Writing Update #1

One thing I don’t often do, and which I am very, very remiss in, is promote my other writing. The stuff I do away from this blog, be it the anthologies I’m in or the writing I do for other websites.

So, I’m changing that. I’m aiming to do a regular writing update post, telling you where else I’ve been popping up. Which, in itself, was something I’d originally planned to start doing at the start of the year. That was when I had a Twitter conversation about self-promotion with the amazing Dr. Emma Southon (seriously, keep an eye out for her book on Agrippina). But then, depression decided to say hello and stay over for a few months.

Ah well. Better start late than start never, I guess.

So, here’s what I’ve been up to!


This month (thanks to Girl on the Net, who passed me a writing request), I started writing for YNOT CAM. This is a website aimed at webcam models, with articles on topics ranging from tech to health and beauty, to internet law. My first article was a lot of fun to dig into – it concerned the recent development of a one-of-a-kind 3D printer by a team at the University of Minnesota, and how it could, in the future, influence sex tech and its uses in the camming world.

Kink Craft

I’ve been writing for Pixie and Andrew on a regular basis for a while now, and they are just the loveliest humans to work with. This article I wrote, on sex and depression and the power of knowing you’re not alone, is from a while back, but I’m putting it in here anyway because I can.


I do so love writing for the good folks at Fuck.comhere I am, chatting about erotica and my top recommendations.


Speaking of erotica, SACRED AND PROFANE, edited by Torrance Sené and featuring my story Down On My Knees, is still out and still kicking ass. It was even made into a Top Pick on The Romance Reviews! If you haven’t yet bought your copy, DO EET.


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Songs Again

I took a minute till the penny dropped, you know
My tears don’t fall too often
But your knife is cuttin’ me deep

I hear her sing it on the BRIT Awards. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m off from work, and I’m tentatively playing around with words for a submission.

There’s a sentence in my head that somehow, with a little help from her voice, flows into a paragraph onto the page. Her lyrics and the words in my head don’t match in theme but fuck it, she’s helping and I’m writing and the prose feels sensual and raw and still like me.

Later on I’ll think of what she’s actually singing. And I’ll be reminded of moments I didn’t want to be reminded of. Moments where I’d been made to feel like a dirty little secret. Moments where who I used to be was turned against me and I let it happen because I didn’t know.

And I’ll be glad because she’s fucking done it, hasn’t she? By chance, this random repeat of Emeli Sandé’s performing Hurts at the BRITS a few days ago gives me, better late than never, the right words to express to myself what I felt back then.

Sometimes life happens out of sequence. It’s less than 24 hours earlier that I come to the realization that I am done with letting that kind of pain have such a power over me.

Her voice gives me a wave to write on. Her lyrics give me the right words to express old wounds.

When all that’s left to do is watch it burn
Oh baby, I’m not made of stone, it hurts

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Slicker Than Your Average

I like writing stories set in the summertime. To me, there’s something about the change of seasons from the blushing days of spring to the all out glory that a summer can be that somehow mirrors the blossoming of a sexual connection between two people. I like the idea of heat from the outside assisting in generating heat from the inside.

In real life, summer’s effect certainly made a good go of it. When the sun first started to hit in earnest a few weeks back, I noticed the change in myself.

My mood slowly lifted. My general depressive funk from the last few months took a back seat, if only for a while (note- yes, on the back seat, but it’s still there, and still an awful bastard). And my libido, oh man. My libido was like a little angel/devil hybrid sitting on my shoulder, whispering utter filth in my ear.

I’d like to imagine, by the way, that this little angel/devil hybrid is actually Alice Clayton, considering I’ve been heavily into a Clayton reading binge.

Summer. Yeah. I got into it. ILB got into it. We got handsy and frisky and all kinds of naked, wrapped up in cuddles where the comforting warmth of him glowed right through me. There were orgasms, there were giggles, and all was well. I am a pale, freckly sort with a dependence on factor 50 who works in a place which is never any less than sauna-level hot. I’ve gone on record plenty of times grouching about how I don’t enjoy this kind of heat.

But… I think that’s actually a bit of a lie on my behalf. Only a bit. Or maybe not a lie. Just an underestimation of how a good lashing of summer could make me feel a bit better. The kind of loveliness with the occasional breeze. The kind where you can walk and bask and just for a moment marvel at the little bits of beauty in the ugly stuff.

