When this artist scribbled down his first 150 words, I found your lips. I could do nothing at all but kiss them. Over and over again I kissed them. Softly
and roughly, tenderly and ferocioulsy, with sweet affection and ferocity, I kissed them.
When this artist continued to scribble another 350 words and hit 500 I had found
your hand with your beautiful fingers. I kissed your lips and touched your
fingers to my face, rubbed them on my cheeks, and pressed them upon my chest.
When this artist wrote down the next 1,000 words, I found loving arms to wrap around
myself, and a neck to burry my face into so that I could dream and desire your love
and companionship, guidence, and passion.
When this artist became intoxicated by your lips I found myself drunk with longing,
and so I reached for pens, and pencils, and markers, and so many writing instuments
to scribbled the next 10,000 words in search of your legs, and back, and ears, and…
Oh, my God, this artist is now mad with writing, I am mad with you. Your legs, you
thighs, oh please hands do not cramp, do not give up on writing these words.
Your feet, and calves, your silky hair…dammit write, write, write, and kiss, and WRITE!
When this artist hit 50,000 words I found your face, and you smiled at me. Your
body with all the peices came together to form your whole, and you breathed and came
to life. I no longer took your fingers to my face, and touched your lips to mine to kiss.
When this artist had finally finshed this novel, you were complete, and came to life,
and you took your fingers to my cheeks, and pressed them to my chest. You reached
your arms around my body and pulled me close. You put your mouth to mine, pushed
your body hard against my body, and we layed down on the desk and made love all night.
When this artist was saticfied by your every paragraph, soothed by your every sentence,
warmed with every one of your words, and loved loudly with each and every letter, I woke
up drowsly drunk with you front to back, through and through, and then I knew, I knew deep
in my soul, with every fiber of my being…
That when this artist had finished the last word, I had written well.
5 Dec
Creating A Novel – Pure Sex
Posted December 5, 2011 by collinmcclarnie in love making, lovers, Poetry, romance, sex, Uncategorized, writing Helps. Tagged: artist, author, desire, hungry, imagination, lost, love, love making, lovemaking, lovers, mistress, mistress muse, Muse, passion, poem, poems, poet, Poetry, poets, poety, prose, romance, romantic, short, short story, shortstory, story, the seasons, write, writer, writers, writing, writings. 2 Comments
Advertisement
2 bloggers like this post.
Posted by heartofbella on December 5, 2011 at 4:52 am
Wow Collin, this is wonderful, did you rewrite the old one that was so intoxicating? It’s so hot and sensual and passionate. I LOVE IT!
Posted by collinmcclarnie on December 5, 2011 at 5:05 am
Dear Bella,
Thank you. I know that it is ver similar to so Intoxicating, I didnt even think about that. This one just came to me now as I was finishing up my novel, and I thought about the joy in discovering the story as you write and it begins to take shape, then the passion you have as you write and work on it more and more, and then the power and beauty and how it turns around and takes on a personality of it’s own as you finish it.
Thanks Bella,
Cheers Love,
Collin.