the beach. I live in Massachusetts so it gets quite cold here but that doesn’t stop me from taking my nearly daily walks in the sand and surf. This time of year it’s far too cold to swim in the water, though, but that hasn’t stopped some crazy people (especially surfers) from doing it. My husband and I are used to the surfers dodging waves and the brave (crazy) locals who swim in 50 degree water, but what we saw this past weekend just astounded us at how stupid some people can be.
Not long ago, we were on Good Harbor Beach in Gloucester, Massachusetts enjoying a warm bout of weather. He went swimming (crazy), but not me. That water is like ice. We went for our daily mile long walk, not expecting anything unusual but we were in for a scary surprise.
There is a small island about a half mile from shore. It’s called Salt Island and it’s basically a huge boulder in the water covered with vegetation and seagull guano. When the tide is low enough, the water recedes so much there is a sand pathway between the island and the shore. People, including me, love to walk that pathway and explore the beach side of the island. You can’t get to it during high tide or even normal tide. Most of the time the island is completely surrounded with water. This is what the sand pathway to the island looks like from the beach. Note the two people on the pathway. They give you a scale to judge how big this area is.
This particular day, we walked to the island end of the beach and saw four young people standing on top of the island. There was a serious problem – it wasn’t low tide. Water completely surrounded the island and it can be pretty deep. We thought they might have had a boat moored on the opposite side of the island, and they’d get off that way.
They didn’t. To our surprise and horror, the four climbed down the island facing us and proceeded to swim in the water towards shore. The shore is at least a half mile away and there might be riptides out there.
This is what the island and the beach look like when the tide is almost in. That’s Salt Island straight ahead.
This is the view from the side with Salt Island on the right and the beach on the left.
That’s a lot of water between the island and the beach.
These four idiots (three guys and one woman) swam in water that was way over their heads. We were afraid they weren’t going to make it, so my husband dialed the Coast Guard in case they needed a rescue. We had hoped they’d make it to the shallow area where they could tread water or walk with water nearly over their heads. The first two guys made it and we weren’t worried about them. We were more worried about the guy and woman bringing up the rear. They were slower and in the deeper water. However, they did make it to the shallow area and were able to walk to shore. We didn’t need to call the Coast Guard after all.
They were young, reckless, and had lots of stamina to pull off that crap. We left that side of the beach when it was clear the four of them were safe. Several people had stopped at that end of the beach to keep an eye on them and I saw iPhones out. It was tense and touch and go, but they did make it to go on and do other stupid things. Like kiss snakes. Skydive. Light bottle rockets up their butts and set them off. You know, like the thrill seekers they were.
I wrote a short sweet romance years ago about an idiot who walked to a similar island during low tide and got stuck there when he got drunk and passed out. He wakes up during high tide with the walkway gone and finds himself stranded on the island. With a Nor’easter coming. He knows damned well he can’t swim across to shore. What to do?
I never thought I’d see people actually try to get off that island during high tide for real. Truth is stranger than fiction.
If you’d like to read my story, it’s called The Storm and it’s free on my web site. While you’re reading it, keep in mind I saw four young people pull the stunt for real while on one of my beach walks. Wonders never cease.
by Jean Roberta
Netflix has changed my life. Not only can I binge-watch my favourite TV series from the beginning in order to understand plots and the appearance of new characters (Who’s he?), I can watch without the interruption of commercials. Watching a backlog of episodes of a currently-running series is somewhat like cramming for an exam, but much more fun.
Lately, I’ve been catching up on the BBC serial Call the Midwife, a dramatization of midwife Jennifer Worth’s memoirs of delivering babies in the gritty East End of London in the 1950s and 1960s. As the viewpoint character, Jenny Lee, tells us in a reminiscent voiceover (in the mellow voice of Vanessa Redgrave) “midwifery is the very stuff of life.”
The birth scenes are certainly not sexy, but they show the natural consequences of sex in a time when it was only supposed to take place in marriage, and when married women were expected to spend most of their adult lives bearing and raising children. They didn’t always have a choice.
In Season 1, there is an episode in which Conchita, originally a refugee from the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s, is giving birth to her 24th baby by her English husband. He seems to dote on her, but he never learned Spanish and she never learned English. Their older children are fluently bilingual, and they translate the midwife’s questions for their mother, and their mother’s answers for the midwife. The proud father tells the midwife: “Conchita and I understand each other,” presumably without words.
