My Life as a Supermodel (Part 2)

The Berserkers Field, Iceland.  Photograph by Author.

The Berserkers Field, Iceland. Photograph by Author.

After a bit of a hiatus, due to blown rotator cuffs and broken hands, I’m ready again to face the question of how an average-looking male can reasonably be expected to write the thoughts of a twenty-something supermodel during a same-sex encounter.   If you’ll recall, we were in the Berserker’s Field in Iceland, with Justine Am and Vienna.  We were trying for a subtle love scene.  So what, exactly, would supermodel Justine Am be thinking out there on the tundra?   Coming up with an answer seemed more unlikely than the Cubs winning the World Series.  What was I supposed to write?

The easy answer, which is:  “Just wing it” is not without merit.  After all, what are the chances of being caught?  How many people can actually claim to be supermodels?  How would anyone know if I even did any sort of research?

Of course, another possible (if not exactly plausible) answer was to spend the afternoon looking at pictures of supermodels doing a Victoria’s Secret show and hope for inspiration.

Unfortunately, the need for some sort of cogent hook for this scene finally drove me to the Internet in search of whatever it is supermodels think about when they’re out in the wilds of Iceland with an introverted, depressed, and likely autistic, young lady.

My hard-won advice is to never try these search parameters.  Never.  It’s a really stupid way to waste time.

The correct answer serves as my answer to every question along the lines of “What makes you think you can write such-and-such characters?”  The answer is to shut off the computer.  Shut off the cell.  Shut off the background music.  Shut off the TV.  Close your eyes and think about what it means to be human.  And then assume that supermodels are human too.  Risky, I know, but there is a certain twisted logic to it.  Think about love and what that means.  Think about a place with no honking horns and no deadlines, and what that means.  Think about being alone with another person who wants to be with you, and what that means.

Think about an hour in paradise.  And then turn the word processor back on and write about that.  My guess is, everyone (from supermodels to old writers) can understand that point of view.

“Why aren’t we making love,” Vienna asked.  “We are,” Justine said.

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