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The Shameless Hussies: read the novel online

Rumination:  I am a failed erotic novelist

My brain travels to some strange places when casting around for ideas for newspaper articles.  I’ve mined my personal experiences, and those of my friends, as well as some bizarre trends in society that catch my imagination.

            I came up with the idea of writing an erotic novel not long after I had embarked on my first ‘normal’ novel (which you can read here). I was buoyed by feelings of confidence and self-belief, along the lines of, ‘hey, this writing game is not so hard—what’s all the angst about?’  (A year later, after months of re-writing and it’s STILL NOT FINISHED, I have a somewhat more realistic view.)

            At various times, usually under the influence, my girl friends and I have concluded that such ‘formula’ books—whether erotic fiction or bodice-ripping historical romances—must be a doddle to write.  After all, we reasoned, they’re the same as each other, so you only need to concoct a variation on the template plot and some stock characters—brooding and/or flawed male hero, aspirational-but-relatable heroine, and an escapist setting (not an inner-city needle exchange, for example).  Easy, though probably very tedious, to write but very lucrative if you can churn them out.

            I know, went my thinking, I’ll submit a proposal for an erotic novel and write about the process.  I phoned a women’s section editor who said, yes, definitely interested.  Cool. 

            So I plunged (sorry) into an interesting, funny, and scary new world.

I choose Virgin’s Black Lace because it was the only series which I knew of, and therefore would have the kind of formula approach that was required.   

I read through the Black Lace Guidelines on the website and nearly lose my nerve.  It is clear that they get some VERY strange submissions, judging by the list of prohibitions:

Other major no-nos include:

            I get the message that they want attractive, well-adjusted consenting adult (humans) with glamorous lives (but not too glamorous – no actors or private eyes) who have way more sex than regular people.  I study the instructions about ‘realistic orgasms’ (not instant), and learn that ‘penis’ is preferable to ‘pulsating member’ (surely a matter of opinion).  Body parts should not be described in medical textbook detail, nor should they throb unless injured (ouch).  There is also an unexpected plea for less grossness in sex scenes (people need this instruction??), and an assurance that it is OK to leave out all descriptions of genitals.  (What about, I wonder, referring to them as ‘ha-ha’ and ‘thingie’?)  I need to avoid racial stereotypes, e.g. Italian studs in Armani suits, Arab princes, passionate Spaniards.  Yet, somehow, I am guessing the man in the anorak at the back of the bus probably contravenes the ‘downbeat mundanity’ rule.  Lesbian action is fine in a heterosexual context.  Okaaay.  The plot, I am assured, does not need to be overly complex but it should not just be ‘some people having sex’.  With all of these caveats in mind, I buy a recent volume to familiarise myself with their current style and settle down to read.

            And am, frankly, confused.

            Forget decorum, or realism, or plot, or even much in the way of characterisation.  The book should just be called, ‘Some People Having Sex,’ or more poetically, ‘Some People Shagging.’  The leading lady obviously has a serious hormonal imbalance because she can’t walk past any long, cylindrical object without hopping aboard.  She gets intimate with the delivery hose of a fuel tanker which has only marginally less personality than its driver, who she does next.  These antics only serve to inspire her for the group grope with the Hell’s Angels which follows.  There is some shock value to this, but mostly it is…boring.

            Well, I thought, if they publish this rubbish then I’m sure to get through.

             The first thing I need is a pen name:  Fiona Carrollwood, after my best friend and the subdivision where I grew up.  Sounds a bit posh, which is my goal. 

            The first rule of fiction is to write what you know, so I decide to set my book in Oxford University (beautiful, exclusive, if on the musty side) and a Red Sea Diving resort (sans Arab princes).  My main character will be an American academic on sabbatical at the university, who decides to go on a college diving trip after a particularly unsatisfactory/embarassing number of encounters with the local talent.   While on the diving trip, there will be oodles of different characters for her to meet and shag.  And just to make my manuscript stand out from the pile of those dealing with incestuous beastiality and gushing bodily fluids, I add a sub-plot about a terrorist plan to disrupt an Arab-Isreali peace summit at the resort.  (This actually happened on my visit to Sharm-el-Sheik.)

            The writing is easy and fun…worryingly so.  There is a wonderful sense of freedom to write such intimate things under a different name, like putting on a disguise and wandering through places I would never normally go.  I have banished my inner censor, the one who always wants to know, ‘what would your mother think?’  Unlike with my serious writing, I feel liberated from rules of taste and decency.  It’s very refreshing. 

            I feel dirty, in a very pleasant way.        

            I set the scene in the Oxford college where my main character is based, and engineer some really awkward and disappointing carnal situations with a grad student and a foreign colleague who turns out to be a little too married.  Just the kind of thing to make one hanker for a change of scene.

            My partner, when he brings me a cup of tea, averts his eyes from my laptop screen.  He is a delicate flower, all 6’4” of him.

            My sample text ends when my main character arrives in Egypt and the Customs inspectors find an enormous battery-powered toy which a girl friend had secreted in her luggage.  Already, although I have only written 50 pages, I am running out of different words to use, without resorting to ‘ha-ha’ and ‘thingie’.  It’s getting a bit repetitive, and I wonder how I’ll sustain the interest for a whole book.  I check over my sample text one last time to make sure that it conforms to the Black Lace house style and send it off, with more interest and excitement than I had expected.

            Which is why, some weeks later, the rejection letter comes as such a surprise.  The Editor feels that my characters are not interesting enough, nor is their dialogue engaging, nor is the story realistic (cue bitter reference to the fuel hose incident).  On a positive note, my sex scenes are ‘good’.  Well. That’s something for my CV, I guess.

            So now Pearl Diver sits in the cupboard where I keep my other still-born projects.  It was, as they say, an experience, but sadly not one that will generate a newspaper article or a book contract.  Maybe I’ll try historical romance next.  How hard can it be? (Sorry, sorry.)

 Vanessa

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