This episode raises questions about sex in the context of a long-term relationship. Is it possible to have love without language? (I can hear the cynics in my life saying it probably works better that way.) Is it possible to enjoy unprotected sex, year after year, knowing that it will produce more mouths to feed?
As far as I know, few people in modern urban society experience heterosexual sex the way most people experienced it in past centuries: as part of a bond that was supposed to last a lifetime, and which led to pregnancy and childbirth, over and over. Sometimes pregnancy led to the death of the baby or the mother, or both. I can’t imagine maintaining my enthusiasm for the sport after the fourth or fifth or sixth baby.
Watching birth after birth, I’m profoundly grateful that most of my sex life has had no such consequences, wanted or otherwise. I’ve only been pregnant once, and that was by choice. For the past thirty-five years, my sex life has been with other women, and therefore I haven’t even had to think about birth control. It hasn’t been needed.
Much of my reading—fiction and non-fiction—during that time has involved sex and gender disconnected from reproduction. I’ve been sent review copies of books by authors who define themselves as “non-binary,” as “masculine” (if not born with a penis) or “feminine” (if not born with a vagina). Queer or “non-binary” writers who write speculative fiction often write about characters who also have a fabulous (in the literal sense) disregard for physical limits. Same-gender couples in these stories often have offspring in ways which don’t involve nine months of pregnancy and a painful finale. It almost goes without saying that male dominance, as crudely expressed by old-style men like Donald Trump, rarely exists in these imaginary worlds. Speculative fiction in our time, especially if erotic, is a great distraction from the here and now.
I would like to believe that the future of the human race is queer, bionic, diverse, and limited only by our imaginations, but I don’t see much real-life evidence to support a “non-binary” vision of the coming utopia. As a case in point, I sometimes have reason to explain to a binary male person (gay or straight) how the birth control pill works, and the only ones who seem to catch on are health-care professionals who already understand the term “ovulation.” In general, cis-gendered males have less reason to think about pregnancy than do females, and less reason to research various ways to prevent it. Even male couples who want to raise children don’t seem to dwell on questions about how babies are conceived, whereas female couples considering parenthood usually consider the possibility that one of them will develop a child in her womb. And this difference is visible in “queer” communities where gender roles are generally more fluid and less hierarchical than in the heterosexual mainstream.
So I watch dramatic representations of women giving birth in slum dwellings because it does seem to be the very stuff of real life, in the past and—for the majority of human beings—in the present. One hopeful note in Call the Midwife is that health care in Britain, since 1948, has been free even for the poorest, unlike in the U.S. and most Third-World countries. An American fan of the series wrote about how impressive the British health care system looks, even in a TV drama. As a Canadian, I’m able to take for granted the local version of that system, established in 1962.
I can’t help wondering what will happen to millions of Americans if Trump’s administration succeeds in destroying Barack Obama’s monument, the Affordable Health Care Act. The contrast of the apparent working partnership of Obama and his lawyer wife, Michelle, with the uncomfortable distance between Trump and his wife Melania doesn’t seem like a coincidence. Women tend to support universal access to good health care, and so do left-leaning men who can see beyond their own crown jewels. No guaranteed access to reproductive support correlates to powerlessness for women.
Do I think erotic fiction should include more references to birth? Not necessarily. As I’ve mentioned, scenes of poor women in labour don’t look especially sexy, even to woman-loving me. However, I would like to see more acknowledgment that sex between men and women is more than a form of recreation. It is literally the stuff of life.
I’ve been smoldering all week.
Last weekend I started a new story, a dark and kinky paranormal tale that I’m planning to submit to the ERWA anthology Unearthly Delights. I made amazing progress on Sunday, but then I had to call a halt in order to deal with all the other demands in my life. I should explain that normally I reserve Sunday for Lisabet to come out and play. I devote as much of that day as possible to actually writing. The rest of the week, I have too many other demands on my time to do much more than check my email and maybe do a bit of marketing.
This story, though, wouldn’t let me go. I pushed everything aside on Monday to write 1500 words. On Tuesday I managed to squeeze in another 1000. Wednesday was tough; I had blocked out an hour, but was interrupted half way through. I almost screamed with frustration.
