Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
23rd Mar 2016 from TwitLonger
Writing Sex-Scenes
Process, again…I wrote a small book about how to write sex-scenes. I haven’t decided exactly how (or when) to publish this, but thought I’d give you a brief extract from it, in demonstration of how one uses language to evoke sensuality.
What I’m doing here is showing you one of the scenes from THE FIERY CROSS, and then running through it again in slow-mo, with commentary, so you can see _what_ I did. If you haven’t yet read THE FIERY CROSS, this scene really has no spoilers <g>, but if you want to experience the book as a whole, you might want to skip this.
[Excerpt from [Untitled Sex-Scene Book] Copyright 2016 Diana Gabaldon
Chapter 7. ATMOSPHERE - evocation, sensuality, underpainting
Without being explicit at all, it's possible to give a story a strong feeling of sensuality. This is done principally--and paradoxically--by practicing restraint, just as you do when depicting strong emotion.
You don't lard on adjectives, or even verbs. You pick precise details and use beautiful imagery--which is a lot of work, but worth it. Now, how do you pick those details?
I mentioned one application of the Rule of Three in the Five-Minute Guide at the beginning of this book, right? Remember that? A little trick I learned from Gustave Flaubert, who was certainly not the first writer to use it, but might have been the first to explicate it. It’s simple: if you use any three of the five senses (six, maybe, if you’re writing paranormal stories), it creates a sense of dimensionality and reality in the scene.
A lot of writers use only hearing and touch when writing about sex, because those seem the most important to them in such a context. All well and good, but look:
EXAMPLE 9: Use of Senses
He made no noise, but I felt him at once; a warmth, a thickening, in the cool air of the room.
"Are ye well, Sassenach?" he asked softly from the doorway.
"Yes, fine." I spoke in a whisper, not to wake Lizzie and her father, who slept in the two back bedrooms. "Just needed a breath of air; I didn't mean to wake you."
He came closer, a tall ghost in the whiteness of his nightshirt, smelling of sleep.
"I always wake when you do, Sassenach; I sleep ill without ye by my side." He touched my forehead briefly. "I thought ye were maybe fevered; the bed was damp where ye'd lain. You're sure you're all right?"
"I was hot; I couldn't sleep. But yes, I'm all right. And you?" I touched his face; his skin was warm with sleep.
He came to stand beside me at the window, looking out into the late summer night. The moon was full, and the birds were restless; from near at hand, I heard the faint chirp of a late-nesting warbler, and farther off, the squeak of a hunting saw-whet owl.
"You recall Laurence Stern?" Jamie asked, evidently reminded of the naturalist by the sounds.
"I doubt anyone who's met him would forget him," I said dryly. "The bag of dried spiders makes rather an impression. To say nothing of the smell." Stern carried with him a distinctive aroma, composed in equal parts of natural body odor, an expensive cologne that he favored--which was sufficiently strong to compete with--though not to conquer--the pungencies of various preservatives such as camphor and alcohol--and a faint reek of decay from the specimens he collected.
He chuckled softly.
"That's true. He stinks worse than you do."
"I do not stink!" I said indignantly.
"Mmphm." He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. "Onions," he said, "and garlic. Something hot...peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice." His tongue flicked out like a snake's, touching my knuckles. "Starch--potatoes--and something woody. Toadstools."
"Not fair at all," I said, trying to get my hand back. "You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren't toadstools, they were woodears."
"Mm?" He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. "Vinegar and dill; ye've been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm--were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?"
"You guess, since you're so good at it."
"Butter."
"Damn." I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He flicked the ribbon-strap of my chemise off my shoulder and smelt his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin.
"Jemmy. Puke and bairn-shit," he said, sniffing like a hound dog. He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there and ran his fingers under his nose. "Eau de femme," he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. "Ma petite fleur."
"And I bathed, too," I said ruefully.
"Aye, with the lily soap," he said, a slight tone of surprise in his voice as he sniffed at the hollow of my collarbone. I gave a small, high-pitched yelp, and he reached up to lay a large, warm hand across my mouth. He smelt of gunpowder, hay, and manure, but I couldn't say so, what with him muffling me.
He straightened a little, and leaned close, so the roughness of his whiskers brushed my cheek. His hand fell away, and I felt the softness of his lips against my temple, the butterfly touch of his tongue on my skin.
