Just Over the Edge

By Lisabet Sarai

Our topic for the next fortnight here at the Grip is “Take Me Away”:

You could argue that most erotica is fantasy, but from paranormal to alternate history to exclusive clubs and mansions for BDSM practitioners, our genre seems to lend itself to fantasy worlds. Do you like your erotica as close to reality as possible, or do you figure that as long as you're giving the reader what they crave, you might as well go all out?

Anyone who's read much of my work will recognize that it is strongly (perhaps too strongly) grounded in the real world. Practically everything I've ever written provides a strong sense of place. Indeed, I suspect that I could list the settings of my tales more accurately than the names of my characters. How many authors set stories in Worcester, Massachusetts, or Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, or Minneapolis, Minnesota, or a motel on the Interstate fifty miles from Kansas City? I've got tales that unfold in Bangkok, Siem Reap, London, Guatemala and Assam, too.

See what I mean?

My characters aren't generally fabulously wealthy, famous or powerful either. I've written computer programmers and cops, doctors and grad students, flight attendants, strippers and bar owners, but not a single rock star or super model.

In each story, I try to evoke environments and situations that feel solid and familiar, or at least plausible. I want to lull my reader into believing in my worlds and the individuals who populate them. That way, when I step over the edge into erotic fantasy, I'll pull them with me. They won't notice (I hope) that we're all at once in an alternate reality where every desire can be fulfilled. I want them to be ready to accept – no, devour – my sexual scenarios even when they're of dubious possibility. Exhibitionist masturbation on a late night subway train. Double penetration on a billiard table. Setting oneself up as whore for a night in a rented window. A public spanking on the stage of a western honky tonk. Sex on the moderator's desk at an academic conference. Things are just so normal - right up until the point that they become fantastic.

I've written a few swingers and BDSM clubs in my time. However, those places do exist – I've even visited a few. Sure, I exaggerate a bit. At the typical swing party, you're just as likely to find creeps and bores as sexy, intuitive Dominants. However, I doubt that those of you who have had similar personal experiences would have serious issues with my portrayals of these environments.

In the few historical stories I have attempted, I work hard to build a sense of time and place, to generate a past as solid and believable as the present. I'm no expert at this; however, the goal, for me, is not much different from when I am writing a contemporary tale. Make it feel real.

Even when I write paranormal fiction, the worlds I create closely mirror the everyday. I prefer to insert only a few preternatural or occult elements in an otherwise mundane setting, and I definitely stipulate limits to my characters' powers. In my novel Necessary Madness, Kyle has prescient visions, but he cannot control them, at least initially, and they've driven him to the border of insanity. In Serpent's Kiss, although Jorge is an incarnation of the god Quetzlcoatl, he is neither invincible nor invulnerable.

Occasionally I wonder whether my propensity for writing relatively realistic erotica stems from a lack of imagination. As a reader, I adore strange, intricate, well-crafted fantasy worlds. I know it takes considerable skill to create one that's detailed and consistent enough to satisfy me. For the most part, I haven't dared to try.

My most recent novel, however, is a serious departure from my more realistic focus. Rajasthani Moon, which will be released in early June, could be politely described as “over the top”. The book began as a sort of experiment. Fed up with the slicing and dicing of erotic romance into a million subgenres, I decided to write a book that combined as many genres as I could manage. Rajasthani Moon is steampunk-paranormal-BDSM-ménage-Bollywood-Rubenesque erotic romance. There are also some kidnap fantasy and F/F elements thrown in to the mix. Here's the blurb:

Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.

Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire, is a woman on a mission. When the remote Indian kingdom of Rajasthan refused to remit its taxes to the Empire, Her Majesty imposed an embargo. Deprived of the energy-rich mineral viridium, essential for modern technology and development, Rajasthan was expected to quickly give in and resume its payments. Yet after three years, the rebellious principality still has not knuckled under. Cecily undertakes the difficult journey to the rugged, arid land of the Rajputs to determine just how it has managed to survive, and if possible to convince the country to return to the Empire's embrace. Instead, she's taken captive by a brigand who turns out to be the ruler's half-brother Pratan and delivered into the hands of the sexy but sadistic Rajah Amir, who expertly mingles torture and delight in his interrogation of the voluptuous interloper.

Cursed before birth by Amir's jealous mother, Pratan changes to a ravening wolf whenever the moon is full. Cecily uncovers the counter-spell that can reverse the effects of the former queen's hex and tries to trade that information for her freedom. Drawn to the fierce wolf-man and sympathising with his suffering, she volunteers to serve as the sacrifice required by the ritual – offering her body to the beast. In return, the Rajah reveal Rajasthan's amazing secret source of energy. In the face of almost impossible odds, Cecily has accomplished the task entrusted to her by the Empire. But can she really bear to leave the virile half-brothers and their colourful land behind and return to constraints of her life in England?

***

There's nothing at all realistic about Rajasthani Moon. It postulates the existence of fabulously perverse devices such as robotic rope that binds upon command and inexhaustible sources of energy to power airships and sex machines. Cecily is a larger than life character (in every sense) who raves against her captors even as she experiences one climax after another at their hands. It doesn't matter who is around or what is happening – Cecily Harrowsmith is almost guaranteed to be aroused.

I did enough research on Rajasthan to lace the tale with genuine cultural references, but I also concocted some purely-imagined ceremonies and performances, in line with the Bollywood theme. I made up exotic foreign dishes and created a Taj Mahal-like palace by a sacred lake. I even messed with geography, relocating the forbidding Merangahr Fort (which I knew would be my primary setting as soon as I set eyes on a photo) from Jodhpur to the Rajasthani capital city of Jaipur.

Rajasthani Moon is such a departure from my usual realistic style that I worry about readers' reactions. In particular, I'm a bit concerned that some people might object to the aspects of dubious consent that run through the tale. I just hope they realize that the book is not intended to be taken too seriously. In the real world, and in most of my fiction, I insist that all sex, and all BDSM activities, be safe, sane and consensual. However, Cecily's Rajasthan is about as far from the real world as you can get. It has a good deal in common with Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars or H. Rider Haggard's Africa, but with considerably more sex.

In writing this novel, I took a step over the edge of plausibility, into the realm of high fantasy. Whether I make it back remains to be seen.

My Favorite Kind of Research

By Lisabet Sarai

When it comes to research, I'm a bit lazy. Occasionally I'll get bitten by the research bug and spend a bunch of money on books – I dropped nearly a hundred bucks on material about Mayan mythology and culture when I was working on Serpent's Kiss – but usually I'm content with relatively superficial visits to Google or Wikipedia to answer my factual questions. It helps that I don't tend to write much historical fiction. My few attempts in that genre have confirmed my expectations that it's a huge amount of work! No, I have to admit, I'll coast if I can, trusting my imagination and my intuitions when a more scrupulous author would be hitting the reference department.

There's one area, though, where I'm willing to do almost unlimited explorations in the interest of verisimilitude – preferably going to the original source – and that's my settings.

Anyone who's read much of my fiction (all three of you!) knows I often set my stories in foreign destinations. That's merely a symptom of the fact that travel is quite my literally passion. I've probably already shared the story of how my husband seduced me with tales of his adventures in Paris, Instanbul and Bali. Sex, love and travel totally intermix in my mind and my memories. So perhaps it's not surprising that I get story ideas when I'm on one of our international jaunts.

My very first published short story, “Glass House”, draws heavily on my experiences in Prague a few years before I wrote it. Even now, a decade later, rereading it brings back the weird, almost absurd beauty of that venerable city, the edgy, offbeat magic that infects its cobblestone streets and stone bridges, soaring cathedrals and basement pubs.

******

“Let us walk down to the river,” he says, bringing me back to the present. “It is nearly sunset. And there is something that I would like to show you.”