It’s one of the other reasons I like setting stories in summer. It’s a gorgeous season, blooms and colours everywhere. Tiny moments of happiness can become wonderfully large in these halcyon days. With sex, momentary touches and kisses can spark such an insatiable fire. Sweat beading on foreheads, the glistening of skin…

Having said that, there has been something distinctly unsexy about the past couple of peak summer days. It’s like that The Oatmeal cartoon about microwaving butter – too much? Then nope, you don’t get to do sexy times because you won’t even have the energy to lift a finger, let alone fingering. Sexy moans and groans are replaced by moans and groans as a means of conversation, often punctuated by pointing and nudging your head. You feel like a human Pritt stick.

Still. When it comes to writing erotica set on days like these, I’m allowed to play around with the truth just a teeny bit, right?

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Erotica: Dexterity

A short piece of erotica, inspired by a thought I had during Eroticon 2015. Probably one of a few pieces of short erotica I’ll be writing on here in the next couple of weeks.

Erotica: Dexterity

by Jillian Boyd


She’s got a thing about fingers.

Other women like getting lost in soulful eyes. Or love imagining what the fabric of those Levi’s is covering.

She likes imagining touches. Soft strokes. Gentle, little circles on her shoulders. Digits ghosting down her spine, snaking to her front, teasing the soft and the wet between her thighs. She could come for hours; hips time and time again bucking under her own touch, imagining it’s not her thumb on her clit or her index and middle finger buried deep inside her wet hole.

She’s got a thing about fingers and when she lays her eyes on his, her cunt throbs in a reminder.

They’re good fingers – not too long, fingernails nicely trimmed, tapping out a gentle rhythm on the table they’re sharing. She watches as he wields knife and fork into his lunch, chatting to another table mate about something she can’t quite make out. Her focus isn’t on words, but on the way he holds his cutlery.

Sure, it feels odd sometimes. There are moments where she wishes she was just a shameless crotch-starer instead.

But she’s got a thing about fingers. And she’s definitely got a thing about his.

They get to chatting in between talks and taking notes. She likes the sound of his voice; a musically accented lilt, a softness and warmth that makes her melt to him. He’s a nice man. He seems like a kind man. There’s a small part, hidden deep inside her, that wants him to just talk to her all night long.

She steals glances at his fingers. He gesticulates as he’s talking, which does nothing to quiet down the oncoming storm of arousal brewing in the core of her. All day she tries to concentrate on words being spoken but all she can think about is those fingers, those fucking fingers.

Her own fingers, without her realising it, start ghosting movements in the air. Little circles on the body of her mug of coffee. Small caresses against the palm of her hand. Movements she imagines him making on her skin.

By the end of the day she has been reduced to a walking, talking, throbbing, libidinous entity. Lust made flesh and all because of one man’s fingers.

By the end of the day, she knows that there’s only one way she wants the night to pan out.

They’re both covered in the warm haze of a few beers. The night is just a touch too warm, the city stretched out in front of them in a scape of glowing lights. A couple of them had found their way to this room – his room – for alcohol and laughs. They’d since retreated into their own rooms, one by one until the two of them remained.

They’re covered in the warm haze of a few beers and not much else. The white duvet lies bunched up on the floor, decorated with a rainbow of fancy clothing. She lies naked on the bed, the glow on the moon highlighting the sheen of sex on her skin. She’s spread open, her own fingers holding on to his hair as she presses her cunt into his face. His tongue is urgent, wanting, clumsy because the first time, there’s nothing there. No knowledge, no finesse, nothing but pure and primal need.

She loves it. She loves the feeling of his tongue and the expanse of his body, an uncharted world she wants to explore. She doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the circumstances. She doesn’t even know if she’ll remember how his tongue felt the next morning. Or how the first condom he tries to roll over his erection tears because his fingers are trembling with needy nerves.

But she will, if she concentrates really hard, remember how his fingers felt as they brushed over her nipples. Over her clit. Over the puckered ring of her ass.

She will remember his fingers for days to come. His fingers will make her come for days, even though they aren’t touching her.

His fingers will make her yearn for the whole of him. But in that moment, as her moans grow ever louder and her grip on him becomes ever tighter, she doesn’t know yet.