"And salt," he said, very softly, his breath warm on my face. "There is salt on your face, and your lashes are wet. D'ye weep, Sassenach?"
"No," I said, though I had a sudden, irrational urge to do just that. "No, I sweat. I was...hot."
I wasn't any longer; my skin was cool; cold where the night-draft from the window chilled my backside.
"Ah, but here...mm." He was on his knees now, one arm about my waist to hold me still, his nose buried in the hollow between my breasts. "Oh," he said, and his voice had changed again.
I didn't normally wear perfume, but I had a special oil, sent from the Indies, made with orange flowers, jasmine, vanilla beans and cinnamon. I had only a tiny vial, and wore a small dab infrequently--for occasions that I thought might perhaps be special.
"Ye wanted me," he said ruefully. "And I fell asleep without even touching you. I'm sorry, Sassenach. Ye should have said."
"You were tired." His hand had left my mouth; I stroked his hair, smoothing the long dark strands behind his ear. He laughed, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare stomach.
"Ye could raise me from the dead for that, Sassenach, and I wouldna mind it."
He stood up then, facing me, and even in the dim light I could see that no such desperate measures on my part would be required.
"It's hot," I said. "I'm sweating."
"Ye think I'm not?"
His hands closed on my waist and he lifted me suddenly, setting me down on the broad windowsill. I gasped at contact with the cool wood, reflexively grasping the window-frame on either side.
"What on earth are you doing?"
He didn't bother answering; it was an entirely rhetorical question, in any case.
"Eau de femme," he murmured, his soft hair brushing across my thighs as he knelt. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "Parfum d'amor, mm?"
The cool breeze lifted my hair, drew it tickling across my back like the lightest of lover's touches. Jamie's hands were firm on the curve of my hips; I was in no danger of falling, and yet I felt the dizzy drop behind me, the clear and endless night, with its star-strewn empty sky into which I might fall and go on falling, a tiny speck, blazing hotter and hotter with the friction of my passage, bursting finally into the incandescence of a shooting...star.
"Ssh," Jamie murmured, far off. He was standing now, his hands on my waist, and the moaning noise might have been the wind, or me. His fingers brushed my lips. They might have been matches, striking flames against my skin. Heat danced over me, belly and breast, neck and face, burning in front, cool behind, like St. Lawrence on his gridiron.
I wrapped my legs around him, one heel settled in the cleft of his buttocks, the solid strength of his hips between my legs my only anchor.
"Let go," he said in my ear. "I'll hold you." I did let go, and leaned back on the air.
COMMENTARY: Sensuality (THE FIERY CROSS, window scene)
OK, now that you’ve read the scene as a scene, let’s step back for a moment and look at what’s going on there, in the technical sense:
He made no noise, but I felt him at once; a warmth, a thickening, in the cool air of the room. [Here we’re invoking the sense of touch, even though no one is actually touching. Contrasting “warmth” and “cool” enhances the impression of touch, and metaphorically equating Jamie’s presence to “warmth” and “thickening” establishes his presence as immediately attractive.]
"Are ye well, Sassenach?" he asked softly from the doorway.
"Yes, fine." I spoke in a whisper, not to wake Lizzie and her father, who slept in the two back bedrooms. "Just needed a breath of air; I didn't mean to wake you."
He came closer, a tall ghost in the whiteness of his nightshirt, smelling of sleep. [Here’s sight entering the picture; “tall” and “whiteness” and we have an immediate mental picture of him. No need of blathering on about his hair or the shape of his body; we just want to establish his presence. Note the “smelling of sleep”—besides being a nice alliterative phrase, it establishes for us that he’s just waked up (without needing to say something tiresome like, “he must have waked when he heard me get up and leave the room”) and it strikes the first note in a symphony of olfaction. Note how much the sense of smell features throughout the scene as we go on…]
"I always wake when you do, Sassenach; I sleep ill without ye by my side." He touched my forehead briefly. "I thought ye were maybe fevered; the bed was damp where ye'd lain. You're sure you're all right?" [Touch. He’s concerned about her, and we know she’s hot and damp.]
