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Ashley Lister

Writing Exercise

by | October 6, 2012 | | 4 Comments

By Ashley Lister

My friends call me Ash
I don’t have much cash
I write about writing
And about sex scenes that can prove positively exciting

As I may have mentioned before, I enjoy poetry exercises because I believe they help all of us with our writing:

  • Poetry is a wonderful way to warm up the writing muscles before starting any writing project.
  • Poetry gets the writer to focus on the strengths and merits of individual words in ways that aren’t usually considered with regular fiction writing.
  • Poetry can be a lot of fun.To that end, I thought we could look at one of my favourite pieces of fun poetry this month: the clerihew.

Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Say his name gently
He pioneered this verse form
Though critics say there could not be a worse form

The clerihew is a type of verse invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956). Traditionally, the clerihew is a four-line poem made up of two rhyming couplets (aabb). The metre of the clerihew is intentionally, and often ridiculously, irregular. The purpose of the clerihew is to offer a satiric, absurd or whimsical biography of a character.

The Marquis de Sade
Liked his punishment hard
He was an aristocrat – first class
And he liked spanking servant girls on the ass

In the comments box below please feel free to write your own four-line clerihew introducing yourself or introducing one of the characters from your fiction.

Writing Exercise

by | July 6, 2012 | | 25 Comments

By Ashley Lister

After the fun of last month’s blog post on cinquains, I wanted to stay
with poetry again this month and look at one of my all-time favourite poetic
forms: the limerick.

There once was a man from
Nantucket

Who kept all his cash in a
bucket.

His daughter, called Nan

Ran off with a man

And as for the bucket, Nan took
it.

I recite this version in classes because it’s more acceptable than the ribald
version.  I’ve reprinted the ruder version below
with the offending language carefully censored.

There once was a man from
Nantucket

Whose c**k was so long he could
suck it.

He said with a grin

As he wiped off his chin,

“If my ear was a c**t I could f**k
it.”

Why do I like the limerick? It’s fun and it’s ribald. It’s also a
legitimate form of poetry exemplifying balanced meter and disciplined rhyme
schemes. The limerick is characterised by the a-a-b-b-a rhyme scheme and it’s
fairly easy for anyone to attempt.

1          A
vice both obscene and unsavoury         a
2          Kept the Bishop of Barking in
slavery       a
3          With horrible howls                                    b
4          He deflowered young owls                         b
5          That he lured to his
underground aviary.  a

Personally, I think the sophisticated rhyme scheme in this limerick is
quite remarkable.  The three syllable
rhyme (ay-var-ee) at the end of lines 1, 2 and 5 is a powerful reminder of the
poem’s strong construction. The same can be said for the rhyme in lines 3 and 4
(ow-uls). Not bad for a throwaway verse based on the idea of a bishop
having sex with owls. 

There was a young woman from
Leeds

Who swallowed a packet of seeds

Within half an hour

Her **** grew a flower

And her **** was a bundle of
weeds.

I could talk here about the syllable weight in this poem. Instead I’ll
simply say that it’s effective because it remains true to the form and it’s
still funny because of the ridiculous images it suggests. The same can be said
for the final example below.

There once was a young man called
Paul
Who had a hexagonal ball
The square of its weight
And his c**k’s length (plus eight)

Is his phone number – give him a
call.

The usual rules apply to this blog post. If you can come up with a
limerick that you want to share, please post it in the comments box below. Obviously
no one wants to read anything defamatory or libellous but saucy and ribald are
the lifeblood of the limerick so I’ll be happy to see your risqué rhymes there.

As always, I look forward to reading your poems.

Writing Exercise – Cinquain

by | June 6, 2012 | | 16 Comments

As I’ve mentioned
before, when I’m teaching creative writing, I tend to return to poetry
exercises. Writing to the restraints of a strict poetic form requires a degree
of mental discipline. Limited numbers of syllables, or the need for rephrasing
to meet the demands of a rhyme scheme, often encourages writers to think about
words in ways that aren’t familiar to those who focus solely on prose writing.

Which is my way of
saying that I’ve got another poetry assignment for those brave enough to rise
to the challenge. This month I thought we could look at the cinquain.