A month comes and goes, and she loses count of the times she’s stolen glances at other men’s fingers. She’s still got a thing about fingers, and she doesn’t find the countless stolen glances worrying.

It’s the way none of them are his fingers. His hands.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself anymore. She frigs on memories that still drench her knickers. She opens herself up time and time again, not just imagining but wishing it was him. All she has is a first name and the memory of his grinning face.

And for once, that’s not enough.

The day is still lingering in the stages where coffee is the gateway to social interaction. She’s queuing along with other delegates, barely able to suppress a yawn.

She hears a giggle somewhere behind her, a giggle that makes her freeze into place. By now, it’s been eleven months since those fingers opened her heart. Eleven months, and she’s tried, by God, she’s tried to forget him and tried to move on.

And for a while, she managed to convince herself she had. She hadn’t even taken into account that they both work in the same field and would both probably be interested in this conference. Well, hadn’t much.

But then there’s that giggle. She turns around and there he is, his fingers curled around a cup of coffee. He says hello, she says something along the lines of fancy seeing you here. His hand reaches out and touches her shoulder, and she is warmed not by the coffee she’s not yet drinking but by the promise of those fingers on her skin.

And the promise of what a second chance can bring.

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Erotica – Back To Me chapter three

Hey, how about we just pretend that it wasn’t actually ages ago since I last wrote a full chapter of Back To Me (aka Anna Triplett’s Adventures in Sex And Stuff) and get back to it?

No, in all seriousness, this is the long-awaited (by probably only two people) third chapter of Back To Me. I will try and do semi-regular updates, but I can’t promise anything for now. This was just scratching at my head, begging to be written.

In all fairness, I should have thought better about going on top.

“Oh God, yes!” he moans, making the walls vibrate with his panty-melting baritone. I like him. He’s the kind of guy that can talk you to orgasm, complete with both an Australian accent and surfer’s tan.

His cock’s great, too. His cock is thick, brutal, big. He’s big and brutal as well. He’s got his hands on my hips, giving back everything he gets. My fingers can barely keep steady on my clit and for a moment I really hope that he’s not going to thrust me straight through the ceiling. I like enthusiasm. I like this guy- coincidentally named Guy.

My back, however, is not liking Guy at all. My back, still healing from the unfortunate incident in the staff room, is hurting from Guy’s sheer ferocity. He’s pumping away, and yes, it’s all fun and I’m close and he’s probably even closer but when I’m more pre-occupied with trying to remember if I’ve got ibuprofen in my handbag it quickly becomes not at all fun.

He comes before I do, and has the kind grace to help me finish. It’s a Saturday night, and I’m off from work. I’ve let myself be tempted out on the pull by a couple of the other nurses, and Australian Guy is the result. He’s taken me back to his flat in Camden, which is small, but nice and doesn’t give you a secondhand pot high. Neither of us are drunk, Guy’s been a perfect gentleman and his is the kind of kiss that you’ll have wistfull, smiling memories off in the days to come.

It’s all good apart from the fact that I feel like I can’t move. And he’s still inside me.

“You okay, babe? That was intense!”

I try, dear God, I try to smile sexily at him. I try, but I’m in absolute agony.

“Yeah. Fine. Okay.”

He smiles expectantly. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

I know what he wants – I want to get off him too. In fact, I’d quite like to go home and have a nice lie-down.

“Yeah. Same.”

There’s a silence, one so mortifying that the obvious has a very hard time leaving my mouth. Guy is still smiling, and I am desperate – DESPERATE – to get off his dick and on painkillers. Which would have been so much easier if he wasn’t still hard.

“Unless you fancy a round two?”


“How is that even medically possible?! I mean, are you okay? Are you still in pain?”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh at Mara’s concerned face. “I don’t really feel like talking any further about it, if you don’t mind.”

“But… five times and he didn’t even go soft? Christ, he should see…”

“I think you’ll find he was already very busy seeing a doctor, thank you. Now. Moving on.”

Mara’s a wonderful friend and a wonderful junior doctor to work alongside. She’s also a wonderful baker, and has essentially coaxed this story out of me through her devious skills with cream cheese. I prick my fork into the last of the dense chocolate cake she’s made when she sighs.