When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about the story. Snatches of dialogues would float into my head while I was exercising; I’d rush to write them down in my notebook as soon as I got back from the gym. I’d find myself pondering the structure of the tale while I was supposed to be grading exams or testing student programming projects.
I realize that other authors experience this sort of obsession all the time, but it’s unusual for me. I couldn’t manage my life without compartmentalizing. I divide my days into time slots allocated for different activities. I’m normally very skilled at concentrating on the current task at hand without being distracted by all the other items on my to-do list. It’s the only way I can escape the stress of over-commitment.
So, as important as it is, my writing normally has to stay in its own compartment. When I feel the urge to write, I suppress it until the appropriate time, when I can do something about it.
This story, though—it’s like a fire. It might die down temporarily, but then it flares up again, demanding my attention, threatening to consume me. I really don’t understand the phenomenon. It’s wreaking havoc with my life and my plans. Still, I find the experience novel and exciting. Now I can appreciate what my colleagues mean when they say that a book takes them over.
I’m writing this on Saturday night. Tomorrow is Sunday.
The story is calling me.
I can hardly wait.
Last month, I talked about the forgotten story of Audrey Munson, the supermodel of the 1910s, whose form inspired many of the famous statues that still grace New York City today. Audrey was unusual in her comfort posing in “the altogether” as it was called in those days of euphemism.
Audrey was a consummate professional and claimed that she could easily tell a real (always male) artist from a fake. The latter usually dressed poorly, had paint or plaster dust in his unruly hair and kept a cold, plain studio. The true artist was so focused on creating his work of art that he barely remembered to let her pause to stretch her sore muscles. The fake playboy artistes of course had plush studios decked out in Orientalist frippery and spent less time on sculpting than on seduction. Their models spent plenty of time relaxing on velvet cushions under the influence of champagne. Audrey shunned such men, but some of her friends earned diamond rings and fine dresses for their services, while Audrey took home a mere fifty cents an hour.
In spite of her insistence on the transcendent motives of both professional model and true artist, one particular part of Audrey’s story has stayed with me. That is, the moment when her world changed forever, when Isidore Konti first convinced her—and her mother—that Audrey should take her clothes off for the sake of art.
“There was nothing wrong, [sculptor Isidore Konti] argued, with Audrey imparting her beauty to create a beautiful object in marble or bronze. Indeed, it was the duty of every woman, he insisted, to ‘contribute what she could to art and loveliness.’” (James Bone, The Curse of Beauty, 40).
For Audrey, especially, disrobing in front of a man was not a sordid act. It meant stepping beyond the limitations of earthly womanhood to become an immortal work of art. Yet while Konti’s eloquent argument persuaded Audrey and her mother, a voice inside me was skeptical.
“He’s lying his head off with that ‘duty of every woman’ malarkey. He just wants to see her naked!”
Biographer James Bone supported my instinct by reporting that the artists who employed Audrey would gossip about the beautiful dimples in her lower back. This suggests that sensual enjoyment of her unclothed form was not totally lacking. Yet Audrey’s relationships with many of the famous artists working in New York was apparently above board.
So where did my mistrust come from? As writers will do, I let my mind wander, through images and stories I remembered when my awareness of sexual politics took shape way back in the 1970s. Memories rose up—the strongest was of the two photographs at the top of this essay, of the same nude woman, side by side. One posed, artistic and boring, the other showing the woman’s sense of violation as if the photographer had burst in when she was changing into her bathing suit. I remembered, too, joking advice on how to convince a woman to pose nude, and the clear message that the male photographer was conning his female model into doing something bad, even illegal. The name of the magazine where I read this article was also clear in my memory: National Lampoon.
The internet is a boon for recovering long ago memories. I browsed the tables of contents of the early issues of National Lampoon online. With the July 1970 “Very Bad Taste” issue I hit the jackpot: “Art or Porno? A Photographer’s Guide to Naked Ladies” by Geoffrey Mandeville. For just a few dollars, the images that haunted me were before my eyes again. The context came flooding back. Summer vacation at the beach. Lounging around the motel room, lost in my older sister’s cool college magazine. Neither she nor my parents were at all aware the afternoon’s reading would leave such an indelible impression.
Just as I recalled, the humor of the article was entirely based on the tension between a man claiming to be interested in the female form as art and his “base” sexual instincts.
For example, the author suggests some Dos and Don’ts for your photography session:
DO refer to your subject matter as “art studies” or “figure composition.”
DON’T call your finished work “pictures of naked ladies” or “hot stuff.”
DO use such terminology as “bounced floods” and “stroboscopic timer.”
DON’T use such expressions as “Chilly, isn’t it? Heh heh,” and “Watch the birdie! Heh heh.”
My young self picked up on the message very well—never trust a man if he asks you to take off your clothes for art. It’s a zero-sum game. He wins, you lose. And if he says high-falutin’ things about Art and beauty and duty, he’s lying.
In the decades between my first reading and my recent revisitation, I arranged for my own nude photo session—with a female photographer. I knew at the time I was attempting to take charge of the gaze, to define my own beauty. Would I have done so without that issue of National Lampoon and the conflict born then that I felt an urge to resolve?
Today I am certainly better able to take a mature and appreciative view of erotic art than I was in 1970. And yet posing in the nude still has its dangers. Consider the current scandal where nude photos of female Marines have been shared without their permission by male colleagues. The excuse for posting these photos is that the women “cheated” on their Marine lovers and exposing their erotic photos is their just punishment. Some wonder if it’s not pure sexual harassment, to keep women who dare to aspire to what was traditionally a male role in their sexualized, objectified place.
Of course, we shouldn’t allow the Marines or National Lampoon to have the last word. The nude human form—male or female—can be a transcendent work of art. A response that belittles and degrades tells us more about the viewer than he might like to admit. Perhaps we all have within ourselves the dueling artist/artiste—the one who wonders at and elevates beauty and the other who seeks to dominate through defilement?
Social media … Sometimes I wish social media had a face so I could slap the crap out of it. I think 99.9 percent of what gets transmitted through social media could be filed under the category of Who gives a ____?
Even the Twit-in-Chief has taken second place to a minor uproar over a non issue. It seems one of America’s sweethearts, a girl gymnast, Instagrammed a video of herself dancing in her undies.
Really? She wasn’t even naked. And even if she were, haven’t the effects of social media made showing and viewing pictures of naked people passé by now?
If we’ve learned anything since the advent of easily processed and even easier accessed media, is that people like to exhibit themselves and others in the nude. Especially if it’s easy to do.
You might cite the advent of video cameras being made available to the public. How long did it take average folks to realize that in addition to being able to record their kids’ birthday parties and graduations, dad could also tape mom in some provocative poses in her altogethers? Or, even nastier, set the camera up on an end table or tripod and record dad doing mom doggie style, or mom giving dad a blowjob.
How much cajoling did it take for dad to get the secretary of the PTA to carry on like a porn star? Ah, but that’s another question for another day.
Of course, the so-called sex tape became a status symbol once the ex-boyfriend of a certain hotel heiress sold a tape of her giving an inspired BJ. What followed was a cascade of stolen celebrity tapes. Seriously, if you wanted to remain a celebrity, you needed an allegedly clandestine sex tape in circulation.
Long before video cameras became ubiquitous, there were Polaroids. Anyone remember them? So-called instant pictures. When I was in high school they got passed around at lunch. Some lothario had coaxed his girl into posing naked, no doubt with the promise, “No one will ever see them but me.”
I’d like to think that someone, somewhere is going through their just-deceased grampa’s personal effects and discovering some racy old Polaroids of grandma in an old shoe box. Can you imagine the shock on a millennial’s face? Well, kid, how do you think you got here?
Watch out when dad passes away and you come across some old VCR cartridges, if you can find a VCR to play them on, that is.
Being seen naked used to be so shameful. Visualize the kid with the smarmy smirk brushing her forefingers together in that once universal shame-on-you gesture. Does anyone do that anymore?
Sexting – sending a naked picture of oneself via your phone – has become routine among teens and twentysomethings. And, once they’re out there, they’re likely out there forever. But no one seems to be concerned. Sure, a few celebs have cried that their private photos were stolen or sold without their authorization. But increasingly those situations are being met with a big so-what, which is why I’m surprised when the moralists take someone to task for it. That train left the station a long, long time ago.
A couple of keystrokes and images of naked people fill your computer screen.
