The Linchpin Writer by John Matthew Fox

Author:John Matthew Fox
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookfox Press
Published: 2022-10-26T23:16:50+00:00

Pay careful attention to the language, particularly what is absent: there’s no formal language like penis or vagina, and no slang like cock or pussy, and certainly no silly or over-the-top euphemisms like Mr. Stiffy or vajayjay. Instead of grasping for the easiest and most typical language of “hard,” Groff chooses softer, more roundabout language by saying that “he wasn’t quite ready” and later on that he’d “fully stirred.” Instead of talking about wetness, Groff writes that the character was “dry, still cold.” In the last sentence, she doesn’t say “climax” or “orgasm”; the character says she can’t come.

Even when talking about her face, Groff doesn’t use the word “cheek,” which could make the reader think of buttocks, but she goes out of her way to use the unwieldly, shambling phrase “side of her face,” which nimbly sidesteps any connotations. There are no sexual positions mentioned, only the position of their bodies in relation to each other. Groff doesn’t even use a low-key G-rated word like “kiss,” instead preferring the phrase “her mouth found his.” It’s rare to find a passage of writing that is incredible for all the language it doesn’t use, but I would recommend this one for an award (a Good Sex Award!).

When Groff does talk about body parts, it’s not the body parts you’d expect. The character describes a closed eye, ear, nostril, and lips. Almost as if the camera of his attention is tight against the woman’s face. By talking about what your character is noticing, you can subtly inform the reader of the position of bodies without acting like a director of a play and staging bodies.

Lastly, don’t miss the step-away moment in this scene. Every sentence in this paragraph stays inside this room . . . except for one. Did you notice it? “He imagined the quiet street outside shining in the lights, the millions of souls warm and listening to the rain in their beds.”

Quoted out of context, it doesn’t seem to belong in a sex scene. Wouldn’t that misdirection deflate the erotic energy? But it comes at a critical moment, right after they kiss for the first time. And it feels like this kiss ignites the man’s imagination, and he floats away for a moment to a beautiful scene beyond them, to all the couples in their beds just listening to the rain. It’s a touching and beautiful moment that accentuates all the action inside the bedroom, connects them to the world at large, and also mimics real life by showing that when we’re having sex, we’re not always concentrating on the sex—minds wander. Also, adding a little step-away moment helps to slow down the scene and the pacing so the readers can process this critical moment more leisurely.

Jeffrey Eugenides, in The Virgin Suicides, portrays a sexual escapade between two teenagers as an attack, with the girl flinging herself on the boy:

He sat in his car, gazing at the house, watching as downstairs lights traded places with those upstairs, and then, one by one, went out.

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