"I was hot; I couldn't sleep. But yes, I'm all right. And you?" I touched his face; his skin was warm with sleep. [Touch again, reciprocating his concern, and continuing with the feeling of pervasive heat. Notice just how brief these descriptions are, though: one or two words per paragraph, and quite plain words, too: “fevered,” “damp,” “warm.” This is what I mean by restraint. The words that evoke sensuality are important, but they ought for the most part to stay in the background; what’s being said and done is in the forefront of the reader’s mind—they’ll pick up the underlying sensuality with no trouble.]
He came to stand beside me at the window, looking out into the late summer night. The moon was full, and the birds were restless; from near at hand, I heard the faint chirp of a late-nesting warbler, and farther off, the squeak of a hunting saw-whet owl. [This is another of the few invocations of sight in this scene, and the first bit of explicit sound. This paragraph is doing two things: establishing their physical position by a window—because the window is going to be important later on—and changing the focus briefly. Most of the scene takes place in very close-up focus, just between the two participants. We want it to feel hot and sweaty and intimate. For a moment here, though, the focus changes to a view of the outer world. This keeps the scene from feeling too claustrophobic, lends it a sense of movement from the change in focus (even though no one has really done anything), and reminds us of the physical setting—the backwoods of North Carolina (note the specificity of the detail. It isn’t just some chirping bird or a generic owl. This gives us a greater sense of vivid immediacy, as well as pulling us further into Claire’s mind—she lives here, she knows exactly what she’s hearing). This is a fair amount for a two-sentence paragraph to accomplish.]
"You recall Laurence Stern?" Jamie asked, evidently reminded of the naturalist by the sounds.
"I doubt anyone who's met him would forget him," I said dryly. "The bag of dried spiders makes rather an impression. To say nothing of the smell." Stern carried with him a distinctive aroma, composed in equal parts of natural body odor, an expensive cologne that he favored--which was sufficiently strong to compete with--though not to conquer--the pungencies of various preservatives such as camphor and alcohol--and a faint reek of decay from the specimens he collected. [Now here is a much more emphatic and explicit evocation of smell. In part, this is to contrast with and to enhance our noticing of the more pleasant olfactory cues later. But what it’s mostly doing is providing the dialogue transition to those more intimate smells.]
He chuckled softly.
"That's true. He stinks worse than you do."
"I do not stink!" I said indignantly.
"Mmphm." He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. "Onions," he said, "and garlic. Something hot...peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice." His tongue flicked out like a snake's, touching my knuckles. "Starch--potatoes--and something woody. Toadstools." [Touch and taste and smell, all together. Note the explicit mention of substance, but only two adjectives, “hot” and “woody.” Notice that he isn’t saying anything at all sexual or flirtatious; it’s a brief paragraph—and yet the inclusion of all three senses in a condensed space makes a vivid impact. If I’d written, “He licked my hand,” it wouldn’t have had at all the same sensual evocation.]
"Not fair at all," I said, trying to get my hand back. "You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren't toadstools, they were woodears."
"Mm?" He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. "Vinegar and dill; ye've been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm--were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?"
[Again—specificity of detail gives you a sense of immersion. You know what vinegar and dill and sour milk smell like, so your own mind supplies the memory of those particular scents. “He sniffed my skin and told me exactly what I’d been making that day,” wouldn’t accomplish that, because there are no sensory cues.]
"You guess, since you're so good at it."
"Butter."
"Damn." I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He flicked the ribbon-strap of my chemise off my shoulder and smelt his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin. [Invocation of touch. We don’t need to struggle to give an account of her sensations—“Exquisite tendrils of longing spiraled down my arm and made my little man in the boat stand up and salute….”—Not Necessary. “Sensitive” and “squeaked” will do fine.]
"Jemmy. Puke and bairn-shit," he said, sniffing like a hound dog. He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there and ran his fingers under his nose. "Eau de femme," he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. "Ma petite fleur."
"And I bathed, too," I said ruefully.
"Aye, with the lily soap," he said, a slight tone of surprise in his voice as he sniffed at the hollow of my collarbone. I gave a small, high-pitched yelp, and he reached up to lay a large, warm hand across my mouth. He smelt of gunpowder, hay, and manure, but I couldn't say so, what with him muffling me. [Smell and touch are mingled through this one. And naturally, we have hearing going throughout, from the dialogue, so needn’t mention anything explicit.]
He straightened a little, and leaned close, so the roughness of his whiskers brushed my cheek. His hand fell away, and I felt the softness of his lips against my temple, the butterfly touch of his tongue on my skin.