“Are you, though? Moving on?”

Suddenly I’m wishing there was more cake left.

“No, seriously, is this you, moving on? The beginning of a new leaf? Chapter one?”

I thought about leaving Mark the Artist’s flat, thinking something like that. And then I did my back in, and then Australian Guy nearly did it in again for me. If this really was me moving on from him, I was making a piss-poor go of it.

“I don’t know. How easy is it to move on from having your engagement fall to pieces? Can’t just be as easy as one-two-shag.”

Mara furrows her eyebrows, mulling it over while she sips from her coffee. “Not likely, no. But there must be some kind of way to get… you know, back to you? Who you were before all this happened?”

“I was with Simon for four years, Mara. I have little recollection of what went on before that, really.”

“Surely that can’t be right? Surely you must remember what you were doing back then?”

“Studying, probably. Trying my best to remember which bone’s connected to which, and such.”

“That’s not what I meant, but I see your point.”

“Good, because I don’t see yours! Going back to me?”

“Yes, back to when you were actually happy. Doing… you know, stuff! Not studying or shagging about, but… you know.”

“Stuff. Yeah.”

The conversation stalls on Stuff. I stir another sugar into my coffee, just for the sake of having something to do with my hands. Mara rearranges her jet-black hair into a ponytail, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she does so. Suddenly, it’s like a Eureka light appears above her head.

“Got it! How about we make a list of all the things you want to do now, but couldn’t do before when Simon was still in your life? And then you tackle these things, one by one. Could be sexual, could be creative, could be anything you think of. And if you happen to come across a nice guy, or a nice girl, who you reckon you want to spend more time with in the future…”

“Project Get Anna Over Simon?”

“Yeah! What do you reckon?”

I reckon many things. I reckon that my coffee is now oversugared and going very cold. I reckon that I’ll have to take the Tube home tonight because my bus will probably be late.

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

I make my excuses and leave my slightly befuddled friend behind. I reckon she’ll have forgotten about it by the morning.

Just before I dip into the station, my phone buzzes with two texts. One from Australian Guy, still hopeful for a round six.

And one from Ricky.

Hi Anna. Hope your back’s okay. Would you like to meet for coffee tomorrow?


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A Lady Laid Bare Writing Update Bonanza

I’ve been a rather quiet blogger as of late, with factors like health (both physical and mental) and time being bit players in long periods of silence. But that really, really doesn’t mean I’ve been sitting still. I realize that I don’t often talk about the other stuff I do (including that kinda very important bit about where I’m also writing, editing and publishing erotic fiction) so if you’re keen to know about the sort of stuff that I’ve been doing as of late, read the eff on, my friend.

I’ve been reviewing porn for Life on the Swingset!

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while now, you’ll remember my regular CrashPadSeries reviews from last year. I’m still reviewing CrashPadSeries, only now I’m doing it for the fabulous people at Life on the Swingset. Check there regularly for my musings on all things CrashPad, and soon for my (hopefully) comprehensive review of FrolicMe.

I’m a general features writer for The High Tea Cast!

Yep, I am now a card-carrying member of Team Tea, scribbling about all things that come to mind and generally having a lot of fun with the other amazing people who are writing for The High Tea Cast.

I’ve been reading my dirty, sexy words at… well, Dirty Sexy Words!

Sallyanne Rogers‘ awesome bi-monthly erotica slam has kind of become a second home for my erotica writing. I’ve been on the bill a couple of times now, and I’ve always greatly enjoyed getting up on stage to do my thing. Unfortunately, due to having A Thing on, I can’t be regaling you with my smutty writings at the upcoming Solstice Slam, but you should totally go anyway because it’s good fun.

I’ve had my dirty, sexy words published!

My F/F story, Kicking The Habit (about that ex you just can’t let go of), was published in Appetites: Tales of Lesbian Lust (ed. Ily Goyanes, published by The Liz McMullen Show Publications). From an Amazon review…

In another shift of mood, Jillian Boyd’s “Kicking the Habit” is a clever riff on the cheating ex who’s still all too irresistible, with an appealing setting of indie entrepreneurship.