We make our way westward toward the Vltava, in companionable silence. I am struck by the fact that, after all, I do trust Lukaš. For all his swaggering and sexual innuendo, he has treated me with respect. I know how easily he could have taken advantage of me; he probably knows it, too. Somehow, though I have told him nothing, he also senses my conflicts. He knows without being told that I am not free.

Clouds stained by the sunset heap high over the water, which flows gray and smooth like molten lead. Vermilion, ocher, coral, azure: ordinary color names do not apply to these flowing, burning shapes.

Against this multicolored background the spires and towers of Prague Castle on its crag across the river are fairytale silhouettes. For a long time, I simply stare, as the forms merge and change in the dying light. When I finally remember Lukaš, I see he is grinning again, as if he could take credit for this spectacular display.

“Is this what you wanted to show me? It is wonderful!”

“Not exactly. Look across the street.”

The first thing I see is a massive rococo building of yellow stucco, dripping with ornamentation and topped by an onion dome. Then I see the building beside it, and stop short.

It is totally fantastic, whimsical, and bizarre. It began as an ordinary, modern office building, with square windows and a flat roof, facing the river across Smetanova Street. But grafted onto this edifice is a second building, all of glass, shaped like an asymmetric egg timer and leaning at a crazy angle against the staid office block. The sunset colors reflect in its multifaceted façade, so that the building seems to shift and move.

*****

Then there's Amsterdam. I've been there several times, but six or seven years ago we spent an entire week in a tiny guesthouse just around the corner from the train station. Something kept drawing me back to the red light district – maybe the fact my previous visits were prior to my rebirth as an erotica author. I found myself fascinated by the women in the narrow, rose-lit windows, wondering what their lives might be like. The experience ultimately produced my BDSM tale “Shades of Red”.

*****

I've been obsessed ever since last night, when Jane and I wandered through the red light district, staring at the women who waited behind the glass in their rose-tinted rooms. We wove our way through clumps of nervous, intoxicated men who were all staring, too. I could smell their sweat, underneath the beer and the pot smoke. I could feel their lust. It infected me.

They barely noticed us, two teenagers in jeans, although the tight denim in my crotch was so wet, I half-expected they'd catch my scent and turn to me. They had eyes only for the bodies displayed in the rows of windows lining the canals.

Some of the women were ripe, blond, Slavic-looking, their breasts exploding out of their lace brassieres. Others were slight, deliberately child-like in Gidget-inspired bikinis or brief plaid kilts. There was a Brazilian beauty with golden skin and coffee-colored eyes; a voluptuous African princess with strings of ruby-hued beads dangling in her ebony cleavage; a serious-looking brunette wearing dark-framed glasses who sat, shapely legs crossed, like a secretary waiting to take dictation.

Some of the women posed. Others danced suggestively, or made lewd gestures at their prospective customers. There were masked women in leather, snapping riding crops against their boots. There were women whose pierced nipples and labia showed clearly through their translucent garments.

Men clustered around the dimly-lit windows like moths hovering by a candle. Mostly they'd just look, inflamed by the mere thought of all this available flesh. Sometimes I'd see a hushed conversation through a half open glass door. Such conversations might end with the man turning away, disappointed, rejected, or perhaps simply unwilling to pay the asking price. Other times the door would open wider, just enough to admit the supplicant. Then it would close and the red velvet curtains would be drawn, hiding the rest of the dance.

Those curtained windows drew me. I couldn't stop imagining what might be going on behind them. I knew it was a straight commercial transaction in most cases, a workman-like blowjob, or a quick, bored fuck. Still, I imagined occasional revelations, epiphanies, ecstasies -- meetings of strangers pre-destined to be lovers, brief but unbearably intense conflagrations of lust, lewd and mystical connections that would live in his memory, or hers, long after the curtains were flung open again.

I'm nineteen. I've had enjoyable but ultimately frustrating sex with two boys my age. I know that, practical as I am, I'm a bit of a romantic. Otherwise, I would not have continued to roam the red-lit alleys long after Jane gave up and went back to the hotel in disgust. As the Oude Kerk chimed two AM, I wandered up Molensteeg and down Monnikenstraat like some horny ghost. The crowds had thinned. The curtains were mostly drawn. Some of open windows were empty. Next to them were the signs: KAMERS TE HUUR. Windows for rent.

*****

I remember those church bells, ringing through the damp, mostly deserted Amsterdam streets. I just had to capture them in a story.

Then of course there's Bangkok, familiar and yet ever strange after two years of living there and many visits since. I was there not long ago. The city's changing – there are more skyscrapers now, and everyone including the beggars has a cell phone – but the description I wrote nearly a decade ago, in “Butterfly” is still pretty accurate. Except for their piercings and tattoos, the bar girls haven't changed much...

*****

One of my mates, Charlie, knew the city well. He checked us into a comfortable, ridiculously cheap hotel in the middle of the tourist district. Bewildered and dazzled, I followed him along sidewalks crammed with vendors hawking watches, tee shirts and toys, trying to avoid tripping on the broken pavement.

Beggars with shriveled limbs extended their bowls in silent entreaty. Blond, ragged-haired tourists in shorts and sandals, slender Thai women in tight jeans and silk blouses, monks draped in saffron, policemen standing stiffly at corners, their revolvers prominently displayed: it seemed that the whole of the Bangkok was here on this one street. Meanwhile, an endless line of vehicles crawled by us: tint-windowed Mercedes, sooty trucks, and rickety buses with people hanging out the doors. The air was heavy with diesel fumes, frying garlic, and jasmine. We dined at a quiet restaurant on a side lane, where the young waitress giggled every time we spoke to her. Then Charlie took me off to see what he called "the real Bangkok" - the go-go bars and sex clubs.

We sauntered into the "entertainment plaza". Three stories of indoor bars and clubs surrounded a central court, which was crowded with open-air bars and stalls selling skewers of grilled chicken, fresh fruit, and fried locusts. As we walked along the second-level balcony, bikini-clad girls tried to lure us inside their establishments.

<"Come inside," they crooned. "One beer fifty baht. No cover charge." Briefly, the woman would hold back the dark cloth draping the door, offering a tantalizing glimpse of flickering lights and bare flesh. "Take a look, no charge, come inside."

The more energetic of these young marketeers would grab us by the hand, and laughing the whole while, try to pull us in. It was all good-natured, though. We'd extricate ourselves from her strong fingers and thank her. "Not now," we'd say. "Maybe later."

"Why not now?" she'd say, stamping her foot in mock anger. "Don't you like me?"

*****

I've been lots of places I haven't written yet. There are stories inside me set in Instanbul, in Tokyo, in Lisbon. I'm sure they'll find their way out eventually. Of course, sometimes I'll want to set one of my tales somewhere I haven't traveled (at least not yet). Then I do have to do some research – but it's a pleasure.

A few months ago I wrote a short story that takes place in Varanasi (Benares), India. My one trip to India didn't take me anywhere near that ancient, sacred center. I spent delightful hours pouring over websites, gazing at maps, trying to grasp a sense of the place. I don't know if I succeeded (I haven't heard yet whether the tale has been accepted), but I'll tell you one thing: I've added the place to my (all too long) travel wish list!

Mind Candy

By Lisabet Sarai

Compared to many writers, I'm not a very visual person, especially when it comes to my characters. I've been inspired by places (for instance, the twelfth century abbey in Thoronet, France, that kindled the idea for my story "Communion"), but rarely by seeing people, either in the flesh or in photos. Romance authors frequently share pictures of sexy guys on their blogs - often celebrities - images of men who power their creativity or serve as models for their heroes. That just doesn't seem to work for me.

My erotic short stories tend to be pretty vague about how characters look. Especially when I'm writing in the first person, I often don't have a mental image of the narrator at all - unless his or her appearance is central to the story's concept, of course. I'll describe the other characters, but again, I'm as likely to focus on the character's voice or the way he moves as on the details of his face and body. In my tales, emotion trumps sensory input most of the time.

