Yeah, sure, probably another reason I’m not on the “LIST” (said with a snarky, envious, mocking tone) (besides being a non-cussing hack) (and ignorant of the proper uses of parentheses), is that I won’t do explicit or erotic sex…er…in books. And let’s face it. In order to break new ground in this arena, my hero would have to fall for a chicken. Not natural. And, as our reader(s) know(s), I don’t use offensive verbiage (unless my hero is seriously threatened, and then only sparingly–see the DDH bomb in my last post).
Plus, if I stick to the old adage “write what you know” my love scenes would have to include sweat socks.
Whatever happened to the good old days of escapism? Now all anyone seems to care about in their literature is realism. Bah. I get plenty of realism, just driving down the road. (People really don’t seem to enjoy being cut off by a harried, menopausal mini-van driver and are very ‘real’ about expressing themselves).
Wendy and I are always blathering about how we wish the entertainment world was still Frank Capra-land. Mayberry. Mitford. And not constantly dripping with blood and demons and other such “realism”. Excuse my French, but Fooie on realism. I long for Lucy and Ethel. For humor that’s not centered on the crotch for once. For good guys who are not named Lucifer. For a world where being a hero includes being there, staying there and taking the trash out to the can and not taking out trash, buying it a drink and having sex with it.
So. To review. Not on NYT Best-seller list because: Won’t swear. No explicit (or poultry inclusive) love scenes. Find taking out the garbage erotic. (And, of course, don’t understand proper parenthetical usage).