Image: Pendleton Sinking Ship Richard C. Kelsey, via Wikimedia Commons 

I find writing to be something of a hillocky process. One minute I’m on a peak, ideas flowing out of me in a torrent (a sometimes nonsensical torrent). The next, I’m stuck in a valley of frustration with potential story concepts and threads lurking about in the shadows, not quite willing to reveal themselves.

Over time, I’ve discovered that my better pieces of writing – or at least the pieces I, personally, deem to be my better ones – have something in common: they all started with a very specific inspirational emotion, object or element that I then went on to build the text around. Perhaps wrongly, I almost never start by etching out/detailing characters. Rather, the concept that’s kicked off the creative process and determines the mood and the emotion of the story I’m going to write subsequently influences the personas and behaviours of those who appear in it.

Frostbite? Inspired by a rural footpath I often walk along. All Girls Love Ponies? Riding whips. Table Manners? A beautifully set table. Dark (a story that I am holding onto and have not published here on Chintz)? Objectification.

Incidentally, Katherine Mansfield, one of my very favourite writers, often used objective correlatives in her short stories and it wouldn’t be far wrong to say that I’ve both consciously and unconsciously tried to emulate her use of these in my own work – although, obviously, with far (far) less skill and flair!

Anyway, onto the main point of this post: to give you an example of something that I’ve written that I don’t think works at all well. The below short, Commute, was penned a few months back and the brief (not set by me) was to create a steamy story that was 500 words or less.

Why does it fail my acid test? Interestingly, because of the characters. This is a classic example of me trying to start with them rather than a theme or central concept and, as a result, it’s less erotic and more porn-like (nothing wrong with the latter, I might add, it’s just not what I was aiming for thematically) with me focussing too much on them and their actions. My ending is awful, too …

 

COMMUTE

‘Nice tits, love!’

Even as I turn, red-faced, to see which of the workmen has shouted lewdly at me on this particular occasion, a shrill wolf whistle splits the air. ‘Bloody great ass, too.’

It’s been the same every morning for the past month. Each day I walk past this building site on my way to work. And each day bawdy comments rain down on me like confetti.

I spy today’s vocalists, two men in yellow safety vests, leaning like opera singers over a piece of scaffolding. They smile delightedly when they see me staring at them. One reaches down to rub a hand over the crotch of his worn jeans. ‘Come over here, doll, and show us what you’ve got!’

I don’t know what makes me do it. Pure frustration? The need to prove a point? Or, maybe, a part of me secretly enjoys the crude attention. Whatever the reason, I find myself turning and walking towards them, putting some extra swing in my hips as I do.

Their faces are priceless. A mixture of shock and excitement as they watch my approach. I stop below them, put my bag down, and look up. ‘So you want to see my tits and ass, do you?’

There’s a moment of shocked silence and then the tallest one, a rugged blonde, clears his throat. ‘Uh…’

‘Aren’t you going to invite me up? I nod at the access ladder to my right. ‘You can’t very well see my charms if I’m down here and you’re up there, can you?’

I don’t wait for a response, just remove my shoes and start to climb. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights.

When I reach the work platform they’re on, strong, careful hands reach out to steady me. ‘Right’, I say briskly once I’m standing safely beside them. ‘Nipples and cunt.’ They look ready to fall over at my use of the last word. ‘I assume you’d like to see both?’

Their eyes grow wide as I haul up my skirt and draw down the white cotton knickers beneath with my thumbs, leaving them stranded at mid-thigh.

The blonde man groans aloud at the sight of my bare pubis. Moves a little closer and stares fixedly at my mons as I lift my hands to my blouse.

I slowly undo the buttons while his dark-haired friend hungrily watches my busy fingers. ‘Take them out,’ I say to him when the garment gapes open like hungry mouth.

Within seconds his rough palms are carefully lifting my heavy breasts from the confines of my bra.  I tip my head back and close my eyes as he runs reverent, calloused thumbs over the peaking nipples.

When cautious fingers gently probe the lips of my cunt, I spread my legs a little wider in encouragement. Suck in a breath as they slide inside.

The sun kisses my face as I enjoy their attentions. Traffic buzzes past on the street.

Who knew walking to work could be so pleasurable?

 

Have you had many writing disasters? And, if so, what is it that tends to tip the boat over?

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