The cinquain is a five
line poetic form that can be attempted in one of two ways. The traditional form
is based on a syllable count as illustrated below.


line 1 – 2 syllables
line 2 – 4 syllables
line 3 – 6 syllables
line 4 – 8 syllables
line 5 – 2 syllables

Naked

Two lithe bodies

Press kisses together

Swift sigh moan shriek roar yes Yes YES!

Sated

For those who like to break away from
tradition, the modern form of the cinquain is not dependent on such
devices as counting syllables.

line 1 – one word (noun) a title or
name of the subject
line 2 – two words (adjectives) describing the title
line 3 – three words (verbs) describing an action related to the title
line 4 – four words describing a feeling about the title, a complete sentence
line 5 – one word referring back to the title of the poem


partner

perfect, passionate

dancing, sleeping, dreaming,

yang to my yin

lover

I strongly advocate exercises like this as the perfect way to preface any
bout of writing. Athletes tell us we should never participate in sports without
first doing some form of warm-up exercise. Musicians practice scales before
performing. Doesn’t it make sense that a writer should practice their craft
before teasing the right words onto the page?

If you have the time to try writing a cinquain, either traditional or
modern, please leave your poem(s) in the comments box below. It’s always good
to read fresh work inspired by these exercises and I hope you have fun with
this one.

Writing Exercise – Dialogue

by | May 6, 2012 | | 2 Comments

By Ashley Lister

My wife informs me there are four types of orgasm.
The Positive Orgasm, characterised by the exclamation, “Oh! Yes!  Oh! Yes!”
The Negative Orgasm, suggested by cries of, “Oh! No!  Oh! No!”
The Religious Orgasm, identified by exclamations such as “Jesus!  God! Jesus!” and the Fake Orgasm, typified by the words, “Oh! Ashley!”

Dialogue in fiction serves three main functions:

  • Dialogue advances plot.
  • Dialogue demonstrates character.
  • Dialogue shows relationships.

Dialogue is one of the main challenges that needs to be mastered for anyone wishing to write credible erotic fiction.  Connoisseurs of pornography repeatedly complain of unconvincing conversations and asinine interjections
spoiling the ambience of sexually explicit material.  Editors of erotica frequently bemoan the monological exchanges typified by banal exclamatories in erotic scenes.  No one expects the fictional participants of a sexually explicit encounter to exchange pithy views on Keats or Kierkegaard.  Yet most readers would prefer characters who can say something more insightful than, “Yeah, baby,” or “Oh! No!” or even “Oh! Ashley!”

It’s worth noting here that the current vogue in writing stands against the overuse of speech tags and modifiers in dialogue.  Whilst it is occasionally helpful to say, John complained; Jane asked; he stammered; or she exclaimed (etc), it is acknowledged that these verbs should be redundant if the dialogue has been well-crafted and is fulfilling its function correctly.

Consider the following:

Text 1

“What are you telling me?” John demanded.

Jane glared at him.  “I’m telling you that it’s over,” she bawled.

“It’s-” he began.

“Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is,” she interrupted.

He shook his head.  “I’m not making anything diff-”

She didn’t let him finish the words.  “Goodbye, John,” she said finally.

Text 2

“What are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that it’s over.”

“It’s-”

“Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”

“I’m not making anything diff-”

“Goodbye, John.”

The modifiers in Text 1 slow the pace of this exchange. In the first line, “What are you telling me?” John demanded, it can be argued that John demanded is redundant. John is asking an explicit question and these are not usually ‘whispered’ or ‘said huskily’ or ‘ muttered whimsically.’ The reader should be able to infer from the heated nature of this exchange’s opening that John is demanding an answer. Telling the reader this much borders on being too expository and writing beneath the readers’ abilities to understand the narrative.

Similarly, in lines 3 and 4, it can be seen that the modifiers are unnecessary.

“It’s-” he began.

“Don’t make this any more difficult than it
already is,” she interrupted.

Because the reader will understand that John has been interrupted – a fact implied by his single word utterance, ending in an abrupt en-dash – there is little need to tell the reader that John has been interrupted. This over-explaining carries connotations of the annoying tautology found in exchanges such as:

“Why don’t you smile?” asked Jane, urging John to smile.

“I am smiling,” said John, smiling.

Perhaps the most intrusive redundancy in Text 1 is the last line.

She didn’t let him finish the words.  “Goodbye, John,” she said finally.

