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Ruminations on porn creation.
14 years ago
What is it about writing porn that's so bothersome to me? Here I sit, vainly attempting to start the flow of words. It's not that I need to write porn or even that I should, but more along the lines that I find the challenge I now face so offensive that I feel its vanquishment to be a necessity. Much like the G-man faced his fear of rats by catching, killing, and consuming one, I feel I must defeat this silly hesitance by charging through the material and producing that which now gives me such annoying pause.
I write action adventure with the sort of skill that, should I but practice a bit more diligently would probably see me through to genuine publication. I write philosophy and to a lesser extent, theological pondering with equal facility. I have no problems with description, narration, plot, or dialogue. Why then this strange reluctance when I have no issue tackling the most intimate human thought, to tackle the most intimate human action?
What is the strange sensation that coils in my guts as I ponder the words I wish to use? So different from consuming pornography is the production of it, and I am left to wonder, "Why?" Surely what porn I have written has been read far more often and with far more attention than the action adventure I find comes so easily to me. It is a natural subject if I wish to expand my readership. Likewise I doubt anyone would claim that porn is a higher art form. It is no more difficult to read... so why is it so much more difficult to write?
Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps this reluctance I face draws its strength from the same source that once made the tops of my ears feel like they were about to catch fire from the heat of the shame coursing through me the first time I walked into the pornography section of the video store even though no one could see me save strangers there for the same reason as I.
Perhaps porn truly is a more difficult form of writing to master. Perhaps the physical response one seeks to elicit demands a different mode of thought than that in which I usually approach literary endeavor.
Or perhaps it's just that I'm at work right now and don't want to get caught writing words currently enshrined on George Carlin's list of things you can't say on television.
Whatever the reason, I loathe the vile creature squatting on its haunches in the depths of my being, poised to resist my pornographic advance like a defensive spiritual lineman waiting for the snap, every muscle taut to send three hundred pounds of critical mass through the suddenly insubstantial seeming center of my imagination to crush my literary quarterback. A sack of such terrible consequence that metaphysical time must be called and a philosophical stretcher brought forth to carry my prone conscious mind from the linguistic gridiron. Sweat stings my wavering eyes as I glance from the readied football of pornographic subject over the back of my insignificant liberal defense into the conscience-born eyes of murderous rage that wait only for me to write the first naughty word. Dare I? Dare I, when righteous shame crouches so close to me? Or do I wait for the allegorical play clock to run down, take the introspective penalty and watch as the imagined audience gathered to watch the mental contest boos the field or leaves in boredom?
Perhaps I'll just cut my losses and post a journal about it. Yeah... that's what I'll do.
I write action adventure with the sort of skill that, should I but practice a bit more diligently would probably see me through to genuine publication. I write philosophy and to a lesser extent, theological pondering with equal facility. I have no problems with description, narration, plot, or dialogue. Why then this strange reluctance when I have no issue tackling the most intimate human thought, to tackle the most intimate human action?
What is the strange sensation that coils in my guts as I ponder the words I wish to use? So different from consuming pornography is the production of it, and I am left to wonder, "Why?" Surely what porn I have written has been read far more often and with far more attention than the action adventure I find comes so easily to me. It is a natural subject if I wish to expand my readership. Likewise I doubt anyone would claim that porn is a higher art form. It is no more difficult to read... so why is it so much more difficult to write?
Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps this reluctance I face draws its strength from the same source that once made the tops of my ears feel like they were about to catch fire from the heat of the shame coursing through me the first time I walked into the pornography section of the video store even though no one could see me save strangers there for the same reason as I.
Perhaps porn truly is a more difficult form of writing to master. Perhaps the physical response one seeks to elicit demands a different mode of thought than that in which I usually approach literary endeavor.
Or perhaps it's just that I'm at work right now and don't want to get caught writing words currently enshrined on George Carlin's list of things you can't say on television.
Whatever the reason, I loathe the vile creature squatting on its haunches in the depths of my being, poised to resist my pornographic advance like a defensive spiritual lineman waiting for the snap, every muscle taut to send three hundred pounds of critical mass through the suddenly insubstantial seeming center of my imagination to crush my literary quarterback. A sack of such terrible consequence that metaphysical time must be called and a philosophical stretcher brought forth to carry my prone conscious mind from the linguistic gridiron. Sweat stings my wavering eyes as I glance from the readied football of pornographic subject over the back of my insignificant liberal defense into the conscience-born eyes of murderous rage that wait only for me to write the first naughty word. Dare I? Dare I, when righteous shame crouches so close to me? Or do I wait for the allegorical play clock to run down, take the introspective penalty and watch as the imagined audience gathered to watch the mental contest boos the field or leaves in boredom?
Perhaps I'll just cut my losses and post a journal about it. Yeah... that's what I'll do.
Similar problem with action scenes as well, though that's my word choice conscience smacking me with a hammer rather than the absence of good word choice and flow.
I've spent some time doing research into porn and as it turns out, it IS more difficult to write than 'normal' material, so much so that particularly badly produced porn has it's own award, which I found amusing and you will too: http://www.theregister.co.uk/2011/1.....fiction_award/
Of particular satisfaction was the fact that Norman Mailer, detestable man that he was, won this award among others with whom I was never impressed. I also admit freely that I had to look up the word otorhinolaryngological.