I’m readying myself to write one of my favorite parts. The love scene.

There’s something amazing and exhilarating about it. It is not, for me, an exploiting of squishy bits and heavy breathing. It’s bigger. Better. To write a love scene that captures the emotions, the sensations, without ever mentioning a body part—that’s the idea.

Getting there: That’s another thing.

For me, writing a love scene—or any scene, really—is often a matter of immersion in a single image. A suspended moment. A captive moment. The edge on which the action balances before it falls headlong into itself.

It may be a thought. An emotion. Something that commands the eye. In The Spiritkeeper, it was the “painterly light” through a tall window; the movement of David Emory’s shoulders through his shirt as he worked the loom.

The captive moment is the impetus that propels me into the scene; gives me the impetus to write it. It is the first date with the one who will be The One. It is the embrace that changes everything.

It is the hold-your-breath moment in which I fall in love.

 

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