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First I should say this photo is only slightly relevant to my blog. I am not writing about bunnies stuffed into my maternity bra. I am writing today about "purple prose" and how much I love it.

Purple prose? What's that you say and what does it have to do with bunnies stuffed into the largest bra I've ever owned? One my husband can wear on his head quite comfortably? He's a big guy. This is a serious bra. Room for the bunnies for sure.

Purple prose is eloquently described by wiki, but I would hate to see you leave my blog so I'll quote here:

Purple prose is a term of literary criticism used to describe passages, or sometimes entire literary works, written in prose so extravagant, ornate, or flowery as to break the flow and draw attention to itself. Purple prose is sensually evocative beyond the requirements of its context. It also refers to writing that employs certain rhetorical effects such as exaggerated sentiment or pathos in an attempt to manipulate a reader's response.

I love purple prose. Like bunnies stuffed into my bra, it makes me laugh. I was editing the other day and came across a gem or two I excised from The Coach House which I thought I might share. You see, as much as I love to write erotica and romance, I love to write comedy. I think of myself more as a humorist who gets some now and then {smiley face}. In particular I like to write purple prose in a Dark and Stormy Night kind of way. I keep the really bad ones for use in my "Mimi" book as I call it (coming soon to an agent near me, if I find one).

His manly hands, roughened by centuries of toil and exercise impatiently sought her womanly passage which was already growing wet with pleasure long-antcipated. Panting like a wolf on a cold October night after howling at a full moon although he was a vampire and not a werewolf, Daniil tore open his blue Oxford silk shirt and deftly, without thought, unbuckled his belt, flinging himself on her desperate to feel her desire beginning to meet his in a greeting of mutual attraction and delight. He was nearly breathless in his desire for her curvaceous torso ending in long legs not unlike the legs one sees on a very beautiful Greek statue, but not so white as his because he was a vampire and she, a delicious mortal human woman, as warm as they come. Moving her gently rounded hips provocatively, Carys whispered almost timidly like Beatrix Potter's Mrs Tittlemouse, “Kiss me, Daniel. Kiss me my love.” His full and sensuous lips swiftly answered her softly spoken request, and to her delight his velvet and probing tongue was firm and assured, although a tad cold due to his lack of circulation, but that in itself had a relief for her lust-heated body. Daniil kissed her deeply, ardently, as though he might swallow her if he were so inclined. She allowed his tongue to carry her into a purely sensual world of pleasures hitherto inexperienced, as the kisses of her fiance Steve repulsed her in their dead-fishlike quality.

Obviously I didn't keep it in the final version of The Coach House. But every once and a while I get bored trying to think of new ways to say he grabbed her lady parts and smooched her. I always complain that finding words for pussy just gets to be too much for me. I guess that's why I also took to writing Neurotica randomly. My next posting, p'haps. Purple prose is what the erotica/romance writer does when they really just want to say: they got it on.
 

--Sophie.