Also published, one of my favourite stories I’ve ever written: Dare You To appears in Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica (ed. Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press). From the #HumpDayReview on Buttontapper

One of my favorites from this collection is actually the introductory story, “Dare You To,” by Jillian Boyd. In it, a couple engaged to be married takes up a game of sexual dares, increasing their lust for one another before the trip down the altar. I loved the chemistry between Kat and David, as well as the cheekiness of their dares — all of which are carried out in public, to add the thrill of potentially getting caught into the mix. Whether or not you’ve personally engaged in a naughty version of Truth or Dare, this story is sure to capture your imagination, as well as your libido.

Fun fact: both stories mention a sportswear brand called Cambridge Athletics – in Dare You To, Kat is working on securing their advertising campaign in the UK and in Kicking the Habit, Tamsin and her best friend Frankie are pitching for the opportunity to launch the brand in the US.

I’ve gotten a couple more stories accepted!

… And I can’t tell you about them yet because of contracts and stuffs. But, you know, keep watching.

Future plans and shiz…

Apart from trying to keep the blog going and writing more (of course), I’m also planning to edit at least three more anthologies in the next couple of months. In addition to that, I’m beavering away at Little Birds Writing, which (ermagherd!) will hopefully become my own little erotica writing press/editing business. If anyone has any advice for me about that, feel free to come and hold my hand and tell me that I’m not going to balls this up.

As you may have guessed, I’m also planning on doing more short stories, and maybe (note: MAYBE) a longer project later in the year. But I’m also finding that I need to take more self-care time as of late, so caring for my mental and physical health will definitely be a number one priority.

For the rest… well, you know where to look. On here. This blog. This blog what you are reading right now abouts.

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Expectations Vs. Reality – Red Shoe Diaries

RedShoeDiaries1When you’re a kid, staying up until 2 am seems like the ultimate in the way of cool. It’s like that episode of Fairly Odd Parents where Timmy wishes he’s able to stay awake 24/7 just so he can see what magic occurs in the world after his bedtime. 2 am (and later, probably) is the Holy Grail. Manna from Heaven and beyond imagination. Especially when it comes to TV – surely TV is much, much better after a certain time* (*the watershed)?

It was a train of thought I was reminded of yesterday, when I noticed Red Shoe Diaries was on at the hallowed hour of one in the morning.

ILB: “We’re watching that, right?”

LLB: “Hell yeah. Bit late though. Might not be able to stay awake?”

Spoiler – yes, we were.

Now, Red Shoe Diaries is a show I may have mentioned before on this blog. I may have also mentioned that I had a bit of a fascination going with that show when I was younger – despite the fact that I only recently actually watched an episode of it. An episode that, for want of a better word, mystified me completely as it at one point involved Maryam D’Abo sensually swinging a lamp around. I should have learned my lesson that time: watching something like that at a certain time in the morning, on not a whole lot of sleep, will confuse the fuck out of you.

But apparently I didn’t because I did it again last night.

As I said, I had a bit of a fascination going with Red Shoe Diaries when I was a young’un. Part of my growing fascination with anything relating to sex, and especially softcore erotica. Red Shoe Diaries… it sounded, like many other things, so forbidden. So adult, so exciting, so not something I should have known about. I distinctly remember little me thinking I AM TOTALLY GOING TO STAY UP AND WATCH THIS THING and then promptly not only falling asleep but actually dreaming that I’d watched it.

By the time I actually managed to watch an episode, which was probably about a year and a half ago, I’d built my expectation of this show up so high that it could only go very wrong in reality. And I don’t know if it was indeed the lack of sleep and the resulting crank I had going on, or if Red Shoe Diaries really was a bit of pish, but my God, I will never get that image of Maryam D’Abo waving that lamp around out of my head.

Last night, at 1 AM, ILB and I sat down to watch a double-bill of RSD, which we only managed one and a half episodes of because neither of us were… how do I say it… very impressed with what we RedShoeDiaries2were watching, really. The episode in question – season 5’s Juarez – was a mix of weird moments and an utterly predictable storyline (woman takes her terminally ill mother to a clinic in Juarez, Mexico for a last ditch attempt at treatment, becomes fascinated by a sexy masked luchador, grieves her mother and discovers the luchador is the son of the woman who cooks at the resort. Who, for no discernable reason whatsoever, spends several scenes secretly following her around with his camera.)

I don’t know. I’d love to actually sit down and evaluate this series properly. RSD feels like it’s been such a huge part of my life for so long, despite me having seen so little of it. Maybe I should give it a proper chance… while fully awake, of course. The wrap-around concept – with David Duchovney as narrator, Jake – is a sound one and I’m willing to bet there’s a couple of great and hot episodes in there. And it’s kind of already inspired me in the way of writing. Why not re-open the pages of the Red Shoe Diaries and see what’s in there?

Still, maybe best skip the Maryam D’Abo and the Lamp episode, yes?

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Erotic Flash Fiction – Observer of People

They were standing near the doors of the Tube carriage, a few steps away from where we were sitting. It was late in the evening, half of the carriage still filled with people who’d just come back from the same concert as us. Something about the way she looked at him caught my eye. And I recognized that look pretty damn well.

Part of being a writer is being an observer of people, I think. It’s part of the instincts you start honing as you go along. You become more aware of body language, of expressions and inflections. That instinct is not something you can turn on and off at will. It just happens. You learn to read between the lines, and what I was reading, half-dazed and hearing a bit fuzzy from two and a half hours of auditory onslaught, was pure lust.

And it inspired a little flash fic drabble (… esque thingy), which I hope you’ll enjoy. (For the sake of this drabble, I’m going to pretend they attended this concert as well…)

Observer of People

by Jillian Boyd


He liked it when she danced. In a crowd of hundreds, in a room full of smoke and sweat and heat, watching her dance made him feel like they were the only two people there. Watching her move, her hips undulating to the hypnotizing rhythm of the suited snake dancer on the stage, her movements matching his. All he wanted right there and then was to grab her by the wrists, pin her to the wall and spread her open.

She could feel he was aching for her. His need made him glow, even in the harsh strip lighting of the crowded Tube carriage. Her own ache crawled through her skin like ivy vines across delapitated buildings. She knew he could see it in her eyes – they’d been together for that amount of time you need before you stop needing words and start using your senses because somehow you just knew. You’d become as much of a lover as an observer.

She liked observing him. Standing inches away from him, her leg between his and eyes firmly planted on each other, he ate her up with his eyes. A lingering bite of the bottom lip, the swell of her pussy lips and his cock, the strain of nipples hardening against a bra that had way outstayed its daily welcome. She counted off the names of the stations that seperated them from throwing him down on the bed and straddling him.

And as they waited, impatient, aching, she leaned in to him and whispered what she’d planned.

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[S]excerpt Sunday : 72 Hours

Because it’s Sunday, and I’ve been incredibly busy writing lots of fiction stuff this week, I thought I’d let you in to what I was currently working on. Which is difficult because I’m currently working on about three short stories at the same time. Ain’t that always the way it goes, ey?

The three shorts will be included in a solo collection I’m putting together, which I’m hoping to release somewhere early next year. It hasn’t got a title yet, so I’m currently referring to it as That Collection Thingybob What I Am Doing. Just rolls off the tongue, really.

Anyway, this is a sexy (and unedited, so sorry for anything that doesn’t look or sound right!) excerpt from a story called 72 Hours. It’s a story about a tourist in New York City who, through a twist of fate, is reunited with an old marine fling of hers during Fleet Week and rediscovers her intense feelings for him. Only problem is that she’s got 72 hours before she goes back to Britain and no clue as to whether she’ll ever see him again…

From 72 Hours

by Jillian Boyd


Four years ago, I spent the summer in Brighton on a romance writing course. I’d been so excited about it for months and when I got there to find that, even at 25, I was the youngest person there and nobody seemed particularly interested in striking up a conversation with me, I wasn’t worried. I was there to learn and enjoy writing under the sunny skies of the seaside after all.

A week into it and I was baulking from the loneliness. I took a long walk along the pier, wondering why this walk along the pier was the most enjoyable thing I’d done all week. I joined the queue for a soft serve ice cream, right behind a shaven-headed guy who looked annoyingly broad shouldered from where I was standing. Then again, at that moment, everything looked like it had the potential to annoy me. I sighed deeply, which caused the man to turn around. The first thing I noticed about Jason Rowan was just how kind his smile was. The second thing I noticed about Jason Rowan was just how much his voice sounded like a three am tumbler of whiskey that I badly longed to take a sip of.