All the previous arguments against overexposing the interruption can be applied to the first sentence in this line.  John’s previous utterance finished halfway through a word and ended with an abrupt en-dash.  Whatever Jane says after that is almost certainly an interruption.

The sentence could have effectively ended with Jane saying, “Goodbye, John.”  The final three words, ‘she said finally’ are unnecessary and potentially confusing. We already know that Jane is saying these words so there is no need for the author to tell us ‘she said’ them. We also know that they have been spoken at the end of the exchange so
there was no real need for the word ‘finally.’ In some ways this provides a dead-cat bounce: the initial impact of the statement being followed by an unneeded echo that does not offer the reader anything new and dilutes the finality of the original statement.  This is the author being overly indulgent at the expense of the story and the characters.
In this argument Jane should be given the last word but the author has taken that privilege away from her.

Having said all of the above, the conservative use of modifiers does help to ascertain the identity of the speaker.  Modifiers can also convey additional meaning that is not explicitly or implicitly present in the reported speech.  In line 2 of Text 1, the reader is shown that Jane glared at him.  This is necessary information for providing story detail.  Without this information the reader doesn’t know if Jane is avoiding eye-contact or fighting back tears of regret or shampooing her hair and considering a henna rinse.  Because no one glares at people when they are joking (or doing anything other than being part of a confrontation) the single verb is giving the reader a lot of detail about the vitriolic nature of this exchange.

As with all matters in creating enjoyable fiction, the onus is on the writer to present a clear and unambiguous text for the readers’ interpretation and entertainment. And, as with all erotic fiction, the essential point is to keep thinking about the reader with every word that’s written.

Writing Exercises

by | January 6, 2012 | | 14 Comments

By Ashley Lister

As Lisabet mentioned at the start of the year, the ERWA blog is going to see a lot more activity in 2012. My name is Ashley Lister and, aside from being a regular columnist and reviewer at ERWA, I’m also a freelance writer and a creative writing lecturer.

Because of that last qualification, I figured I could use this space to share some of my favourite exercises for all those erotica writers reading this who want to polish their craft.

I usually work with three types of writing exercise.

The first type is the sort that’s traditionally used in the lecture hall. It’s a timed exercise designed to get students writing. These are usually ‘on-demand’ type exercises where students write haikus, limericks, cinquains etc. The purpose of these exercises is to get students familiar with the form being discussed.

From a writer’s perspective, timed lecture hall exercises work best when they can be recreated at home. That way the writer has the scope to properly use the exercise but without the pressure of meeting unreasonable standards set by peers.

The second type of writing exercise is the sort that’s solely intended to be done at home. For these, in my classes, I’ll give a theme or the opening paragraph to a story and ask learners to create a short piece of fiction to share with the rest of the class the following week.

Last term I used the opening pages from a piece of werewolf fiction I’d written (‘Scratched’, Red Velvet and Absinthe). The class’s responses to this exercise produced a lot of differing results. Few had gone for the traditional approach to telling a werewolf story. One had simply gone to see the latest Twilight film and told me the plot of that movie. Some of the stories were dark – dark even for werewolf stories. Some of them were whimsical. All of them had been written when the writers had the time and enthusiasm to engage with the subject. This level of personal involvement showed in the quality of the writing.

From a writer’s perspective, these are the exercises which I prefer. I can complete them at my own pace, in my own writing place, and without the pressure demanded by the need for immediate quality results.

The third type, to my mind, is the sort of exercise used for creating fresh ideas. Creating ideas can be daunting for any new writer and these are the sorts of collaborative exercises where we share our suggestions and bounce them off other writers. It’s a chance to voice ideas to others, see how they’re received, and to also get an insight into the way peers are thinking. In short: it’s a chance to hear some unusual ideas which can often prove tangentially inspirational.

One of my favourite exercises of this type is adapted from Margaret Geraghty’s The Five Minute Writer. Learners are expected to spend five minutes compiling a short list in response to the question: What does it feel like to…?
My personal responses to this included items such as:

What does it feel like to run a marathon?
What does it feel like to lick a hedgehog?
What does it feel like to taste an emotion?

Your exercise, should you wish to participate, is to produce five original responses to that question: What does it feel like to…? Feel free to share your suggestions via the comments box below and let’s see if we can inspire each other with some wonderful and original ideas.

Ash

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