On the Idea Farm Vol. 1

I got a feedback email once; I wish I could remember from whom. Basically, they complimented my work (always nice to hear) and then asked where I got the ideas for the stories. Now, somebody asking a writer where they get their ideas is a tale as old as time. This, however, was the first I had ever been asked about it as far as I can recall.

Aside from the very very wee bit of imposter syndrome in calling myself a capital W writer, always preferred storyteller, I gave the question a fair bit of thought. Then I figured I'd write about it. Writers write, right?

I will say, at least for me, stories rarely if ever fall straight in my lap fully formed. More often than not, it starts as the bare bones kernel of what are basically hypothetical questions.

*What if these people found themselves in this particular situation?

*What if this well worn type of story was upended by this certain kind of circumstance, then what?

*What if the ultimate climax or conclusion of a story was this? How did it get here?

When one of these germs of an idea comes, I generally ask myself if that is a story I'd want to hear.

If so, then the next part is where some folks might think the process is a bit woo-woo and artistic eccentricness.

I'd say generally speaking, probably umm...9 out of 10 times, when starting a story I have little to no idea where it's going or how it will end. I might know how I'd like it to go or end, but that's for the story and characters to decide, not me.

Toldja. Even as I write it, the whole concept seems kinda new age and trippy, but that's how it works for me.

From there I follow writer's rule #1

Write what you know.

As the story reveals itself to me (still sounds weird, I know), I'm asked to populate the story with the details. Who's this guy? Who's this gal? Ok, what are their names? Cool, what do they do? Awesome, now what's their story?

It doesn't take long reading my work to deduce that I'm a fairly typical white dude from the American South. My settings are usually there, because I know them. The characters speak and act like they are from there, because I actually know versions of these people in real life.

The one thing I don't want to happen in my work is for it to ring hollow or untrue. Yes, fiction itself is inherently a lie, but I'm not trying to convince anyone that it did happen, just that it could happen.

Sure I could write a tale of love and sex in 17th-century Norway, but I sure as shit don't know the first thing about it. The story could be an absolute banger, but readers would know from the jump that I have no idea what I'm talking about.

Anyway, figured I'd run through the works and see if I can reverse engineer how they came to be.

The Process

I've read and even enjoyed dystopian fiction many times. That being said, I've never really had much success in trying to write it. As the rating indicates, I'm fairly sure I didn't succeed here either.

The initial thought for this story was "having sex every day sounds frickin awesome! What would happen if you had to have sex every day, at the same time and failure to do so resulted in harsh physical punishment?"

The thought created more questions that made me want to write the story. How would the people psychologically prepare for that? How would they physically prepare for that? What would their lives be like living under the constant shadow of that? Every. Single. Day.

In hindsight, I realized dystopian usually requires a boatload of backstory to set the scene and get the reader engaged in the hows and whys that got us here. I just wrote a sad little two-hander that was essentially a day in the life of these two people.

The biggest problem, I think, was that there wasn't even a moral victory to be had in it. So much so, I wrote a caveat in the beginning, warning that the story went somewhere I wasn't expecting and turned out to be kind of a drag.

Think it's depressing to read? Was exactly fun times to write either.

Zen and the Art of Smut: Scene 1

Like many, I have a fascination with pornography. Aside from the obvious, I have a deep interest in porn as a business and the people who make it. The initial spark for this idea actually came from reading stories here on Literotica. Here, like porn, there are a lot of utilitarian "don't bore us, get to the chorus" pieces that unapologetically get straight to the fucking as fast as possible. That's not a criticism either, I have and continue to enjoy many of them. I have also found authors who deeply care about the quality of their work and the craft of writing as a whole.

This site is full of examples of outstanding art and craft and genres not generally known for having it, existing within the same space.

That got me thinking, there are bound to be persons of that same ilk within the porn industry. Yeah, they know what they make and why but that doesn't mean they don't have the desire or talent to create something within the genre that might actually transcend it.

The other part that came into play as the characters were developed, was that despite the culture and oddities of the industry, this is these people's fucking jobs. This is what these people do to pay bills, feed families and survive life. Like most of us, they have good days and bad, have to deal with a bunch of shit that seems stupid, and worry if they are doing their work well enough. They also are often passionate about their work and have worked very hard to be as good as they can at it.

There's no reason to think that many of them might have aspirations to use their talent to elevate the things they create into something greater they can be proud of.

The story is just me wondering how that might look.

Whiskey Rendezvous

Of all my stories, this is the one that is I'd say, 90-95% real. An actual, by god, almost true autobiographical story. Whole chunks of it happened exactly like I wrote it. It's also the one most devoid of plot, story and character development. Just a slightly embellished recollection of what went down. Wrote it mostly cause it was always a funny memory that popped in my head from time to time.

A Good Day, Perchance Even Perfect

The genesis for this one was basically...

"Think I'm gonna try and write one of them First Time stories."

I knew I didn't want the story to downplay the fact that oftentimes practicality plays as big a part as passion does in the quest of getting laid for the first time. Especially, it would seem, for guys. Not that I'm at all proud of it, but in remembering my own experiences, I was so focused on the destination that I was doing a speedrun on the journey trying to get there as fast as I could. By hook or by crook.

But let's be honest... nobody wants to read that shit.

So I thought... What if a practical desire to just get it done and accomplished had brought our characters here, but the train went off the rails into passion, desire and [gasp] actually feeling something real?

Then I wondered... What if the one employing this plan of practical logic was the girl? What might that look like?

I sat on those two thoughts for a bit. The opening scene came pretty quick. I knew early on I wanted it to be a dialogue-heavy, theatre-inspired kind of thing. Two characters essentially in one setting, creating the story.

