There is something paradoxical in the relations between a novelist and his lovers. As a writer he knows their story must end and wants it to end. So, too, as readers we know the novel must end and want it to end. "But not yet!" say the readers to the writer. "But not yet!" says the writer to his
hero and heroine. "But not yet!" says the beloved to the lover. And so the reach of desire continues.
- Eros the Bittersweet, Anne Carson
At first I was all "I don't care how they got here, we just aiming for sexy times" and now I'm like "I could imagine a lot of interesting backstory here actually. For another story. PLEASE STOP INTRUDING ON MY THINLY VEILED SMUT SETUP STUPID PLOT AND FEELS." And then I keep writing because I am my story's bitch and it does what it wants. No one ever just fucks when I want them to.
- Endnotes from ao3 fic "Blowing Eighty Miles an Hour"