Let your mind alone!

The title of this year's Beauty of a Woman Blogfest entry is taken from a book of the same name by James Thurber. He is a humorist, whom I admire for about a billion reasons, and it is his quote that I use as the name of my blog. If your sense of humor is like mine, look him up. 

This post is part of the Beauty of a Woman BlogFest VI! To read more entries, and potentially win a fun prize, visit the fest page on August’s McLaughlin’s site between today and 11pm PST March 11th.
As always, I want to thank August for the opportunity to contribute to her tour, and do encourage you to read the other entries!


I'm also using this little movie clip, from Desk Set, with Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy:



The reason for this is to show you all that, in anything I write, I associate many things with many things, and I cannot let my mind alone.

I was in the shower one morning and said, "There are not enough girl pirates in books." I quickly decided to write a little riff on The Count of Monte Cristo, using a girl protagonist, and having her become a pirate in order to exact her revenge.

But then my mind began to wander.

Women can be badass...or can they? We can seek adventure, be rough-and-tumble gals, thirst for excitement. We can laugh at death, just like men. Unlike men, however, we have one more primal fear: rape. 

Yes, I know. Men are raped. Unless thousands of you guys tell me differently, however, I'm going to assume you don't walk down dark alleys fearing you'll be raped. Mugged, yes. Murdered, sure. 

But it's us, the females, who have that small muscle in our gut that's always strung tight. It's that fear, That Fear, that keeps us from walking down the dark alley. We may be more afraid of being sexually assaulted than of being chopped into pieces. 

My heroine, Lisette, is sold as a virgin to the pirate Rocco. I wanted her to be a bold, stubborn noblewoman, in a very fictional version of the 16th-century Caribbean. How do I handle THAT FEAR, and make her run toward danger, or at least stroll confidently in its direction?

I began by dismantling my own beliefs, my own fears, my own hangups about a woman's body, about virginity, and about how important physical touch is, in terms of utilizing all of our senses.

Once she is kidnapped, Lisette starts to question her virginity. Why is this such a sacred thing? No one waits for that special moment to say their first word, take their first step, eat their first solid food. You're ready to do it, so you just start. Why is that part of our real estate such hallowed ground, that we protect it and wait for The Right Someone (and in ye olde days, showed the stained sheets as proof on our wedding night)?

She begins to wish she was not a virgin anymore. In her words, "Just get it over with." Unfortunately, Rocco has some secrets of his own. Taking her as a lover is not exactly on his to-do list, at least not that he freely admits.

It doesn't stop her from exploring her sexuality. As she matures, she wonders why sensuality is such forbidden fruit. At one point, she asks, is it such a sin, to crave a man's touch more than, say, to enjoy a delicious meal or hear a pleasant tune?

Even as she questions what she's been taught, and rejects most of what she's learned, she still manages to experience sex on her own terms. As with many stories, she falls in love, it's complicated, and I expect it will have a happy ending--eventually. Did I mention my little riff grew up to be a trilogy?

Perhaps I let her off easy. The story is strewn with the bodies of men who try to rape her and fail. Perhaps I should have let one succeed. It is the reality for many women. As the writer, I would get to examine what kind of steel Lisette has in her backbone if she does not win one of these fights.

But this is a fantasy. My excuse is that I want her to be strong and smart and independent, and fight for what she believes, and win. I want her to embody that warrior in each of us. And a piece of me wants to open that introspective door in other women's minds--what do you really think about touch and sex and your body?

She's a pirate, yes, but in a way, she's also a superhero. All because I can't let my mind alone.

PS. I have completed the first book of the trilogy, a historical fantasy. Or perhaps it's a hysterical one--time will tell. It's currently in that state of Artistic Limbo: in the editor's hands, trying to be a book, while the Author and Editor decide whether to query an agent, look at small presses, self-pub, or toss the whole thing in the nearest bonfire. Wish me luck. Better yet, wish me the strength of a girl pirate.

Let's talk about sex, baby

Or perhaps, let's talk about romantic suspense and how much sex is needed for it. I confess, I'm not used to writing sex scenes. In my first really bad novel, I wrote a sex scene. I had no problem writing it and believe me, I did not hold anything back. After I had written it, edited it, and recognized the entire novel as the worst thing ever written by human hand, a funny thing happened.

I was over the whole sex-scene thing. Oh, I don't mind reading them, especially well-written ones. I just didn't want to write one, ever again.

Now I'm writing romantic suspense. I know I need to have romance, and in addition to the suspense of solving the murder, I need to have suspense about the romance. My protagonist/amateur sleuth has two potential suitors - I hope that's allowable in this formula - and I already have plenty of suspense surrounding which one she will choose.

To be honest, I don't even know. I've made two strong male leads, dammit.

But do I HAVE to have sex scenes? Even as I write about each character discovering the other, liking each other, even desiring each other against their better instincts, I confess I am not looking forward to describing Willie's passionate coital encounter with either of these men.

Can't anyone have their privacy anymore? Does everything have to be paraded around on YouTube?

In the meantime, I shall share a very rough draft of what is happening with Willie. It's all still rather raw, so try not to pick too much at the wordsmith duties I have yet to perform.