This is when I ran into the first problem.

Once I had the opening scene with Becca's plan, Justin's interrogation of said plan, and their discussions leading to an agreement in principle written; it was time to get to how it all played out.

That's when I hit a block. I had no idea where to go from there. I had a moderately clever beginning with some interesting characters and some mildly amusing dialogue, and then nothing.

So I parked it.

I think I wrote 2 or 3 stories in the meantime. Periodically, I'd go back and read what I had, see if the muse had dropped anything in my lap; they had not.

Typically I try to write linearly. It's the easiest way to keep things in order and it's usually how the story comes to me. That wasn't working on this story.

So I decided to try to work it from the inside out. I asked myself What point in the story was I ultimately trying to get to? Well that's easy enough. Becca and Justin banging their little brains out. Ok cool, so write that.

A couple of reader comments on the story said it was the kind of First Time we all kinda wish we had and I can certainly see a reader coming to that conclusion. It wasn't, however, written to be some kind of wish-fulfilling dream scenario.

By definition, a first time is basically jumping headlong into uncharted waters and hoping like hell you can learn how to swim before you learn how to drown. It can somehow be awesome as hell, scary as fuck and all points in between simultaneously. Which got me thinking. A bona fide all-killer no-filler first time, while exceedingly rare, ain't impossible. Which led me to another hypothetical that showed me where the story would go.

What if by some chance confluence of happenstance, fate and sheer dumb fucking luck, everything went right for their first time? What would that realistically look like for our intrepid lovers?

So that's what I did. I stuck a horseshoe up their ass and sent them on their way. Every time there was a moment, a decision or a choice, I just always let the breaks fall their way.

I didn't make them natural-born sexual savants, but I did allow them to figure out what pleases the other with little to no difficulty. I didn't remove their doubt or self-consciousness, but I did let them find comfort in the others' desire for them. I didn't pretend they weren't nervous, worried or scared, because I knew they'd find their strength and courage in each other.

With all that being said, I had no idea how the ending would be as I was writing it. When Justin woke up alone in bed and walked out to see Becca sitting by the pool in the cool morning air, I didn't know how that conversation would go or what would happen at the end of it.

For me at least, that is the absolute best feeling in the world when writing. You didn't create characters; you Prometheused these almost living entities into existence, gave them fire and now all you can do is sit back and watch what happens next.

An Evening at the Theatre

Ok everybody, have a seat. When we're all settled, I have a bit of a confession to make. See, here's the thing...

I didn't write this story.

Mea culpa.

This was written by a woman and a damn good one at that.

She has worn numerous hats, at times being my editor, my collaborator, my friend, my confidant, my cosmic soulmate and my muse.

In another time and place, I would have prayed to both the old gods and the new, to build a world with her.

Alas, the majority of our lives spent 2000 miles apart and not having met yet did not allow such things to be.

Que sera.

Still the best sex I've ever had in my life by a fucking country mile.

All that to say, I've always loved her writing and the ideas she comes up with. Not to mention her poetry is unbelievably good as well.

After I had put a few things on the site here, she began to wonder how some of her stuff might fare here if she published it. I, of course, was ready to set her up an account right then and there. She, however, was understandably nervous about put her stuff out there.

So she asked me to publish it and see what happened. I like that it's in a category I'll probably never attempt a story in. She was always fascinated with the reverse harem concept which is apparently distinct from a gangbang or having a train run on you. At least I think it is. Hell, I don't know.

I guess my favorite part of the whole endeavor was that her story had 5k views quick, like in a hurry. All within a week. Now I don't know how that ranks in the grand scheme of things at Literotica, but I do know it's the fastest-moving thing I've ever had in my works.

Needless to say, she likes that fact very much.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

The seed for this story, I gotta say, is cheesy and borderline stupid.

"What if I mixed a walk of shame and meet-cute?"

I knew it was dumb and hokey when it first popped in my head. I almost chucked it in the "never tell a soul you actually came up with this crap" pile in my brain.

However, as is prone to happen in the writing game, the idea wouldn't go away and kept returning to my head, saying, "Hey. Look at me. I could be fun to write. Quit being a pussy and just do it."

So one day I sat down with nothing else to work on and basically said, "Fine, fuck it, I'll just write it."

As the story progressed though, I realized this was running a little than just a light-hearted sexy comedy of errors. I kept finding myself reminiscing on my younger and far more hedonistic days, where falling into bed with some drunk rando was not only a logical way to end the evening but often a desired one.

Now, a great big caveat here.

I'm not here to slut shame ANYONE, least of all my younger self. I look back on that time with a lot of fondness (see Whiskey Rendezvous), but I'm also well aware that it probably had a less than ideal effect on me psychologically.

Yes, I realize there is a great big chicken-and-egg discussion to be had here in regard to whether the behavior led to the effect on the psyche or vice versa. I'll let you know if I ever figure it out, but don't hold your breath.

All of this to say that it didn't take long before I realized that the cool and sexy protagonists in my quirky little rom-com were dealing with some deeper underlying shit. As you might imagine, the story all of a sudden became a bit more compelling to write.

I'm not gonna pretend that I was actively attempting to make my peace with ghosts from two decades ago, but a lot of the internal doubts Emma and Todd were having weren't very hard to imagine at all.

I remember when I finished writing it, I was particularly glad about two things. Firstly, I was happy that in the final scene they were able to keep the fear, worry and doubt at bay long enough to be vulnerable and real with each other. Secondly, I'm glad the story ended when it did. I won't lie, it was hard to realistically think the odds were any good for our guys to have an actual happy ever after, but I really do hope they did, though.