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Writing Advice Corner – How to capture the runaway idea… before it runs away

Me, when I forget about a potentially genius plot bunny.
Me, when I forget about a potentially genius plot bunny.

Writing erotica can sometimes be a task of Sisyphean proportions. At least, that’s what it feels like if you’ve just found yourself rewriting one sentence for the fifth time because you’re not sure if legs can keep up this particular position for that long. Things like that, little sneaky things creeping up in the middle of a seemingly innocent sentence, can throw you off guard when you least expect it. Some, in the grand scheme of your story, are easy to fix (change a word, add a sentence, there you go). Others are like the one domino tile that won’t stay up – when you take it out (or leave it in), your entire story collapses and you’re left wondering what the hell to do to get the tiles back up.

Another sneaky thing that happens (and trust me, this happens more than I care to admit) is the runaway idea. It’s what I wanted to write about today because I know for a fact that every writer will have this at multiple points in their life… or week, even.

You all know what I’m talking about. That idea that pops into your head – THE best idea you’ve ever had in your whole life EVAR – at the exact moment you don’t have anything at hand to write it down on. The idea that, after a couple of hours of going on with the rest of your day and promising yourself that you’ll write it down as soon as you can, is no longer there. And when you realize it’s no longer there, you will let out a huge groan because it was a bloody fantastic idea and you feel like an idiot for not writing it down.

I had it earlier this week. It was an amazing idea for a lesbian erotica story, which kinda turned me on thinking about it. About four hours later, as I set up my computer, I realized to my horror that I couldn’t remember the amazing idea that turned me on so much. And that was the catalyst for this post. Here are a couple of tips to get that runaway idea and grab it by the scruff of its inspirational neck before it leaves your head. Tips that… well, I should really start following because I’m not exactly the best at it. Again, as with all my tip posts, you take from it what you want and adapt to your situation.

1) Don’t try and remember the entire idea.

Instead, break it up in keywords, like you’d do if you were doing a presentation. Repeat them to yourself in your head a couple of times so you’re familiar with the sounds of the words. If you have to remember a big block of sentences, you’ll forget the idea quicker.

2) Keep some form of note-taking device in your bag.

Not just the old-time classic of a notebook and a pen. Not everyone has space in their bags to accommodate a big notebook, and not everyone has time to whip it out and write it down. I’m a big fan of jotter pads myself, which can fit into most bags (probably 99% of bags, really) and take not much effort to get out and put back in. If you’re really cramped for space (like on a busy commute) your smartphone is your saviour. There are plenty of apps for both Android and iOS that will help you with keeping that idea safe for the time being.

3) And speaking of busy commutes…

Say it’s Monday morning. You’re shuffling along, trying to get to your Central/Victoria Line train and suddenly an idea materializes. For the love of Jesus Hurley Christ, don’t go getting out your phone/notebook/jotter pad/anything right then and there. Wait until you’re sitting down or at least standing somewhere safe. Keep repeating the idea in your head, in keywords like I mentioned in the first idea.

4) Keep a notepad in your bedroom…

But keep it at a distance from your bed. That way, if you happen to wake up with the idea still in your head (which is less likely to happen as you tend to forget things that happened in your brain while you were asleep – but if it happens…) you have to actually wake up to get to the notepad. The short time spent getting yourself up and to where it is will probably get you concious enough so that your idea will come out clearly. Write it down in one to three sentences, as you may not be able to make any sense of keywords in the morning.

5) Once a week…

Take time to sit down with any notes you may have taken. Get some paper and a pen and write your notes out again. Plenty are the times that I’ve lost a notebook (or jotter pad… or the back of a receipt) with a couple of decent ideas in it. This will ensure that you’ve written it all down again, so you have a second copy of your idea. Keep your notes in a folder and keep that folder in a place you can actually see.

And finally…

6) Don’t fret if you’ve lost the idea anyway.

You will have plenty of other ideas throughout your day (week, month, year…) that will hopefully turn into excellent stories (or blog posts, or articles, etc…). It sucks, but it’s par for the course when you’re a writer. Don’t get upset about it – just move on. And maybe another idea will come along which you will be able to capture in time.

— Entering this in the Sex Blog (Of Sorts) Don’t Read Clickbait, Read This! competition —

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