* * * * *

“May I see?” Detective Macy moved closer and held out his hands.

Willie stared at his enormous paws and saw her own tiny hands float up, surrendering to him. He held her hands up to the sunlight streaming in and examined the bruises on both wrists, taking pictures of each.

He then put his hand up to brush her shirt collar aside, but his sudden invasion of her personal space frightened her. She reacted by ducking back and away. He stopped, so she looked up at his face. A small lift of his eyebrows, a softening of the lines around his mouth, calmed her fear. With her right hand, she lowered her shirt collar and stretched her neck to show him the extent of Bobby’s assault.

“I-I assume you got away before he did… anything more.” It was the small stutter, again, with the soft British lilt that made her want to trust him.

“You’ll find a bite mark on his left hand. It matches my teeth. I kneed him, too, but I don’t know if that left a mark.”

She kept her head tilted while he took pictures. His fingertips lay against her skin, holding her shirt back as he trained his camera on her bruise. She could feel his breath, and glanced sideways at him. He stood up, dropping his camera and clearing his throat.

“This incident with Mr. Fermino in the arena. Could you discuss that?”

“We were practicing and he almost ran into me.”

“Is bumping into one another a supreme offense?”

She smiled. “It is when you’re both on thousand-pound animals.”

“Ah, yes, of course. You were riding.” He nodded and looked around the room. “And this canister you were holding. Is it still here?”

Willie looked around and under the table. She thought about what she had found earlier in the morning and felt her jaw clamp to keep from saying anything. “I don’t see it anywhere.” She pointed behind the table leg. “I found it there. When Bobby burst in, I don’t remember if he took it or I dropped it. I was so startled.”

“Can you describe it?”

She held her hands out to approximate the size and shape. “It was about so big, reminded me of a tin you get cookies in at Christmas. Plain. I didn’t open it.” Her eyes widened. “If you find it, though, my prints will be on it.”

The detective looked at her.

“That’s probably not a good thing is it?” she asked.

Detective Macy’s lip twitched in a smile. “It’s a complete picture, Ms. Adams. That can only be helpful.”

They stood for a moment. Willie could barely breathe in the heat. She watched the swirls of dust dancing around in the beams of sunlight, and tried not to think about the way the detective watched her. After everything that had happened, this place felt creepy.

Detective Gimple re-entered. “Ms. Adams, Ms. Jungers wanted me to tell you she had gone to see about her other clients and will return.” He gestured around the room. “While we’re here, perhaps you could tell us what all this is.”

“I can try.” She reached for a bridle, but Macy stopped her and handed her a pair of gloves. After slipping them onto her hands, she spent the next half hour using her two-year-old knowledge base of saddles, bits, and spurs. Detective Gimple took extensive notes, while Macy just watched and listened.

She was standing with a longe line in one hand and a stud chain in the other when a cell phone began to ring. It belonged to the older detective, who stepped outside to take the call.

“It sounds like lunging, but it’s spelled differently.” She looked over at Macy. His gaze seemed intense on each object. At last he gave a small nod.

“Eidetic memory?” she asked.

His lip twitched upward again, making her smile. He’s kind of attractive, even if he is larger than my SUV, she thought. Those green eyes and dark hair, and I could listen to his accent all day. Too bad he wants to throw me in jail.

She put the line and chain back on their hooks and faced him. “What made you become a police detective?”

His eyes had a sudden shyness, meeting her gaze for an instant before looking away. It reminded her of the way she looked at Ty. “I-I was a beat copper, then I took the test.”

“No, I mean to begin with. Why police work?”

He blinked again. “Robbery. When, when I was first here, I worked at a diner. Young man pulled a gun and shot my co-worker.”

“Oh dear. Did they die?”

“No, she lived. But the investigation, the chance to help the police, it was all interesting. I was fascinated with the police procedures.”

“I guess it doesn’t hurt to be armed and trained if someone tries it again,” Willie told him.

“No, I suppose not.” He looked down at his shoes. She thought perhaps he was remembering something.

He had moved closer to her. The tack room was stifling, hot and still, and she could feel waves of heat from his body. His shirt clung to him. Willie was stricken with fear again, not about the assault or the murder, but because if she looked up at his face, in his eyes, she would not be able to resist throwing herself at him and begging for his help and mercy, burying herself in the safety of his arms.

That would be awkward.

She tried to hold her voice steady and loud, but only managed a hoarse whisper. “Detective.”

He leaned down, his ear close to her mouth.

“I didn’t murder Bobby.” She allowed herself a glance upward, to try to convince him she wasn’t lying. He felt too close and not close enough. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you,” he whispered in return. Each word gave her hope, and with each word, his breath prickled her neck and made her tremble. “But you have to tell me all.”

“Macy,” Detective Gimple called from outside.

Willie looked up at Macy. His gaze lingered on her for a moment more, then broke away as his eyebrows creased in a frown. He turned and strode from the room, leaving her feeling woozy, almost to the point of drunkenness.

What the hell just happened, she thought.

* * * * *

 

Is this suspenseful enough?