When I began writing erotic romance, I realized that this non-visual orientation was a bit of a problem. It's not only the fact that I can't share pix of the hunky guys who stimulate my muse, the way other authors do. In addition, it seems that romance readers want to know what characters look like, in far greater detail than I'm used to providing. I've had to learn how to describe my characters with sufficient precision that my readers can imagine them.

And it's not just readers. Every publisher with whom I work has a "Cover Information Form" that you have to fill out when you sign a contract. Invariably this form will ask you to provide details about the appearance of the main characters. The first few times I had to complete one of these forms, I had a terrible time!

(As an aside, I've discovered that although I may not know exactly what my characters look like, I can definitely reject a photo that's not a good likeness. I was somewhat unhappy with the cover of my novel Serpent's Kiss because the woman does not fit my mental image of Elena at all.)

Anyway, I've recently adopted a strategy of looking for photos of my characters when I begin a new erotic romance work. That way, I have something to guide my descriptions. I can also send the pictures to the cover artist for reference. The first time I tried this was with Necessary Madness. The artist used the photos I supplied, and I was really pleased with the results - not the least because the design was didn't follow the typical model for romance covers.

I'm working now on a M/M science fiction novel. (Well, to be honest, I haven't written anything on it for about four months. But I plan to get back to it soon...) I was able to find photos that did an excellent job capturing my nebulous ideas about my characters, Rafe and Dylan, and making those notions concrete. Facial images, of course, don't say anything about the rest of the body, but that I can imagine the rest of them, given the faces.

Dylan

Rafe

My current work in progress is an exception to all of what I've said above, however. One of the characters was inspired by a real person. I was in a blues bar a few months ago and noticed a man sitting at the next table. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He was black, fairly light skinned, with a shaved head, handsome aquiline features, and wire-frame glasses. He wore a white business shirt, but with the throat open, the sleeves turned halfway up his forearms and the tails outside his trim jeans. His polished leather shoes looked expensive. The thing that drew my attention, though, was his aura of total concentration. He sat there motionless, one foot on the rung of the bar stool, drinking in the music. His lips pressed together. His hands, decorated with one or two heavy gold rings, lay still on his taut thighs. He didn't move with the music. He wasn't grooving with the rest of us. But I could tell he swallowing up every note.

At the time I thought he'd make a wonderful character. That evening, I imagined him as a vampire, given his beauty and his stillness. In "Wild About That Thing", however, he's turning out to be human, but with a hard edge, an intensity that makes him difficult to resist.

I wish I had a photo of him, though. Over time, my image of him is fading. I only hope I can capture his allure before I lose it completely.

The Power of Place

By Lisabet Sarai

The roar of an unmuffled motor roused them from their embrace. A narrow boat with a high, sharp prow raced passed them, leaving the barge rocking gently in its wake. ‘A long-tail boat, as they are called,’ said Somtow. ‘A modern adaptation of the traditional dragon boats that plied the river in past centuries.’ He kissed her again, lightly. ‘Personally, I prefer a more leisurely pace.’

Katherine stood up and leaned on the gunwale, taking in the myriad sights of the river. Stretches of verdant jungle alternated with rickety-looking wooden houses, perched on stilts at the river's edge. Women in sarongs squatted on the porches of these shacks, doing laundry or cooking on charcoal braziers. The delicious smell of frying garlic came to her across the water.

She saw the slick heads of children, heard their shrill cries as they splashed each other. A flat-bottomed boat piled high with bananas passed their barge, propelled by a long pole in the hands of an elderly woman in a conical straw hat.

Then she caught sight of tiled roofs and gilded spires through the palm trees. It was a wat, a Buddhist temple, inaccessible except by water. A winding stairway led from the complex of buildings down to the shore. At water level sat a small pavilion, with the typical peaked roof and upturned eaves. Katherine saw a young man draped in orange robes seated there, pensively watching the river flow by. The monk looked up as they passed. Katherine felt an ache in her chest. His beautiful, serious face, lit by the late-morning sun, was too perfect.

Immersed in the scenes on the riverside, Katherine started when she felt Somtow's hands on her hips. She twisted around to look at him.

‘No,’ he said, ‘please, just stay the way you are.’ She obeyed, turning back the river and leaning her elbows on the railing. She felt her skirt being drawn up, until it was around her waist. Next, her knickers were pulled down until they were at her ankles.

From Raw Silk

My stories are about places almost as much as they are about people. In many cases, my settings act almost like additional characters. They establish the story context, generate conflicts and influence the action. Often, the characters only make sense in the place where I've put them.

Kate's odyssey of sexual self-discovery in Raw Silk could not have occurred anywhere else but in Thailand. Only in Bangkok could she have become entangled with a Dom who runs a go-go bar and a minor prince, or been seduced by the free-wheeling sensuality of the Thai culture.

Kathleen's topic for this week is “Writing Where You Know”. I know Thailand fairly well, having lived there for several years and visited frequently after we moved away. Bangkok is in my blood and spills out in many of my stories. I try to capture its contradictions and fascinations, and mirror them in my characters.

Places seduce me. I soak up their essence and then try to recreate them on the page. I was once lucky enough to live in Boston's historic Beacon Hill district for a year. The cobbled streets called to me. I walked them in a daze, drunk with history. I worked to capture this sense of past enduring into the present in Incognito, which has action set in Beacon Hill in both contemporary and Victorian times.

Miranda felt delightfully free as she strolled down Charles Street, enjoying the afternoon. It was only May, but already the trees were in full leaf, dappling the brick side walks with patterns of shadow. Girls passed her in tank tops and shorts, legs and arms bare and already burnished with sun. She felt warm in her long-sleeved pullover and overalls.

She loved this district, with its historic buildings and narrow lanes. Most of the town houses dated from the middle of the previous century. They offered a delightful jumble of architectural detail; wrought-iron balconies, fanlight transoms, stained glass, mullioned windows, Corinthian columns. Many of the brick-fronted buildings were draped with ivy. Some were traversed by aged trunks as thick as her wrist, twining around doors up to the many-chimneyed roofs. The tall windows offered glimpses of chandeliers, Oriental carpets, Siamese cats, and bookshelves that stretched floor to ceiling.

In Beacon Hill, gas lamps lined all the streets, burning day and night. Her own apartment looked out on a private alley, flanked by ivy-hung brick walls and lit by gas lights. Miranda appreciated the irony of her living in an environment that dated from the same period as her research. Perhaps, she sometimes thought playfully, I had a previous life as a Victorian matron.

Most of Beacon Hill was entirely residential, but Charles Street was lined with shops and cafés. There were many vendors of books and antiquities; Miranda loved to rummage through the crowded, chaotic shops, savouring the atmosphere of the past, although she rarely made a purchase.

She entered one of these places now, a dim, comfortable space half below street level. She had to duck her head as she entered. A silvery bell tinkled to announce her arrival.

The proprietor, an energetic, fussy old man with wire spectacles, knew her by sight. “Hello, hello,” he said as he emerged from a back room. “Can I help you find anything today?”

Miranda smiled. “No, thank you. I’m just browsing at the moment.”

“Well, if I can be of any assistance, just let me know.”

Miranda wandered happily through the shop. It was much larger than it first appeared, with several rooms stretching backward into the building. The front room, near the street, was crowded with furniture of obsolete categories, armoires, commodes, carved dressing tables surmounted by triple mirrors. There were other rooms with porcelain, jewellery, cutlery, iron fittings, tarnished brass. Finally, Miranda found herself in the book room.

