So when she first approached me, honestly, I jumped at it the idea of being to write about and talk about sex was great. I couldn't wait to do it. Sean started writing erotic fiction. Lisa felt so alive. Paolo brought her drinks and rubbed her shoulders and her arms, touching her often, whispering in her ear and drawing her hair off of her face.
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It gets a lot more musky from here. The "she" Sean mentioned earlier is his friend, and now writing partner, Marie Fraser. She has a Ph. So I could easily lobotomize anybody in the room and you could walk away, but no. That's not my calling in life. Instead, her calling seems to be dreaming up carnal fantasies for women everywhere. At first, Marie just did it for the money. But then she realized she had a talent for it. And it was fun. A lot of fun. Then, through meeting Sean and realizing, "Ah ha, he's a pretty good writer himself," and asked him to edit something for me for which I paid him.
It was a true business deal, and it came out so good. Laughs No, the writing. To be clear, Sean and Marie are just friends. Marie's mother knows that she writes about sex, but she doesn't know how graphic the stories are.
Boiling point: why literature loves a long, hot summer
Sean's in the same boat. I'm a little concerned, because my family keeps asking to see some examples and I don't quite know what to do. Because there is no doubt about it, these stories -- stories with titles like "The Invisible Touch" and "The Sheriff and the Widow" -- they're all about the sex. People don't buy erotica for plot lines. They don't buy erotica for character development.
Boiling point: why literature loves a long, hot summer | Books | The Guardian
Well, I'm still learning. One of the things is the build up -- whether it be tension, whether it be lust. Something has to build before things actually happen. Yeah, which is funny, because as a male, I'm like "Huh, what do you mean? But what's really amazing is how much money these guys are making. Since the release of their first novel two years ago, Sean and Marie have been receiving regular royalty checks.
And that's just for one story. They have a book short stories sold but not out yet. And Marie handed Sean four to edit the day that I visited. Women are buying this stuff. It's a platonic relationship, but you're still sharing your fantasies It can get a little awkward, but we can override that.
Fulfilling a desire through erotic writing
Yeah, at the same time, ultimately, we want to make the best story. And so believe it or not, that trumps everything. And we'll kind of argue and bicker and debate and say, "No, no, they shouldn't have sex in this room, it should be in this room" and "No, not, it shouldn't be in this position, it should be in that position.
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And you see it as a transition away, like you were saying. Yes, because I'm constantly saying to Sean, he's going first.
We're transitioning him first, and then me. I fully expect to be doing this as a full-time career in the next probably two to three years. Whereas Sean is planning to quit his day job this fall. It's a wonder he stuck with it this long. Sag Harbor is similarly anchored and contained by a house in the Hamptons, a holiday home: Although another summer house not far away, where memory is inextricable from lost happiness, turns out to be more important still.
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Taking characters to another hot country for a short space of time works, too: So Rachel Cusk, in Outline , removes her protagonist to broiling Athens to teach a course; Deborah Levy, in Hot Milk , parks a mother and daughter in southern Spain in August. Constraint is useful for the basic plot reason that it can force unexpected people together; summer adds heat to the pressure. It was a sort of stage-magic.
In After Me Comes the Flood, the bookseller John Cole is repelled by the degree to which the adult inhabitants of the mysterious house drift through summer days, lost in games, making papier-mache heads, building a kind of curdled, dangerous child-world. Long time, and often deep time: One summer, but also a lifetime of summers, memories growing out of each other, like the underbrush the two know so intimately; the tree trunks, ferns and lichens and moss, layered and revealing glimpses of each other.
Because things must change. Early on he sees the elder daughter of the house, Marian, saying farewell to a man. For the next few weeks Leo enjoys the heat, is ecstatic with it, but becomes caught between Marian and her working-class lover, Ted, feeling but not always comprehending the degree to which his childhood is being stripped away. Summer is full of erotic charge.
People wear fewer clothes, see more of each other. Things grow into ripeness, and more than ripeness, which is exciting but also threatening, overwhelming — a worry traced again and again through female sexuality. So the belladonna plant that plays a starring role in The Go-Between is a none-too-subtle metaphor; in The Cement Garden a hormone-soaked teenage boy watches, fascinated and discomfited, as his sister flowers into adulthood. In Hot Milk the young female protagonist visits her father and his new partner, then returns to the Spanish beach where she is suffering a doomed love for another woman.
Again and again summer is cast as a time when the icy ramparts of class might, just possibly, melt. In The Go-Between , Leo enables Ted and Marian to continue their trysts, and feels increasingly at home in a milieu far grander than his own. But even as these class-crossings seem possible, divisions become apparent.
Leo is troubled by small moments — his hostess noting how well his clothes are mended, or his friend mocking him for wearing his school hat in the country — that illuminate his social inferiority. Charity works in the village library but has no education; when the young man from New York asks for advice, at once she sees the gulf between them, and while later she can briefly forget it, it is always there, getting deeper. In the summer light things seem clearer, more vividly themselves than at any other time.
Just before the harvest ends, Birkin is taken on a Sunday school picnic. Wharton uses the word flame so often in this novel that it has to be deliberate: