His
hands reached out, eager to caress and stroke, searching for the tempting
warmth and the silk of his lover’s smooth skin.
Sounds
good, huh? Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. We all know what this lucky guy
feels as his hands reach out to do their thing. Anticipation and longing. Lust,
possibly. We experience his thoughts transmitted by the action of his hands and
we all understand what it means. And yet, what they’re doing is wrong—so, so
wrong.
If you
read this, chances are that you’re either a passionate reader, maybe an author
or—uh-oh—an editor (Hey, if you’re an editor I’ve worked with: My tongue is
firmly in my cheek during this post).
Anyway,
you probably already know that in publishing circles, hands that reach out
on their own, eyes that make contact across the room, and even eager cocks that
yearn for release, or in short, body parts that act independently, are frowned
upon, to say the least. Often they’re downright forbidden.
But why?
Seriously, why?
I’ve
been through enough edits with capable editors to have had the use of
independent body parts (almost) drilled out of me. It’s rare these days that my
addled writer’s brain absently lapses back and tells my fingers to type such a
sentence in a WIP (needless to say that such fatal errors are removed as soon
as my eyes pick them up). When I come across such a phrase in one of my book
that’s already published, my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Naturally,
the way I read other author’s books since I’ve delved into the colourful world
of editorial comment boxes has changed. Often I inadvertently find myself
reading copy, which kinda spoils the experience, but that’s a topic for another
day. I started reading this book. It came highly recommended on Goodreads. Hmm.
Readers seem to love it but for me it wasn’t exactly love at first sight, which
had mostly to do with the story line. That aside, I soon realised that there
appears to be something odd with the editing and yes, I started reading copy,
so I put the book away for a couple of days and didn’t pick it up again until
today, when I was desperate for just something to read—and boy, I was in for a
surprise.
...His
shoulders dropped for a second and then tensed...My nails dug in my thigh…I laughed as his brows curled in confusion…he drawled, blank eyes casually
checking me out...
These
are just a few examples from the couple of pages I managed to read before my
break was over. Those are phrases that I very well could have written not so
long ago, but that probably wouldn’t have made it past the grammar police. And rightly
so, I would have said until not so long ago, because I tended to agree that
body parts shouldn’t be allowed to do things independently. Imagine what could
happen if they did:
I’m
sorry, officer, but you can’t blame me for speeding because, you see, it was
actually my foot that pressed the pedal down.
Oh, no,
I didn’t slap that cheating bastard of a husband. That was just my hand.
His
eyes crossed the room.
Eyes are
one of my own favourites, as my lovely editors can confirm, lol, so here’s
another:
He
dropped his eyes to the floor. (No, really - eouw!)
Another
good one is His voice said. Yes, I used that. The comment it earned me was: “His
voice doesn’t say anything, he does.” Yes, I know. But it sounded good at the
moment I wrote it, and as every writer knows, eventually you reach a point
where you’re so desperate for some variation of this and that, he said or he
sounded whatever that you’re willing to make voices say some stuff, too. Just
like you become tired of he reached out to whatever, He put his hand on her
thigh, They pressed their lips together, He breached the tightly sealed
muscle with his finger and consider just letting his darned hand reach out or
rest on her thigh, let their lips press together or even allow his finger to
breach that unwilling muscle.
And why
not? Our bodies do stuff on their own all the time, don’t they? Or when was the
last time you had to tell your lungs to snatch a breath? Or your heart to keep
pumping blood through your veins? Can’t remember, can you?
So why
do our heroes (and heroines, for those who write female characters) have to
always be in full control of every single one of their body parts? Why can’t
they ever simply lean back and enjoy the ride their own lustful bodies take
them for?
Now don’t
get me wrong. I’m not saying independent body parts should be used liberally,
and you should always keep an eye on what the sentence means if read literally,
but come on – those phrases make for a nice change and most readers (myself
included) won’t even notice this when they’re absorbed in a story. It’s only
when the story itself is crap that our minds drift off to analyse the writing.
Having
said that, here’s one I’d veto: Retrieving my wallet from my discarded khakis,
my eyes widened. Yeah, careful with that, because when eyes are taking wallets
from khakis they’re really going a bit too far. Next they'll snatch your credit card and go shopping for mascara and eye shadow.
Books
can teach us lessons, and the lesson I have learned from this book, is that
even if understood literally, or technically incorrect, independent body parts
can make for an entertaining, vivid read if you allow yourself to switch off
your brain, sit back and enjoy the ride an author takes you for. I’m certainly
grateful for the lesson this book and its author have taught me and look
forward to reading the next 300 or so pages of it.
And, if
you think about it, how do we perceive other people’s actions? Do we see them
reach out their hand or do we see their hand reach out?