Books were piled everywhere, in boxes, on shelves, in pillars that reached up from the middle of the floor. Although most were in English, Miranda noticed volumes in French, Russian, and Arabic. The room was veiled in dust, but Miranda did not mind. She loved the rich smell of the leather bindings, the tarnished gold embossing, the fragile texture of the old paper.

-- From Incognito

The shop Miranda visits actually exists, or at least it did back when I lived on Charles Street. Miranda's apartment borrows a lot from the one we rented, with its windows filled with wavy glass and its rickety fire escape overlooking the brick-lined back court. It was easy for me to imagine Beacon Hill in Beatrice's time (the Victorian era). At night I could see her ghost tripping along the cobbles, veiled, on her way to an assignation with a stranger.

Of course, not every place that I've been is exotic. That doesn't stop me from using those locations in my tales. When I was in graduate school I had a boyfriend from Nebraska and spent quite a bit of time there. That flat state stretching across the middle of America has found its way into a number of my stories.

The tractor was acting up again. I was on my knees in the straw, surrounded by greasy parts, when Sally came running into the barn.

"There's a tornado coming, Joe. Heard it just now on the North Platte radio station."

I looked her over. Her hair had half-escaped from her barrette and was floating in red-brown wisps around her ears. Her apron was damp; she must have been washing the lunch dishes. She was breathing hard from her run, ample breasts rising and falling under her print dress. I saw worry in her eyes, justifiable worry.

Twisters are no joke. When one comes roaring across the corn fields, all you can do is hide. In '96 we lost a barn and two horses, while we shivered together in the crawl space, holding each other tight and listening to the wind scream. After that, I built a proper cellar. I might not be able to save our property, but our lives were a different story.

I nodded to her, already covering the parts with a tarp and weighting it down. "Open the house windows, lock the door, and meet me in the cellar. I'll just be a few minutes." Without another word she went to follow my instructions.

Already I could feel that weird electricity in the air, that heaviness that makes it hard to draw breath. The horses were restless. I opened their stalls, so that they would have a chance if the building collapsed. They huddled nervously in the corners. Leaving the upper windows open wide to equalize the pressure, I locked the doors and headed for the bulkhead.

The sky was a sickly green. A mass of inky thunderheads sat ominously on the horizon. It was perfectly still, no hint of a breeze stirring the July afternoon, as I swung open the doors and headed down the concrete stairs.

I was mighty proud of the storm cellar. It stood some distance from the house, just east of Sally's kitchen garden. I had heard of folks who survived a twister in their cellar but who were trapped when the house collapsed on top of it. My cellar was spacious, twelve feet by fourteen, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate my six foot frame.

It was well-equipped. It had a little refrigerator (which I kept stocked with beer) that ran off a car battery, a good supply of canned goods and fresh water, a comfortable double mattress and some directors chairs, plenty of battery-powered lights and candles. Not to mention the flogging bench and the bondage frame that I had built in my spare time, and a reasonable assortment of home-crafted floggers, paddles and dildos.

-- From “Twister”, in Rough Caress

I've been fortunate to have travelled more than most people. Foreign locales almost always stir up a story or two. Here's a snippet set in Amsterdam.

"You know me. The coolest of the cool."

But I'm not. In fact I've been obsessed ever since last night, when Jane and I wandered through the red light district, staring at the women who waited behind the glass in their rose-tinted rooms. We wove our way through clumps of nervous, intoxicated men who were all staring, too. I could smell their sweat, underneath the beer and the pot smoke. I could feel their lust. It infected me.

They barely noticed us, two teenagers in jeans, although the tight denim in my crotch was so wet, I half-expected they'd catch my scent and turn to me. They had eyes only for the bodies displayed in the rows of windows lining the canals.

Some of the women were ripe, blond, Slavic-looking, their breasts exploding out of their lace brassieres. Others were slight, deliberately child-like in Gidget-inspired bikinis or brief plaid kilts. There was a Brazilian beauty with golden skin and coffee-colored eyes; a voluptuous African princess with strings of ruby-hued beads dangling in her ebony cleavage; a serious-looking brunette wearing dark-framed glasses who sat, shapely legs crossed, like a secretary waiting to take dictation.

Some of the women posed. Others danced suggestively, or made lewd gestures at their prospective customers. There were masked women in leather, snapping riding crops against their boots. There were women whose pierced nipples and labia showed clearly through their translucent garments.

Men clustered around the dimly-lit windows like moths hovering by a candle. Mostly they'd just look, inflamed by the mere thought of all this available flesh. Sometimes I'd see a hushed conversation through a half open glass door. Such conversations might end with the man turning away, disappointed, rejected, or perhaps simply unwilling to pay the asking price. Other times the door would open wider, just enough to admit the supplicant. Then it would close and the red velvet curtains would be drawn, hiding the rest of the dance.

Those curtained windows drew me. I couldn't stop imagining what might be going on behind them. I knew it was a straight commercial transaction in most cases, a workman-like blowjob, or a quick, bored fuck. Still, I imagined occasional revelations, epiphanies, ecstasies -- meetings of strangers pre-destined to be lovers, brief but unbearably intense conflagrations of lust, lewd and mystical connections that would live in his memory, or hers, long after the curtains were flung open again.

I'm nineteen. I've had enjoyable but ultimately frustrating sex with two boys my age. I know that, practical as I am, I'm a bit of a romantic. Otherwise, I would not have continued to roam the red-lit alleys long after Jane gave up and went back to the hotel in disgust. As the Oude Kerk chimed two AM, I wandered up Molensteeg and down Monnikenstraat like some horny ghost. The crowds had thinned. The curtains were mostly drawn. Some of open windows were empty. Next to them were the signs: KAMERS TE HUUR. Windows for rent.

-- From “Shades of Red”, originally published in Yes, Ma'am: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance.

I've written stories set in London, Prague, Montego Bay, Luang Prabang, and Siem Riep – all of which have been destinations for my real world journeys. Much of what I write is contemporary. Occasionally, though, I'll visit a place where history calls to me. In 2000 my husband and I spent ten amazing days in Provence. We visited the ruined abbey of Thoronet not far from Avignon. Wandering through the vaulted stone chambers, I had a strangely vivid sense of what it would be like to have been a part of that community of devotion, back in the twelfth century.

When my brother’s life was spared by the wasting fever, my father consecrated me to the Church as his thanks for answered prayer. This was seven years ago, just after my first monthly bleeding. I did not mind being sent to the abbey; I was thus saved from the rough and grimy hands of the neighboring lord, to whom my father originally planned to wed me. “The claims of the Lord overrule the poor intentions of men,” he told me when he left me with the sisters at Thoronet. “May your virginity be a gift that forever glorifies God.”

As a girl, I found the simple, orderly life of the convent a comfort. The sisters were strict but never cruel. There was always work to do, but it was the sort of labor that satisfies: tilling the garden, tending the vineyard or the convent’s goats, baking bread. I slept well on my straw pallet, in the dormitory with the other novices.

Seven times daily, we knelt on the cold stone floor of the chapel and prayed. I loved the stark bareness of that sanctuary. The flickering light of the altar candles scarcely reached the shadows of the vaulted roof. The gold-encrusted crucifix on the altar shone as if lit from within. You are the light of the world, Christ had said, and there in the chapel I was suffused with that light.

I especially loved the Compline service, though sometimes it meant a rude awakening and a stumbling through midnight corridors. In the heart of night, the chapel was full of mystery. With the other women, I raised my voice to sing the hymns of praise. The soaring melodies made me ache with joy.

Our songs came, the superior told us, from Mother Hildegard, whose abbey on the Rhine was one of the centers of our Benedictine order and whose visions blessed us all. As I sang, I dreamed of mystic encounters, of being tested in my faith like the virgin saints.

-- From “Communion”, in Fire: Short Stories.