[Roughness/softness – contrasting touch, then “butterfly touch”—and that’s all. Only one adjective, and that one’s metaphorical.]
"And salt," he said, very softly, his breath warm on my face. "There is salt on your face, and your lashes are wet. D'ye weep, Sassenach?" [Touch and taste, very simple. What’s important through here is the dialogue; he’s concerned for her, and intimately aware of her, without us having to say so.]
"No," I said, though I had a sudden, irrational urge to do just that. "No, I sweat. I was...hot."
I wasn't any longer; my skin was cool; cold where the night-draft from the window chilled my backside. [Touch again, but this is also a brief change of focus—moving from the closeness between them to an awareness of their surroundings.]
"Ah, but here...mm." He was on his knees now, one arm about my waist to hold me still, his nose buried in the hollow between my breasts. "Oh," he said, and his voice had changed again.
I didn't normally wear perfume, but I had a special oil, sent from the Indies, made with orange flowers, jasmine, vanilla beans and cinnamon. I had only a tiny vial, and wore a small dab infrequently--for occasions that I thought might perhaps be special. [Smell, and specific details that invite you to imagine the scent itself—but what’s important here is her thought about “might be special.”]
"Ye wanted me," he said ruefully. "And I fell asleep without even touching you. I'm sorry, Sassenach. Ye should have said."
"You were tired." His hand had left my mouth; I stroked his hair, smoothing the long dark strands behind his ear. He laughed, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare stomach. [Touch, and a physical cue that provides necessary logistical information regarding their relative positions, and the fact that she’s naked.]
"Ye could raise me from the dead for that, Sassenach, and I wouldna mind it."
He stood up then, facing me, and even in the dim light I could see that no such desperate measures on my part would be required. [A rare instance of sight. Since it’s couched in terms of her response, we needn’t be literal about what she sees—we can rely on the reader’s own experience to fill in the details.]
"It's hot," I said. "I'm sweating."
"Ye think I'm not?"
His hands closed on my waist and he lifted me suddenly, setting me down on the broad windowsill. I gasped at contact with the cool wood, reflexively grasping the window-frame on either side. [Further logistics, emphasized by the “touch” details.]
"What on earth are you doing?"
He didn't bother answering; it was an entirely rhetorical question, in any case.
"Eau de femme," he murmured, his soft hair brushing across my thighs as he knelt. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "Parfum d'amor, mm?" [Logistics/physical cue. Note that while this is not graphic at all, we have a perfectly clear vision of what he’s doing, owing to the combination of his remark—which makes it clear that he can smell her, and in a way he considers sexual—the touch of his hair on her thighs, and the sound of the floorboards.]
The cool breeze lifted my hair, drew it tickling across my back like the lightest of lover's touches. Jamie's hands were firm on the curve of my hips; I was in no danger of falling, and yet I felt the dizzy drop behind me, the clear and endless night, with its star-strewn empty sky into which I might fall and go on falling, a tiny speck, blazing hotter and hotter with the friction of my passage, bursting finally into the incandescence of a shooting...star.
[Change of focus, moving from the close-up personal details of touch to the visual impression of the sky outside—which gives us a nice metaphor to use simultaneously for the emotional content and the physicality of orgasm.]
"Ssh," Jamie murmured, far off. He was standing now, his hands on my waist, and the moaning noise might have been the wind, or me. His fingers brushed my lips. They might have been matches, striking flames against my skin. Heat danced over me, belly and breast, neck and face, burning in front, cool behind, like St. Lawrence on his gridiron.
[Continuing the metaphor, and now changing the focus from “far off” (outside our viewpoint character) to a concentration on the immediate physical situation.]
I wrapped my legs around him, one heel settled in the cleft of his buttocks, the solid strength of his hips between my legs my only anchor.
[One of the few explicit lines in the whole scene, which we need to make the position of the lovers clear—it being a rather unusual position.]
“Let go," he said in my ear. "I'll hold you." I did let go, and leaned back on the air.
OK, you see how that works? The language throughout is simple, but clear and graceful. The physical cues here are important, but also stated simply, with slight excursions into lyrical metaphor during the parts that would otherwise be gross. That restraint gives the scene a lot of power, and allows the dialogue to show [not tell] us the emotional content.