As I'm working on three short stories and two novel-length pieces, as well as finishing off a blog tour, I've spent the past month writing nothing but sex. Not necessarily something to complain about, I agree. However, as I discovered many years ago when I was finishing my dissertation, writing in the same strain for long periods of time tends to send my mind loopy and make me throw in inappropriate moments of humour. And now I'm fighting the irresistible urge to start writing comedy sex.
Let's face it, we've all had it. Sex in the real world is frequently riddled with mishaps. It's one of the selling points of erotica that we can lose ourselves in a fantasy world, where bodies don't make weird noises at the height of passion and nobody falls off the bed mid-thrust. And, having experienced many awkward moments in my reasonable-if-not-too-long lifetime, I've had to develop a sense of humour about it all.
I've been propelled head-first into a shelf. I've got my watch caught somewhere delicate. We've been interrupted by the cat on several occasions. We nearly got the police called on us by the neighbours after my husband accidentally did something excruciatingly painful. I gather my scream could be heard through the wall - it also made my husband deaf in one ear for two days.
Anyone nodding knowingly? I can’t be the only one.
So, you know what? I think I’m going to take a scene from real life and insert it into one of my WIPs. The time we parked up in the woods on the Yorkshire moors should do it. Ten minutes in the undergrowth followed by half an hour looking for his mobile phone, which had jumped out of his pocket and into a rabbit hole. If that doesn’t cure my lust for comedy sex, I don’t know what will.