Of course, there are many places I haven't visited (yet!) I've set a few stories in locales where I don't have personal experience. My paranormal romance Serpent's Kiss takes place in a mountainous village in Guatemala. Getaway Girl works hard to capture the atmosphere of a real North Yorkshire village called Kirkby Malzeard. (Ashley Lister helped me a lot with that one!) And one of my favorite recent stories is set on a tea plantation in the Assam hills, in the waning days of the British Empire.

The rain drops are Lakshmi’s tears. That is what Lalida had said—tears of pity wept by Vishnu’s consort at the sad state of mankind. From the sheltered veranda, Priscilla watched sheets of rain sweep relentlessly across the land. The silver curtain alternately hid and revealed the shapes of the green hills rising in the distance.

Priscilla swallowed the last of her biscuit and leaned back in the rattan chair, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. She knew, from the past week’s experience, that the downpour would end in a few hours. The lush wet bushes would sparkle in the sun, as though someone had scattered handfuls of jewels over their leaves. For now, the muted hues of the landscape matched her mood.

“More tea, Madam?” Lalida stole up behind her on bare feet, her orange sari like a streak of fire in the grey morning.

“Not for me, but please bring a fresh pot for Mr. Archer.”

“Yes, Madam.” The maid hurried away, leaving Priscilla alone again with her reveries.

Had it really been only a month ago that they had arrived in India? It seemed like a lifetime. She could barely remember the streets of London, the bustle and the noise, the clatter of hooves on the pavement, the horns and the backfiring engines of the autos vying with the carriages for space. It was so quiet here on the plantation. All she could hear was the hiss of the rain sluicing down.

-- From Monsoon Fever

I've never visited Assam, though I have been to India. But after working for weeks on Priscilla's tale, seeing the world through her eyes, I feel as though I know the place. I see it. I smell it. Research, imagination and analogy help me to bridge the gaps in my experience.

Some authors don't seem to spend much time or effort defining a particular locale for their stories. For me, one of the first questions that I ask myself is “where?” Move the tale from one location to another and it often becomes a totally different story. That is the power of place.

Writing Habits

By Lisabet Sarai

After my rather fanciful post last week, I decided to play this one straight (though I couldn't resist the visual pun). Every writer does things a bit differently. I'm always fascinated to hear how my colleagues make the leap from that niggling idea to a finished story or novel. Let me share my approach.

Unlike some authors, I can't write every day. My normal schedule and my energy level don't allow that. Furthermore, I find that I'm most productive when I can devote a significant block of time, a minimum of three hours, to the writing process. So I try to set aside at least one day a week (usually Sunday) for dedicated writing. If possible, I arrange not to have commitments on that evening, either. That way, I don't have to break away when I am in the middle of torrid scene and the creative (and other) juices are flowing.

I'm extremely linear in my writing. I'm always amazed when I hear that other writers craft disconnected scenes and then later arrange them into a story. I almost always write from beginning to end. Furthermore, when I'm working on anything longer than 4 or 5K words, I usually organize my composition around the chapter structure of the book. (A lot of my submissions these days are to e-publishers, who solicit so-called "short stories" in the range of 10-20K, and want them with chapter breaks.) If I finish a chapter and it's getting near the end of the day, I often won't start the next chapter because I don't want to have to abandon it in the middle. I like my writing in nice, manageable chunks.

One question that always surfaces when authors discuss their methods is what kind of external aids they use for organizing and keeping track of their work in progress. I'm normally a fairly organized person, but I don't use notes or outlines when I write. For a short story, I'll begin with the premise and the characters plus some notion of the plot arc, but nothing else. It's fairly common for the story to twist away from my initial notions as I write and the characters reveal themselves. I've learned not to fight this, understanding that my intuitions while writing are more reliable than my thoughts when I'm not facing the screen.

When I'm working on a novel, I keep a (computer) file of notes, including a scene sequence, details about characters' appearance or history, and so on. Compared to what many other authors do, though, it's pretty sketchy. (On the other hand, my novels tend to be relatively simple compared to some of my colleagues who create entire worlds with the mythology to support them!) I may also have a paper file with background information about setting, time period, or topic. When I was writing Serpent's Kiss, which involves Mayan mythology and takes place in Guatemala, that file became quite thick. Even so, I mostly rely on my memory for detail when I'm actually writing. The notes file helps me generate and organize my ideas before I start writing, and to record decisions about plot and character--which I may or may not follow.

Because my writing time is so limited, I usually work on only one project at a time, in terms of actual composition. I may be planning or researching my next project, but I tend to focus on my current story, writing systematically until I get it completed. Of course, this habit makes it easier for me to rely on memory rather than external aids. I imagine that if I were like some of you, with three or four projects going on simultaneously, I couldn't survive without extensive outlines, notes and so on.

When I actually sit down for a writing session, I reread at least the last chapter, to remind myself of what is going on and to get myself back into the characters' world. This preparation also gives me the opportunity to do some editing. After being away from my work for a few days, I'm far more likely to see the awkward structures, the repeated words and the problem pronouns (a serious issue when writing third-person M/M stories, as I've been doing lately!) By the time I reach the point where I left off last time, I hopefully remember what I expected to happen next or at least have a sense of how the characters are thinking and feeling. It's not uncommon for me to ask the characters: okay, now what? Usually they can be relied upon to get things moving.

In the middle of a writing session, I try very hard to avoid interruptions and resist the temptation to do something else. I'll check my email no more than once in the morning and once in the afternoon. I'll get up and make lunch, get something to drink, or go to the bathroom., but that's all. My writing time is precious and I don't want to squander it on other activities. Even when the words aren't flowing very well, I force myself to continue.

I share an office space with my husband, who is usually working on some software project while I am writing. He understands that he should interrupt me no more than necessary. The cats also hang out on my desk, but most of the time they are not too demanding. Occasionally Mr. Toes insists on walking across my keyboard or standing in front of the screen (despite the fact that I've told him he's not transparent), but a few minutes of dedicating petting is normally enough to get him to settle down.

Blackness likes to knock my pens on to the floor (her precision "whop" is something to see), but she gets bored with this game fairly quickly.

When I've finished my first draft, I do at least one pass of self-editing, once again from beginning to end. This may sound pretty minimal but it's often sufficient, partly because I edit as I write and partly because my spelling and grammar are above average. (I only wish my creativity were at the same level as my grasp of the nuts and bolts!) Sometimes I'll ask a colleague to read and crit the work. Occasionally I'll be in the middle of something else and I'll be hit with the recognition of some major inconsistency that needs to be fixed. I'll write the point down, saving it for my writing day. On the days when I'm not writing, my focus has to be elsewhere.

Reading this post over, I realize that I sound pretty boring. Dedicated time for writing. Composing from the beginning to the end, chapter by chapter. Editing from the beginning to the end. No fevered, drunken all-nighters, pounding the keyboard until dawn, inflamed by the passion of my story. No long afternoons loitering in a café with my espresso or my absinthe, contemplating my fellow man and scribbling in my notebook. No fits of pique or anguish, crumpling my latest creation and tossing it into the trash (or dragging it to the Trashcan). No severing of body parts. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm really qualified to call myself an artist.

The truth is, though, that all these dark, glamorous myths about authors are mostly just that: myths. Yes, you need a modicum of passion in order to write, but that doesn't necessarily express itself in flamboyant behavior, dramatic gestures, or desperate excess. Books get written one sentence, one paragraph, one chapter at a time. To produce those sentences, paragraphs and chapters, you have to adopt whatever habits are personally effective--comparisons be damned.

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By the way: today I'm leaving for a two week overseas trip. I'm not sure how often I'll be able to get on-line. Certainly I won't be commenting as often as usual. But I will be at the Grip in spirit!

Facts Are Not Enough

By Lisabet Sarai

"Just the facts, ma'am."