And why be satisfied with just pictures? Just go to the nearest beach for an eyeful of naked girl. Oh yeah, there may be a piece of fabric stuck between her bum cheeks, but by any definition, she’s naked.
It’s kind of sad, really. There was a time when seeing a naked body, if only a glimpse, was like experiencing a flash of the divine. Still, I hope it never gets old.
Every author wants their books to sell … right? Listen long enough, and you’ll get a bookstore (remember those?) full of theories about what can push a title up the lists from few to many to bestseller and maybe even beyond: reviews, podcasts, blog tours, t-shirts, coffee mugs, Facebook, Twitter, contests, eBay, interviews, tattoos, action figures … you name it.
I’ll go into some of those ideas – the good, the bad, and the just plain nuts – soon enough but in the meantime, I want to talk about what I consider the most important thing every writer needs to do when it comes time to put their book out into the world.
Well, actually, what they should do before its time to put their book out into the world – in fact, after they’ve just finished writing it.
The problem, you see, is that far too often authors – and even some publishers – think in terms of a single book, and having one book be the end-all, be-all bestseller of all time, the book that launches a fantastic career. The hard truth, though, is that while that does happen, it’s so rare that it might as well as not happen. Let me rephrase that: the odds are decidedly against your first book (or any other writer’s) leaping off the shelves. Nor is it likely to put lots of cash in your pocket.
So what’s the reality? When you look at the careers of successful (for now I’m going to ignore the fact that ‘success’ is a very, very subjective term) writers, you’ll find that they worked their way up those book lists one book at a time. But don’t think in terms of this book made a little money, the next one made a little bit more and then – finally – KA-CHING! Nope. Mostly what happens is that one book might do well, the next not so much, the one after that a bit better, the following one badly, then – if they’re lucky – a bestseller … very much up and down, up and down.
And what ensues when that one bestseller does happen? Not only does that one book will sell well, but all those people who enjoyed it will also, very often, hunt down that author’s other books as well. Suddenly books that didn’t sell two copies at publication now leap off the shelves as readers hungrily consume their newly discovered favorite.
But this only happens with authors who have books in their inventory. See where this is going? If you only have one book, you’re spending a lot of time pushing your way up the lists. If it does manage to sell, and sell well, then your readers have only that book to read. If you have a stock of several books, however, your readers will be able to get into your entire stock of works … going from casual readers to loyal fans. If that’s not enough of a motivation, then keep in mind that sometimes success can come from totally unexpected directions. Remember I mentioned that sometimes a book just doesn’t sell, or doesn’t sell well? Sometimes books don’t sell well at first: very often a book will magically spring to life and go from a forgotten favorite to a phenomenon.
And so it’s very important – if not essential – to think about writing as a long-term thing: a very long-term thing. It’s not just one (early) bestseller, but a life of book after book that will give you multiple chances at creating a career.
Besides, if you tailor your publicity to one book, then you’ll have to restart the whole thing from scratch with the next one. If you instead think of exposure and publicity with regard to your entire body of work, then you can just add more books to the line, building momentum with each one. Publicity is damned hard – so why make it harder by having to do it over and over again?
The answer is that the first thing every writer should do when they finish one book, even before that book comes out, is to begin writing another one. Sure it’s tough, trying to simultaneously write a book and create publicity for your entire life as a writer, but considering how much time it can sometimes take to establish your ‘name,’ can you really afford to wait for sales that may not come? Why not take steps now and write a whole bunch of books? Then just one has to be The One. Besides, writing is something that gets better with practice, right? Not only will your next book be a good seller but, more importantly, it might be your best one – and if not that one, then the next, the next, the next ….
If this scenario scares you, and there’s every reason it should, then remember that professional writing isn’t done easily or quickly. But it is special, magical, and – most of all – takes a rare kind of bravery.
Never forget that.
In my last blog, I talked (okay, blogged) about the difference between a scene and a story—a critical difference if we seek to elevate our erotica above the merely erotic, to make it both satisfying and memorable. It talked about all the ingredients I collect for a story, like a main character, an antagonist, conflict and resolution.
‘Ingredients’ is a good word for these things, because it tells us what we need to get started, but not how to put it all together. For example, you wouldn’t introduce your bad-guy in the last chapter, right? Even when you have all the right ingredients, you still need to put them together properly to get a story.
