Yes, I’ve Tested the Spicy Bits (And Other Questions I Get Asked as a Sapphic Author)

By Ruby Scott – lesbian romance fiction author and unofficial bedroom logistics expert!

Writing sapphic romance comes with a side of questions. Some sweet, some awkward, and some are just thinly veiled curiosity about whether I’ve actually tested the scenes where someone ends up pinned against a wall, emotionally ruined and slightly out of breath.

So here it is: the things I get asked the most—answered with honesty, humour, and just enough oversharing to keep it interesting.

(Angie—my darling wife—maybe don’t read this one too closely, yeah? 🫣👀)

1. “Are your books about you?”

If I lived out even half the tension I write, I’d never get any actual writing done.

I’m not in the books, not directly. But my imagination absolutely is. The pacing, the dialogue, the way two women look at each other across a room like gravity’s real, that all comes from the very deep, very dramatic theatre in my head. I write from instinct, memory, and the occasional very well-lit mental rerun. You won’t find my diary in these pages. But you might find my fantasy…  unbuttoning things she has no intention of returning.

2."Why do you write lesbian romance?”

Because it’s what I know. And it’s what I love.

When I write about women loving women, I’m not trying to chase a trend or fill a gap, I’m writing from the centre of who I am. I understand the way a glance can hold too much. The way silence becomes a language. The way tension builds, softens, cracks open into something messy and real. That’s the world I know. And it’s the kind of love story I care about telling.

Sapphic stories deserve the spotlight. Full stop. Not hinted at. Not pushed to the background. Not ending in tragedy to teach someone else a lesson. They deserve centre stage. Full story arcs. Full intimacy. Full everything.

I write lesbian romance because it’s honest, it’s powerful, and it’s rooted in something real. There’s heat, yes, but also emotional depth, vulnerability, humour, hope, and women who take up space on the page the way they should in the world.

And let’s be honest: no one does unresolved sexual tension like a sapphic slow burn.

3. “Have you actually tested the spicy scenes?”

Look, I write lesbian romance. I’m not winging it.

The steam in my books doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the result of meticulous planning, mild obsession, and one very cooperative wife. Angie has been propped against wardrobes, bent over kitchen counters, and once,memorably wedged between two armchairs so I could test the logistics of a “surprise encounter.” She didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow and asked, “With or without the heels?”

That, my friends, is true love.
And also why my scenes make sense.

Because writing steamy scenes isn’t about being horny, it’s about being thorough. It’s stopping mid-chapter to ask, “Would her leg even go there without a joint injury?” Or yelling from the next room, “Angie, I need you to pretend your shirt’s been ripped open and you’re pinned against the fridge—for accuracy!”

It’s math. It’s physics. It’s pelvic geometry.

So when a reader messages me saying, “That scene? Unholy. I need to lie down,”
I nod, smile, and think: Same, babe. Same.

We do it for you. For the craft.
And that? That’s lesbian romance done properly.

4 “Do you base characters on real people?”

If you think you see yourself in one of my books… you probably don’t.
But if you hope it might be you?
Then maybe. A little.

I don’t build characters from whole people. I build them out of impressions. A line here. A look. The exact way someone tucked her hair behind her ear while pretending not to flirt. The confidence in a walk that only falters when she’s almost at the door. A bite of sarcasm with just a little ache underneath.

I collect moments like that. Not whole people—just fragments. Emotional fingerprints I haven’t fully washed off yet. Sometimes it’s a glance I still feel in my spine. Sometimes it’s a sentence I never got to finish.

They linger.
They settle.
And when I sit down to write, sometimes they show up again—reshaped, renamed, and walking onto the page with better timing and hotter lighting.

So if you ever read a scene and think, “Wait… is this me?”
I’ll smile, sip my tea, and say,
“Only the best bits, darling.”

5. “Do you get emotional writing your own books?”

Do I cry? Not always.
But does it get under my skin? Every single time.

You don’t spend weeks crafting a love story, building the slow burn, layering the tension, pulling two women apart and putting them back together without it leaving fingerprints. It sticks. It lingers. It rewires you a little.

Sometimes I laugh at a line. Sometimes I have to pause, breathe, and sit in the ache of a moment I didn’t see coming. And yes, sometimes the steam hits so hard I have to close the laptop, lie down, and have a quiet word with myself.

You can’t write about love and stay unaffected. At least, I can’t.

When I’m deep in it, the world blurs. I’m pacing the room, talking aloud, yelling at fictional women to just kiss already. And the really emotional stuff? It doesn’t always hit in the moment. Sometimes it’s hours later, when I reread a scene and realise I accidentally exposed something real.

It’s messy. It’s intense.
Writing love means feeling love.
And if it doesn’t hit me first, it won’t hit you either.

6. “How do you keep your sapphic stories feeling fresh?”

It stays fresh because they’re not done growing.

Even when I’m writing the same characters across a series, the emotional terrain is always shifting. They’re evolving. Sometimes together, sometimes apart, sometimes in ways that make the next kiss hit harder than the first.

I don’t force freshness. I let it happen through the reality of relationships that don’t stay static. People change. They open up. They mess up. They get closer, then push each other away for reasons they don’t understand until it’s almost too late. And that is where things get interesting.

What kept her up at night in book one might not even make her flinch in book three. But ask her to say “I love you” with her whole chest? That might wreck her.
That’s the magic of it. The tension’s still there, it just deepens.

So yes, I revisit the same women. But every time, they’re carrying more: more history, more hope, more reasons not to fall... and yet they do. Again. Harder.