Research is an integral part of writing, even in fiction. When you're an author, you've got to get it right. Some readers take insane glee in pointing out gaffes and discrepancies. Have your ancient Roman characters drinking tea, your Elizabethans using the word “clitoris”, your Dom swinging a cane made of bamboo (I've been pointedly informed that bamboo is too brittle for a cane and that rattan is the preferred material), and you may find yourself ridiculed throughout the blogosphere. Even a more forgiving reader can be distracted from your story by some detail that just doesn't fit. Every author's goal is to build a fictional world in which readers can happily lose themselves. To the extent that this world is inconsistent or unbelievable, the author will fail.

If you write only about characters who share your class, ethnicity and culture, or if you set your stories in a non-specific contemporary locale, you may not need to do much research. However, as we've discussed in previous weeks (“In Someone Else's Skin” and “Setting the Scene”), this can get pretty boring. Thinking about my own work, I find that there are four situations that dictate the need for research.

• Geographic or location-oriented research: When I'm setting a story in a specific location (as I usually do), I often research landmarks, place names, or spatial relationships. I don't need to give my readers a map, but I may need one myself in order to write convincingly.
• Cultural research: If my characters are something other than white, western, and well-educated, I need to check on things like vocabulary, slang and tone. I also need to understand the characters' assumptions, the way they look at the world and how that is different from my own perspective.
• Sexual research: There are many sexual practices that I haven't personally tried (though you might not think that from some of my previous posts!). In erotica, it is especially important to research the details of the fetish or sexual subculture you are describing. I've read many BDSM stories that struck me as ridiculous rather than arousing because the practices described were inaccurate and reflected a lack of research on the part of the author.
• Historical research: Writing in a period other than the present probably requires the most intensive research activity. Every aspect of life depends on the historical period, from costumes, food, transportation and economics to language and world view.

Some authors adore doing research. I gather that for some authors, research actually distracts them from the writing process. They get pulled deeper and deeper into the worlds they are exploring, searching for the next level of detail, putting off writing as they gather knowledge that they might not ever use.

Personally I view research as something of a necessary evil. I'll spend the time I need to answer my questions, but I am always eager to get back to the story itself. I have observed that too much research carries risks—the author feels compelled to use all the nifty information she has uncovered, and ultimately, this distracts from the story. Normally, I'll let the story itself drive my research activity. Before I begin, I'll spend some time reading about the period, the people or the practices on which I'm focusing, but then I'll stop, only returning to my search when I have a question.

Geographic research is fairly straightforward, given the resources on the Internet. I also have two shelves full of travel guidebooks which I use extensively. I'm fortunate in that I've traveled quite a lot. Frequently I'll set a story in a city or country that I've visited. Even so, I will often need to check on details. “Prey”, for example, is set in Prague, but I wrote it nearly ten years after I visited that wondrous city. I spent quite a lot of time poring over maps and trying to reconcile them with my recollections. One of my current works-in-progress, Necessary Madness, takes place in Worcester, Massachusetts and its environs. I lived in central Massachusetts for more than twenty years, but I still find that I need to jog my memory. Of course, if a tale is set somewhere that I've never visited, like Guatemala (Serpent's Kiss) or Assam, India (Monsoon Fever), I have to rely entirely on external information, supplemented by analogy with places I have been.

Cultural research is particularly tough for me. Not foreign cultures—if I've visited a place, I usually have at least a rudimentary sense of the people and how they communicate. But in capturing the subtleties of other western subcultures, I have problems. The American south, for instance, has a particular flavor of discourse. Likewise the American west. I've tried to write criminals and mafia and stuttered badly. One difficulty is the fact that you can't search directly for the kind of cultural markers that make a character seem genuine. The best way to pick them up is to actually meet an individual from that culture. The second best method is to read other people's work featuring characters from the same subculture.

Sexual research is always fun, and not too much of problem. The 'Net overflows with didactic material on various fetishes as well as content that can serve as exemplars. My story “Body Electric”, in the Yes, Sir anthology, features electric play, which I've never personally experienced. I had no trouble finding information on electric toys and the effects that they produce. Even my BDSM critic (the one who chided me over the bamboo cane) did not find fault with the result!

Historical research, of course, can go on forever. About a third of my second novel Incognito takes place in Victorian Boston. The physical environment was fairly easy; I had lived in Beacon Hill, which actually hasn't changed much since that period. However, I spent considerable time, effort and money researching costumes (Victorian clothing was extremely complex, with lots of special vocabulary), transportation, and the differences between social classes. I also read up on Victorian erotica, which was the subject of my heroine Miranda's dissertation, using Steven Marcus' encyclopedic though annoying tome The Other Victorians.

Even a historical short story requires an inordinate amount of work. “Shortest Night”, set in Shakespeare's London, took me nearly twice as long to write as a normal story, because I was working so hard to be true to the period. After all that effort, my editor still picked up a variety of words that were too modern for Elizabethan times. (I was extremely impressed.)

It's tough to get the facts right. Unfortunately, even if you do, that may not be enough. To accomplish the objective of creating a compelling, believable fictional world, an author needs more than a raft of detail. It's critical to have what I can only call a “feel” for that world—an intuitive sense of how it works and how its denizens think, feel and behave.

It's never possible to answer every research question. Sometimes I have to rely on imagination. But this only works if I can understand the people and places I am trying to portray, at a gut level. How do you acquire this sort of intuition? You won't find it on Google. For me, building a rich, nuanced picture of the world where I'm setting my story requires more personal experience. Reading original sources, including fiction, from a period can help. Visiting a museum or the actual site is a possibility. Ultimately, though, I find the process a bit mysterious.

Sometimes no amount of research will help. Several years ago I toured the ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia. During the twelfth century, the city of Angkor had more than a million inhabitants. It was the largest settlement in the world. I was fascinated by the civilization that had built such impressive monuments, only to disintegrate back into a village culture, and I had an idea for a time-slip erotic romance set partially during that period.

I set about reading everything I could find about Cambodia and Angkor. I spent lots of money on books. I went to museums. I scoured the Web. Somehow, the intuitive sense of those people eluded me. I just couldn't picture them, understand who they were and how they thought. I could look up all the historical details in the many books I bought, but my imagination remained bone dry. I've shelved the project for the moment, hoping that at some point I'll have some experience that triggers the sort of comprehension and empathy that I need to be able to proceed.

Research the facts. That's the starting point, sure. But developing a sense of your world, to the point where you can trust your guesses—that's far more difficult. Ultimately, it's a kind of magic. Like creating stories in the first place.

Another World

By Lisabet Sarai

Last week on the Grip we talked about characterization. How can an author give depth and verisimilitude to characters who are very different from the author in their background, personalities, orientations? This week's subject, “Setting the Scene”, nicely parallels that discussion, though I didn't know about Helen's topic when I posted mine.

No story takes place in a vacuum (not even in science fiction...;^)). Every character exists in a spatio-temporal context that influences his or her assumptions, perceptions, and reactions. The books that I enjoy most offer a rich sense of the environment surrounding the characters – place and time, climate and history, sound, smell and taste. In the books I write, I try to create that same kind of dense, three-dimensional world in which my characters can play.

Even when I'm writing a short story, I always have some notion of where the action occurs. I might not mention the setting explicitly, though often I will. Of the twenty stories in my print collection Fire, only two fail to identify their location. Of these, one is a sort of prose poem about a many-year relationship, while the other is set in the future. The settings of the others include northern California (five stories), New York City (three stories), Bangkok (two stories), Pittsburgh, New Orleans, the American Midwest, the Maine coast, Prague, Provence, and Laos.

In many cases, the setting is integral to the plot. In every case, I try to make the environment real enough to draw readers into my characters' world.

