Trying to sound a little Lovecraftian today? Hum, could be. When I put my writing through the I Write Like website, I often come back as H. P. Lovecraft when I’m not coming back as J. D. Salinger. Although yesterday’s post came back as George Orwell, and that made me think of two things: 1, there wasn’t a clock striking thirteen anywhere near me, and 2, a writing teacher who was really, really bothered when a made a reference to Winston Smith and clocks striking thirteen in a short scene I wrote for her class.
Can’t help it, teach. It’s obviously in my blood.
Couples Dance is getting near the end, though this is the longest thing I’ve written that’s not a novel. Yesterday I finished with 24,600 words devoured by the beast, and there’s no reason to believe I won’t hit 30,000 before it’s seen “The End”. And it’s been fun, it really has. This story, for some reason, has opened me up somehow. Maybe it’s because I’m not really doing total erotica, and I’m not really doing total horror, but I’m into some kind of mashup here, and I’m liking the overall feel.
Chapter 8, what I’ve worked on for a few day in thousand word sprints, is a look into the past. My main character is reading the journal of some local New England artist from 1932, and he’s seeing things about two former owners of the house in which he’s living. He’s worried about things that are happening to his life, and to his wife, and the more he’s reading about what happen with these women in the past, the more he’s getting fearful, curious–and turned on.
He can’t help himself. It seems like the things that have been overtaking his wife’s and his life are just too much for him to take, but at the same time he’s finding the things they’ve done is turning him on, even though he’s been a touch disgusted at the same time.
Hey, that’s how it goes. Don’t give your wife the love she demands–and in this instance, I do mean demands–then it’s not completely out of the question that she’s going to finger your butt hard. Them be the breaks, my friend.
Last night I finished a scene that I showed to a couple of lady friends–one an editor for Naughty Nights Press (do I need to warn you there’ll be a content warning?), through whom my next story will be published, the other a very lovely writer living in London who also writes erotica–and they loved the scene. The London Writer even gave me an idea that I hadn’t considered, and I might just throw into the mix that is this literary insanity.
But there is a scene coming up that . . . well, it’s going to be demented. It was something that came to me the other night as I was driving home (which you might have read about yesterday), and I thought about it a little yesterday before I started writing the last scene, and the more I went there in my mind, the more I knew that it would make sense in the story.
I also knew it was going to really set a tone for the story that would take it into truly bizarro stuff. If ‘ol Lovecraft had actually been interested in sex, he might have tried something like this–assuming Cthulhu would have allowed him to do so. I think the Great Old One would have approved; he loved the strange and sickening.
I’m getting there; I’m getting to that point where I will push it to 10, and then into 11 . . . and maybe I’ll kick it a little more and go right off the cliff. Sometimes ya gotta go there.
Besides, everything is telling me I should do this.
Maybe I’ve got a little bit of Elder Being inside, just wanting to get out and raise hell.
Just a quick note: I Write Like said: I write like H. P. Lovecraft. Hehe! It’s a sign.