Fresh isn’t about novelty. It’s about depth. It’s about walking back into a familiar room and realising the air’s changed, the lighting’s softer, and the woman standing in front of you?
She might break your heart all over again—just differently this time.

That’s what keeps it alive for me. That’s why I never get tired of writing them.

7. “How spicy is too spicy for Ruby Scott?”

Let’s just say: if it has emotional weight and excellent rhythm, I’ll probably write it.

For me, spice only crosses the line when it stops being about connection. I’m not here for mechanical logistics or scenes that feel like a gym routine with dialogue. I want the kind of intimacy that makes you feel something—messy, electric, maybe a little breathless.

Is there such a thing as too spicy?
Maybe. But it’s not about how many limbs are involved—it’s about whether the moment means something. If the scene is just there to tick a box or fill a word count, I’m bored. If it’s there because one woman is finally brave enough to touch the other exactly how she’s wanted to for two and a half books?
Yeah. That’s getting written. In detail.

I like steam with stakes. Desire with consequences.
And a little soft dominance never hurts either.

8. “Is it harder to write sexual tension… or the actual sex?”

The sex is satisfying.
But the tension? That’s what keeps me up at night.

It’s not the clothes coming off. It’s the breath held before the first touch. It’s the way her hand hovers. The way her voice catches. The way she says “don’t” and absolutely means “please, for the love of God, do.” That’s the part that takes the most out of me.

Writing sex is physical. Writing tension is emotional. It’s about restraint. About timing. About letting two women circle each other for chapters—wanting, denying, aching—and making sure the reader feels every second of it.

Sometimes nothing happens on the page… but everything shifts.

That’s the power of tension.
That’s the slow burn.
And that’s exactly what I love to write.

And if you do it right?
One kiss in Chapter Twelve can feel hotter than anything in Chapter Twenty.

9. “What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve Googled for research?”

Oh god knows. There are so many contenders.

But the one that still makes me laugh?
“Can you straddle someone on a leather sofa without making that noise?”

What started as a sexy, impulsive scene turned into a full-blown investigation into upholstery physics and whether two people can maintain dominance, desire, and dignity while making unintentional farty noises with every movement.

By the end of it, I rewrote the scene on a velvet armchair.
More forgiving. Less noise. Still hot. 

10 “What’s the difference between a good sapphic romance… and a great one?”

A good sapphic romance gives you butterflies. A great one gives you something to feel long after you’ve put the book down.

The good ones hit all the right beats. There’s charm, chemistry, a few steamy moments, maybe a bit of well-timed angst. They’re enjoyable. Comforting. Familiar in the best way.

But a great sapphic romance? That’s where it shifts.

It’s not just about whether the characters fall in love, it’s about why they almost didn’t. It’s the emotional weight behind every glance, the subtext threaded through every line of dialogue. It’s watching a woman slowly come undone because for the first time in her life, she’s being truly seen—and she’s terrified.

In a great romance, the characters don’t exist just to serve the plot. They feel real. Messy. Flawed. They make choices that hurt. They say the wrong thing at the worst time. They shut people out when they want nothing more than to be held. And because of that, the love feels earned.

It’s not just swooning and spice. It’s softness and reckoning.
It’s emotional intimacy that aches a little.
It’s the tension between “I want you” and “I don’t know how to let myself be wanted.”

A great sapphic romance makes you feel like you’ve lived something with the characters, not just watched it unfold. You root for them not because they’re perfect, but because they’re trying. Because they’re scared and doing it anyway. Because they deserve that second chance and you feel it in your chest when they finally get it.

That’s what I aim for every time.
A little heat. A little heartbreak.
And a love story that lingers.

11. “Do people treat you differently when they find out what you write?”

Oh, 100%.
There’s this moment, right after I say “I write lesbian romance” where you can see people recalibrating. Some smile politely. Some look like they’ve just learned a new fun fact about a neighbour they’re not sure how to process. And some… get very interested.

My mum straight-up told me she thinks it’s porn. Not in a judgmental way, more like she’s still waiting for me to grow out of it and write something “nice” one day.
Sorry, Mum. That ship has sailed.

Some people get awkward. Some get far too intrigued. And then there are the ones who think writing lesbian romance means I’ve got a bag full of vibrators and a notepad full of positions. (I don’t. Everything’s bookmarked, thank you very much.)

But here’s what I’ve learned:
The same people who raise their eyebrows at what I write?
They’re often the ones reading it on their Kindle with the brightness turned way down.

Some people treat it like a guilty pleasure. Others think it’s not “real writing” because it’s romantic, or sapphic, or gasp—explicit.
But then those same people? They’ll whisper, “I read one of your books… and I felt that.”
And that’s all I need.

So if that’s “porn”?
Then it’s the kind that makes you feel something.
And I’ll keep writing it, with pride, with purpose, and with a very cooperative wife who understands the importance of fridge-height accuracy.

Come for the Spice, Stay for the Heart 

Writing lesbian romance isn’t just what I do. It’s what I love. It’s connection, chaos, steam, softness, and stories that make you feel something real.
If you’ve made it this far, chances are you’re into all of that too.

So whether you’re here for the slow burns, the spicy scenes, the emotionally unavailable women who just need a hug and a good orgasm, or you’re simply curious what I’ve been putting Angie through lately…

👉 You’ll find every book at RubyScott.shop—written with heart, heat, and just the right amount of eyebrow-raising research.

Go on. Treat yourself.
Your next fictional obsession might just be waiting.

Love Ruby x