Structure: A recipe for success
Ever heard of the three-act structure? It’s not new. It was coined by Aristotle, apparently, and is now a staple of modern screenplays. We can employ the same techniques to structure stories, even short ones. Rather than boring you with a long and dull description that I copied off Wikipedia, I thought it would be more fun (for me) to show structure in action by decomposing a well-known story (in this case, a movie) into some of its structural components to show you how it works.
Now it’s no secret that I’m Australian, and it’s also no secret that every last one of us is a knife-toting, crocodile-wrestling maniac. It should come as no surprise that I have chosen the 1986 classic Aussie rom-com, Crocodile Dundee, starring Paul ‘Hoges’ Hogan and Linda Kozlowski. I know you’ve all seen it; don’t try to deny it.
So let’s have at it. Since I’m too lazy to actually describe the three-act structure, I’ll refer as I go along to some excellent infographics from www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com by K.M. Weiland, author of Structuring Your Novel.
Here’s a cinematic blurb for Crocodile Dundee that I pasted together from a few sources:
Sue Charlton, a New York reporter, heads to Australia to interview the living legend Mick Dundee. When she finally locates him, she is so taken with him that she brings him back with her to New York. How will the Aussie bushman cope in the big city? And how will Mick cope when he finds himself falling in love with Sue?
Now, this is my third go at writing this blog, and what I’ve discovered in two failed attempts is that breaking down the plot of even a simple movie like Crocodile Dundee into its three-act components is a monumental undertaking. I wouldn’t finish writing it, and you certainly wouldn’t finish reading it. I’m just not that interesting. Instead, I’ll try something briefer and hopefully more interesting, by pulling some of the key scenes out from Act One and trying to identify them in the Weiland infographic.
Scene: The Walkabout Creek Pub
It’s the third scene of the movie, where Sue accompanies Walter Reilly to the Walkabout Creek Pub to meet Mick. Mick sweeps in in a boisterous, raucous rush of hilarious larrikinism, wrestling a stuffed crocodile, when he spots Sue.
They lock eyes and there’s a long, sexually charged moment that lets every viewer know exactly why they’re there—to see these two fall in love. This is a critical moment for the movie, because not only does it introduce the title character, it lets us know his goal (get the girl), and it is the pursuit of that goal which drives the drama.
In a romance story, a scene like this is known as a meet-cute (or sometimes cute-meet), a cute, amusing, and endearing way for the love-interests to meet. Woe be to she who writes a romance without a meet-cute.
Sue, to her great credit, steadfastly sticks to her purpose and is not wooed by the charismatic bushman:
“Listen, you do understand I want you to take me out where you were attacked, show me how you survived.”
“Oh well, I don’t know, just the two of us there alone? I’ve got me reputation to think about.”
This is our first sniff of the movie’s central conflict: Mick wants the girl, but the girl wants the story (not to mention, she has a boyfriend). In this way, the story’s antagonist isn’t a bad guy, or a monster, or a volcano, it’s situational. If Sue wants the story, she must spend time alone with Mick, and in doing so, she will have to endure his country charms. Surely only the strongest woman could resist!
Let’s look at K.M.Weiland’s Act One infographic. That link should popup a new window. I’d love to duplicate the infographic here, but I’m too damn lazy to ask Ms Weiland for permission. If you’re too damn lazy to click the link (hey, I’m the last to judge), then you’ll just have to imagine a timeline that shows how Act One is broken up into The Hook, The Set-up, The Inciting Event, The Build-up, and The First Plot Point. Curious yet? Clickety-click … I’ll wait …
You’re back? Great. Now this infographic isn’t romance-specific, so we don’t see meet-cute there, but clearly the Walkabout Pub scene is part of the set-up; characters: check; goals: check; stakes: check.
But what about that Inciting Event? It’s supposed to be in here somewhere. It will be the place where the antagonist takes its first bite out our main characters. The Walkabout Creek Pub introduces the situational antagonist, but it hasn’t slapped either of them down, yet.
Lesson: Not all critical scenes are on the right-hand-side of the infographic.
Scene: Sue Strikes out alone
After a day and night of outback adventure, Sue is recording her impressions on a tape recorder when Mick interrupts. (Apologies to US viewers, this link is blocked to you and I can’t find the scene elsewhere on the Internet)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pl8rwEuPf84#t=25m15s (Apologies to US viewers, this link is blocked to you and I can’t find the scene elsewhere on the Internet)
“Yeah, but you’re not alone. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but… I think I know how you must have felt… Or how I’d feel if I were out here alone.”