Often I will mine my own experience when setting the scene. That's one explanation for the repeated appearance of some locales in my work. The passage below, from Raw Silk, is based on my first trip from the Bangkok airport into the city, many years ago

From under heavy eyelids, she watched the roadside sights fly by. Garish neon signs, in English, Thai and Chinese, lit up the night with the names of multinational corporations. Gleaming, modern buildings two dozen stories high alternated with stunted blocks of grimy concrete, weak fluorescent light visible through their open windows. Every now and again, she would glimpse the peaked, layered roofs and delicate spires of a Buddhist temple, rising incongruously from the middle of a residential or industrial district.

The full moon rendered the scene even more alien. High above the horizon by now, it lent a silvery sheen to the buildings, while creating sharp black shadows between and behind them. Brighter than any man made illumination, it reminded Kate of an old-fashioned flashbulb. Each tableau seemed frozen in meticulous detail, captured by the moon like a surrealistic snapshot.

The car was silent, seeming to float over the road. The slight hiss of the air conditioning soothed her. Kate tried to stay alert, to pay attention to her new surroundings, but drowsiness was irresistible.

Here's another scene from my past that shows up in Exposure. I spent four years doing graduate work in Pittsburgh and enjoying the views in that hilly city.

Jimmy signals for the check. Suddenly he's confident and in control. He gives me one of his crooked smiles. "Feel like a walk? It's still early, and it's a lovely night. We could go up to Schenley Park."

I mentally check the status of my ankle. The throbbing is hardly noticeable. "I'm supposed to stay off my feet," I reply, smiling into his eyes, "but it's very tempting."

"We won't go far. And if your ankle begins to bother you, we'll turn back."

We leave the car at the edge of the park and stroll along the paths to the crest of the hill. We seem to have the place to ourselves. New leaves whisper on the oak branches that arch over our heads. The spring air is like wine. It seems totally natural that we should be holding hands. I feel my heart quicken as we emerge from the trees and see the lights of the city spread out before us.

This place is breathtaking. The broad lawn slopes downward nearly half a mile. When I was a child, I rode my sled down this incline, screaming with excitement as we gathered speed. Past the grove at the foot, we see the lights of Oakland, violet and orange, and further to the west, nestled between the rivers, the glittering towers of downtown.

The night is moonless, so clear that even with the urban brilliance below, the stars are visible. There is some kind of perfection here. I breathe deeply and feel the knot of tension in my chest soften. Peace, for the first time in two days.

Sometimes, though, my tales demand a locale that's unfamiliar. My recent paranormal release, Serpent's Kiss, takes place in a rural village in Guatemala. “Monsoon Fever”, my contribution to the ménage anthology Brit Party, is set in Assam, India, during the aftermath of World War I. I've never visited either of these places. So how can I write about them?

Curiously, the answer seems to be the same as that which I offered in my post last week: analogy and research. For setting the scene, research is often the more critical aspect. I need to understand the geography, the topography, the climate, and the culture of the place where my story is set. On the other hand, it's difficult to achieve realistic sense impressions without a leap of imagination from what I have experienced to what I have not.

Though Guatemala isn't stamped in my passport, I've traveled in other third-world countries. I know a bit about poverty and lack of opportunity, about the gaps between haves and have-nots, about the ridiculous bureaucracy that seems to exist in inverse proportion to a country's level of development. I've lived through monsoons in lands other than India, and so I can imagine watching a deluge on an isolated tea plantation in colonial Assam:

The rain drops are Lakshmi’s tears. That is what Lalida had said—tears of pity wept by Vishnu’s consort at the sad state of mankind. From the sheltered veranda, Priscilla watched sheets of rain sweep relentlessly across the land. The silver curtain alternately hid and revealed the shapes of the green hills rising in the distance.

Priscilla swallowed the last of her biscuit and leaned back in the rattan chair, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. She knew, from the past week’s experience, that the downpour would end in a few hours. The lush wet bushes would sparkle in the sun, as though someone had scattered handfuls of jewels over their leaves. For now, the muted hues of the landscape matched her mood.

The passage above illustrates an important point about settings in fiction. The primary role of the setting is to provide a physical and emotional context for the characters and their stories. The first two paragraphs from "Monsoon Fever", quoted above, do more than set the scene or draw pretty word pictures. The rainy world that Priscilla surveys from her porch mirrors her emotional state. She is perplexed, lonely and frustrated. In this story, the climate also triggers aspects of the plot, creating unexpected situations that cause the characters to change and grow.

In some fiction, the setting itself becomes a narrative force. Consider a horror tale about a haunted house. The evil-infested dwelling is more than just the environment in which the characters exist. It becomes the prime motivator for their actions.

It's easy to fall in love with description for its own sake. This is a pitfall for many authors, including me. I become so involved in building a vivid, believable world, I lose sight of its role in framing, shaping and driving the characters and their behavior. Well-crafted description of the setting, carefully entwined with paragraphs that reveal character and conflict, will enhance a tale, but many a story has floundered under the weight of excess detail about the setting.

It's a delicate balance. It's not uncommon for me to encounter tales in both the erotica and romance genres that don't provide enough background for me to guess where they take place. I tend to find such stories flat and two-dimensional, even when the characters are engaging. On the other hand, I've also slogged through page after page of descriptive text, trying futilely to discover the relationship between this verbiage and the characters' lives.

Practice and vigilant editing are both required in order to avoid these two extremes. Still, I wonder whether some authors could even tell me where their stories were set, if I asked them. As for me,I find myself considering the question of setting very early in the creative process. Where are these characters from? Where do they meet? How does their physical world influence who they are and what they think? Until I can answer these questions, my story goes nowhere. (I find it interesting that I have much clearer notions of where my characters are located than what they look like.)

Authors differ, I think, in their attention to setting the scene. I'm sure that my relatively rich travel experiences have made me particularly attuned to issues of place. I'm waiting eagerly to hear what the other Grip members have to say on this topic.

Tune in next week...

By Lisabet Sarai

This week at the Grip, our topic, proposed by Jamie, is “Series or Stand Alone?” What do I have to say about that? I wondered as I sat down to write my post. It wasn't a question that I'd ever really considered.

As a reader, I often enjoy sequences of books set in the same world and perhaps featuring the same characters. One of my favorites is Anne Rice's Mayfair Witches saga. If you enjoy paranormal fiction, but you haven't read this, I recommend it highly. I think that it's far more original and engaging than the her Vampire Chronicles (although there are some characters from the Chronicles that also show up here, most notably the psychic researchers from the ancient order of the Talamasca). Over the course of the three delightfully fat volumes (The Witching Hour, Lasher, Taltos), Ms. Rice gradually reveals more about the source of Mayfair clan's powers and the nature of the mysterious Taltos race whose destiny is entwined with theirs. Meanwhile, she creates some fabulous female characters (the Vampire Chronicles is heavily male-oriented) and includes a not-insignificant amount of supernaturally-influenced sex.

Another series that I've enjoyed recently is Louisa Burton's Tales of the Hidden Grotto. Little by little, the (so far) three books in this series deepen the reader's understanding of the four immortal creatures that shelter in the enchanted French valley with its ancient oak groves, Roman baths, and medieval chateau, as well the mortals who are sworn to protect them.

The great thing about reading a series is that when you finish one book, you know that it's not really the end. If you're caught up with the characters, you can look forward to encountering them again. You get the satisfaction of closure, along with the anticipation of future conflicts and complexities.

Series in the world of erotica/erotic romance sell well. Clearly other readers feel the same way I do. Jamie and Jude have both penned multiple series, and I believe that Kim has just released the first story in a planned series of twelve, called "Perfect Timing". So why haven't I tried my hand at a series?

