One of my abysmal failings as a writer has to be the fact that I just don’t do sex at all well. Every time I get to a situation that could well call for a little steam, I tend to get it over and done with as quickly as possible and move on with the story. Now I know that for some of my readers this can sometimes prove a little frustrating. A bit of a tease with no climax as such.
Well, the fact of the matter is that I do write steamy scenes. I couldn’t tell you how many I have written. But then I seem to always tear them up, or if they do survive in the first draft, they get the chop in the first edit. I always seem to feel that they are a little too graphic and then become a distraction from the main story line. Or perhaps I lack that sensual touch. (I lie in fact. One of my books does get into it. But I won’t tell you which one as my children might be reading this.)
The same seems to happen when gratuitous blood is called for. Juicy murders with hours of bleeding, suffering and agony just seem to be beyond me. Tools of torture and hideously cruel pages of suffering get chopped and replaced with a swift kick to the groin. Yes, I know. I should be ashamed.
But then again, I think I do a great job of describing trees, people’s eyes and cats with incredibly clever adjectives. Can’t do everything well I suppose.