“You… Out here alone? That’s a joke. A city girl like you… You wouldn’t last five minutes, love. This is man’s country out here.”
“That’s right. I’m only a sheila. We’re heading for that escarpment today, right?”
“Okay. See you there this afternoon.”
You’ll have to watch the clip, because what the dialogue doesn’t show is the death-stare Sue gives Mick when he says she wouldn’t last five minutes.
This is our antagonist, out to play, teeth bared, saliva dripping from its maw. How could these two ever love each other? Physical attraction is one thing, but love between a chauvinist and a feminist? Not going to happen.
I think we’ve found our inciting incident. Their differences have driven a wedge between them, and it’s going to take a miracle to bridge the chasm it’s created.
Lesson: An Inciting Event is key to any complete story, not just a romance. We set a character onto a goal, but where’s the fun if we just let him succeed? Mick Dundee taking the city girl out into the bush, falling in love and living happily ever after is NOT a story. The Hook may be the thing that gets us reading, but the Inciting Event is the thing that makes us care.
Scene: Echo Lake
After the Inciting Event comes a series of scenes where Mick regains ground in his romantic quest for Sue, not the least of which being the one where he saves her from a crocodile attack.
Each of these plays on the same theme, Sue’s conflicted feelings for Mick, and the sense of safety she enjoys to be protected by such a manly man.
These feelings come to a head at Echo Lake. Sue is resting on the bank and watching Mick spear-fishing. The look in her eyes and the backing score all say one thing: she wants this man. Problem is, Wally will be there soon to end their adventure, and then she’ll have to go back to New York alone and resume her normal life without Mick.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pl8rwEuPf84#t=38m12s (Apologies to US viewers, this link is blocked to you and I can’t find the scene elsewhere on the Internet)
“Mick. When I go back, why don’t you come with me?”
“Well, it would make a great wrap to the story… You in New York City.”
“Oh. For a minute there I thought you were making a pass at me.”
“Well, I might have been. Would you mind?”
This is a huge moment for Sue. She’s tried playing the assertive modern woman to Mick, and it almost got her killed. But even though she’s the one making the move, everything in the scene still screams that she is playing submissive Jane to his Tarzan, which is the drama that drives their romance.
More importantly, it opens the plot of the movie. We’ve had the city-girl-in-the-outback, now it’s time for the bushman-in-the-big-smoke, which—apart from the romance—is the real point of Crocodile Dundee.
Looking at our infographic, we see that this is our First Plot Point. We’ve had the set-up and the build-up, now it’s time to crank the handle and let the story fly into the second act, which is where all the real conflict happens.
Lesson: The Inciting Event is not the plot; it simply opens up the story for the plot reveal. Because of this amazing thing that happened (Inciting Event), now we must embark on this adventure (First Plot Point). The closer you can tie these two to cause and effect, the more compelling the drama.
What Have We Learned?
Crocodile Dundee is cheesy and formulaic, and yet every time it comes on TV (and in Australia, that’s a lot, and usually late at night), there I am:
I’ll just watch to the croc attack.
I’ll just watch to Echo Lake.
I’ll just watch to “That’s not a knife.”
The reason I keep watching until they land in each-other’s arms in the New York subway, is because it’s a tremendously satisfying story. And it’s tremendously satisfying because it keeps giving you what you need, when you need it.
This is no accident.
Sure, you could ignore structure. You don’t want to write formulaic fiction that ticks boxes, you want to write a beautiful, organic story the way it needs to be told.
Well sure, you can. Don’t let me tell you different. But if your goals are less lofty, if all you want is to turn a good idea into a great story that people will enjoy, then look into this structure thing. It really works.
By Ashley Lister
Both of us moaning
Above the wet sounds of our love
The Fibonacci Poem is an experimental Western poetry form, bearing similarities to haiku, but based on the Fibonacci sequence.
1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21…
A typical Fibonacci poem is six lines in length, although it can be longer.
I want you.
It’s late. And we’re drunk
enough to make some big mistakes.
As always, I look forward to seeing your poetry in the comments box below.