I visited my mum and dad recently. They’ve just got a new addition to the family: a puppy. Personally I detect a distinct whiff of ‘empty nest syndrome,’ but that’s besides the point… The reason I bring this up is because I’ve never had much to do with a dog before, so I was experimenting with some basic training commands – ‘sit’, ‘come’, ‘drop’ etc – and I was amazed how quickly this tiny little scrap of fluff learned the words. Each time it obeyed I gave her a titbit of chicken and very soon she started sitting as soon as she saw me.

Maybe this is a roundabout introduction to the point I intended to make, but I was thinking about how certain words have an actual, physiological effect. Now, when I say ‘sit’ to the puppy, its bottom hits the ground before the word has even entered its consciousness. You can see its face going ‘hey – I just sat down’ while it tries to figure out why. Seeing the effect of words on an animal that only knows a few I started thinking about their effect on us – with our vocabulary or tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of words.

Let’s try a little exercise. I would say ‘close your eyes’, but that may make doing the rest of the exercise a little tricky, so just – concentrate really hard, OK? Now, think of a lemon. A really plump, rich, sunshine yellow lemon. The rind is firm and waxy, puckered with little dimples all over and exuding a faint aroma of Christmas and summer. Now imagine that you have a knife in your hand, sharp and shiny. Place it against the skin of the lemon, see the blade bend, then lacerate the rind. Swiftly the silver knife slices through the tender lemon flesh. Picture how it looks, lying sliced in half – the pale lemon flesh oozing acid juice, the air full of that tangy, piercing scent. You suck your fingers and your mouth puckers with the sour, fruity juices you taste…

I bet your mouth is watering something chronic!

Seriously though, it’s impossible to picture the above and not have your mouth fill with saliva – such is the power of words: words and imagination.

Because, when it comes down to it, that’s the whole point of writing, isn’t it, especially in an area as tactile and sensual as erotica. The author paints a picture with words and the reader responds to those words without even realising it, their mind creating an illusion based on the words without the conscious mind having very much to do with it.

So, if I can describe a juicy lemon and make your mouth water, what can I do to you if I described a soft kiss, lips sticking to each other slightly as they pull apart for a breath; the heavy, luscious weight of a woman’s breast in your hand; the pungent, musky scent of naked bodies as they fuck…? Can I turn you on? Can I make you come? More importantly, to me at any rate, can I make you buy my book when it’s published?!

x
Emelia Bell

“‘You see the problem that we face, my friend. The French would sit there, twid their thumbs, and laugh. We must perforce attack, yet few we are; and twenty thousand Frenchmen sit astride the road toward home.’”

Wait a minute. Twid? Let’s come back to that.

A recent story in the New York Times explained the derivation of the “Alohamora,” the name of a spell invoked in one of the Harry Potter books. The schlub who was sued for daring to publish a Harry Potter lexicon wrote that it was related to the Hawaiian word “aloha.” J. K. Rowling, however, testified that his opinion was “errant nonsense,” and that the name of the spell had its origins in a West African dialogue. According to the Times, the poor guy was flabbergasted to learn that: “‘That’s exciting stuff for someone like me,’ Mr. Vander Ark said from the witness stand. ‘Did she happen to mention which dialect?’”

Are you people serious? What happened to “makin’ stuff up?” Sometimes the things I “make up” actually exist. For all I know, there may actually be a town of Hardwood, Pennsylvania, the setting of my eXcessica novel, “Living Dolls.” Whether by coincidence or because it’s a deep, buried memory of mine is irrelevant. In my mind, I still made the place up. (And even if there is one, I’ll bet my last nickel that their sports teams aren’t nicknamed the “Trojans.” Get it? Hardwood? Trojans? Oh, just forget I brought it up.)

The point in making stuff up is not to be real, or even to be realistic, but to make readers believe in the world that you’ve created. You can ask them to suspend some disbelief - like dolls that come to life, or the ability to travel through time, or a beautiful teacher who is willing to have sex with an underage boy in one of her classes (oh, yeah; never mind) - as long as the rest of your story presents a believable view of what would happen if the underlying premise is true.

The April 7 issue of The New Yorker contains a fascinating review of Richard Price’s new novel, Lush Life entitled “Say What?” The article’s author suggests that Price’s dialogue is not great because it imitates life: “Actual speech tends to be dribblingly repetitive, and relatively nonfigurative, nonpictorial. Price, by contrast, awards his characters great figurative powers, endows them with an ability to take everyone’s clichés and customize them into something gleaming and fresh.”

He cites as one example Price’s use of the term “coming-out party” for the act of giving birth. It’s far from a commonplace expression, but when the reader comes across it in context, her reaction isn’t one of disbelief. Instead it’s more along the lines of, “Yeah, that’s clever. My friend Joe would say something like that.”

We like to think that the things we read are worth the investment of our time. We like to think that the author has reasons for choosing the words that appear on the page, whether they come from West African dialogue (*rolls eyes*) or the author’s own peculiar imagination. And as long as there aren’t any (or at least too many) cues that suggest sloppiness on the part of the author, we’re happy to go along for the ride. Sometimes we’ll even stay on the bus despite the cues as long as we’re appropriately compensated. You tear out your hair reading Robert Heinlein’s dialogue, but you stay with him because of his wonderful imagination. For the rest of us, though, believability is the key. We need you to accept our world: the settings, the way the character’s speak, the acts that drive the story.

Oh, yeah; right. Twid. Look, I’ve already taken up too much of your time here. How about we come back to that next time?

Marshall Ian Key