I think the primary reason is that I am easily bored. With each book I write, I want to try something different. My first novel was M/f BDSM, set in Thailand. My second was heavily historical, set in Boston's Beacon Hill. My third novel is mostly F/m and F/f BDSM, set in London and Los Angeles. My fourth, Exposure, is an erotic thriller with little BDSM content, set in Pittsburgh. Finally, my most recent book, Serpent's Kiss (which will be released tomorrow! Whee!) is a paranormal shape shifter erotic romance set in Guatemala, with not a whiff of BDSM in sight. My current major work in progress is a M/M paranormal involving various psychic powers.

I particularly enjoy writing BDSM – as I've mentioned before, that's what pushes my personal buttons – but if I write too much of it, I feel as though I'm getting into a rut. I like to try new genres and genre mixes to keep my work fresh. The thing about a series is that if it's popular, your readers are going to want more of the same. An author with a successful series risks her readers' ire if she makes radical changes in the tone or perspective from one book to the next.

To write a successful series, I think that an author needs a vision that spans more than one book. She (sorry Garce! Just trying to avoid clumsiness) needs to have a sense of where the series will lead her, a whole sequence of conflict/resolution arcs rather than just one. So far, that sort of vision has eluded me. At the end of most of my books, I feel as though I know where my characters are. They've made their choices. They've reaped the consequences. For the moment, I'm content to let them be. I am, perhaps surprisingly, not all that curious about what will happen to them next.

I've considered, off and on, writing a sequel to Raw Silk. I've got a chapter or two sitting on my hard drive. I just haven't been able to motivate myself to continue. I'm tempted to write another book featuring Stella Xanathakeos, the protagonist of Exposure. She's such a kick ass gal, a real mix of strength and vulnerability. But I have so many new ideas, new characters clamoring for my attention – far more than I can address in my limited writing time.

When I got to the end of Serpent's Kiss, though, I had a sudden inspiration that fairly screamed “sequel!”. Elena, the main character, realizes that she is carrying a child, a girl child who may have been fathered by a supernatural creature. Elena herself has gained some power over the course of the book, and she senses that the girl, Estrella, will be special. Now Estrella has joined the ranks of characters screaming “Me! Write about me!” I even went out and bought some more books on ancient Mayan civilization – just in case she forces me to listen to her!

Probably I do need to think about trying my hand at a series – if only for the exercise. Trying to come up with something new every time is a writing challenge. Maintaining a fictional world over several books is a challenge of a different sort, and would very likely teach me a great deal.

Happily, Ever?

by Lisabet Sarai

Gloriana DeMarco is used to getting what she wants. The outrageously beautiful daughter of a U.S. Senator, she lives in a Beverly Hills mansion, drives a red Porsche, and dances her nights away at the hottest, most exclusive clubs in town. The fact that she also happens to be a vampire makes her even more persuasive.

Hank Storm is a rowdy punk who uses his fists and his wits to survive on the mean streets of South LA. He's also a lycan, the sworn enemy of the blood drinkers who control the city.

When Hank's battered Harley rams into Gloriana's 911 Carrera, sparks fly as well as glass. The mutual attraction is incandescent and irresistible. But Hank and Glori are literally from different worlds. Will they manage bridge the huge gulf between them, the differences in wealth, class, and monster-species, to find true love?

Of course they will, silly. It's a romance.

A happy ending is the sine qua non of the romance genre. Readers crave the satisfaction that comes from seeing the protagonists overcome all obstacles in order to end up, mutually devoted and sexually fulfilled, in each other's arms. Personally, I get that. Readers identify with the characters (at least if the author has done his or her job). Of course readers want characters to be happy by the end of the tale, to enjoy the vicarious experience. Hey, I like a happy ending as much as the next reader.

For an author, though, the ultimate romance commandment, “Thou shalt have a happy ending”, poses some problems. A story is propelled by conflict. Conflict generates suspense, that is, pleasurable uncertainty as to how and whether the conflict will be resolved. Suspense draws the reader further into the narrative. The reader continues in order to discover what will happen next. A “real page turner”, such as we all aspire to write, keeps the reader involved by keeping her off-balance, constantly creating new tension that can only be relieved by reading further.

When an author is constrained to provide a happy ending, generating suspense becomes more difficult. There's no uncertainty about how the story will conclude. The author must find another way to keep the reader turning pages. Authors vary in how successful they are in meeting this challenge. My main complaint about much of the romance that I read is that it is distressingly predictable.

One solution is to create a conflict so intense that the reader will really have a hard time guessing how it could be resolved. Here's the blurb from my upcoming MFM ménage release, Truce of Trust, due out from Total-E-Bound on May 19th:

Some women might think Leah’s existence heavenly. She shares her home with two sexy men who both adore her. Ten years married to lusty, artistic Daniel, she still enjoys the discipline and release offered by Greg. But her lovers’ jealousy and possessiveness have made Leah’s life a hell. Unable to bear the continuous conflict, she flees to an idyllic seaside resort to ponder her future. Gradually she realises that she cannot live without either of her lovers. If the two men can’t settle their differences, though, then how can she bear to live with them?

Obviously, somehow, the differences will be settled, because this is a romance, a ménage romance, and the ultimate commandment must be obeyed. In writing this blurb, though, I hoped to produce at least mild curiosity as to just how these two alpha males vying to possess the female of the species will manage to find an accommodation.

Another solution is to focus the suspense not on the relationship but on another aspect of the plot. In Raw Silk, Kate explores her sexuality with three different lovers. The questions I pose for my readers are, first, will she choose one man or continue her hedonistic experimentation with all three? Second, if she does choose one of them, who will it be?

I originally conceived of Raw Silk as erotica rather than romance. (When I wrote it, 'way back in 1999, explicit romance was not as accepted or as popular as it is today.) The book fictionalizes my own awakening to BDSM and channels my fantasies about a serious, committed BDSM relationship. Of course it has a happy ending (as long as you consider being bound in public by your Master, wearing labia clips and a butt plug, to be happy...). Fantasies always do. I hope, though, that it is not too predictable. In any case, the book is now being marketed as romance. But then, so is Portia da Costa's Black Lace classic Gemini Heat, which first inspired me to try publishing my erotic writings.

The erotica genre is less strict about requiring HEAs. Of the twenty stories in Fire, my single-author erotic short story collection, eleven have happy endings, five are ambiguous and four are definitely unhappy. Even for the stories I've classified as happy, the endings tend to be more equivocal than in romance. In “Twentieth Century”, the heroine loses her lover but experiences a sexual and artistic awakening. In “Perception”, the hero disappears after making love to the heroine and she's not sure whether she'll ever see him again. The “ambiguous” category includes one story (“Higher Power”) in which the heroine ends up with a broken neck and another (“Communion”) where she's burned at the stake as a witch. Not your average romance scenarios!

Even in the world of erotica, I see some tendency for editors to prefer happy stories over darker ones. One of my absolute favorite stories, “Trespass”, has been rejected for at least four anthologies, mostly because it ends with the death of both protagonists. On the other hand, I think that it's intensely romantic, a story of forbidden love that crosses societal boundaries.

I'm not going to turn this post into another diatribe railing against the constraints of genre. If you want to write romance, you adapt. You try keep the reader wondering just how your characters are going to get out of their predicament and get together. One of the most skillful examples of maintaining suspense in romance that I've encountered is Erastes' M/M historical romance Standish. As I was reading, I was acutely aware of the genre. I knew that the book had to have a happy ending. Yet the author kept me on edge until the last chapter; it really did seem that her characters were doomed to separation.

Bravo. I only hope that I can do as well. I've tried to pull off a similar trick in my upcoming novella Serpent's Kiss (coming from Total-E-Bound on May 4th). At one point it appears that heroine, Elena, has lost her love forever, sacrificed for a greater good. I won't say any more for fear of giving things away. But at that juncture, I want my readers to be shocked, desperate, to ask themselves, Is it possible that this might not end happily after all?

If I can manage that, then it will be a very happy ending for me!