Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.

The title of this post is just a thought running through my head at this particular moment. “Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.” Plato actually said that and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t thinking of me when it popped right out of his mouth and someone jotted it down for later.

The thought is actually wrapped around a secret project I’ve kept myself busy with, and is probably meaningless to the majority of readers who pop by–ogle the Plato graphic, and wander off again.

For the rest of you, if you’ve been paying attention you’ll know that I’m working on an erotic scene, which is a genre I’ve never explored before in my writing. The scene itself has a lot of moving parts to it. It’s an exploration, a new experience, a last night together, and a goodbye. After a rocky  start, where I was in a panic that I wouldn’t be up to the challenge, things are beginning to flow better. A lot of that has to do with my genius collaborator–who shall remain nameless lest someone try to steal their heart away. (I don’t always play nice–fair warning!)

Thinking about the scene as it’s evolving, what have I learned as I yank the words from my uptight head? Well, rule number one–relax. If I’m not relaxed, everyone reading will be uncomfortable.

Is it really that simple, though? No, it’s not.

I can hear you head scratching and thinking, She’s nuts… Sex is fairly straightforward, right? Well, when you translate those emotions into writing, you might think of it in terms of making mad passionate love right smack in the middle of Times Square.

Any takers? Didn’t think so.

Of course, when you write a love scene, no one is getting arrested (I hope), but you have to open yourself up–becoming totally vulnerable in the process, and then invite people to watch.

It’s a process, and it’s one I’m finding has put me in touch with things I never knew about myself. I doubt my writing will ever be up to par with the big names, but it’s highly personal in a way I never expected. And for me, Times Square is looking more and more appealing…

 

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You are tired, (I think)…

At this very moment in time, while the sheeting rain lashes out at my window, and I’m listening to the keyboard tap, tap, tapping vaguely disguised hints… This is what is running thorough my mind.

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings