So, you may have noticed in my last blog I was pretty grumpy about having the wrong genre connected to my novel. But, after contacting the omnipotent Google herself and writing the correct genre in as many places as I could think of, it's fixed! I am stunned. My prayers have been answered.
But why, you may well ask, am I making such a fuss? E r o t i c fiction (I'm writing it like that in case I connect the book to that genre again) is meant to be the hottest thing in fiction. Surely I should be pleased that this might boost my sales? Well, if Bone Rites was the next Dulux shade of grey I would be laughing all the way to the bank. (100 million copies sold, and counting). But Bone Rites isn't that kind of book and if anyone bought it thinking that they were in for a bodice ripping delight they would be so disappointed.
Sure, this story has love and passion, but that's not the same thing at all. I make no mention of body parts sliding into other body parts. I say nothing about panting or panties for that matter. There are syringes, knives, scalpels, bone saws, blood–lots of that–and a truck load of bones. But no explicit S-E-X. There IS almost an orgy, but like old Bollywood films there's just a rustle of sheets off-screen. E r o t i c fiction just ain't my style. If I tried to force myself to write that way I'd be up for the Literary Review's Bad S-E-X in Fiction Award where they draw "attention to the poorly written, redundant, or downright cringeworthy passages of sexual description in modern fiction." And that's not an award any writer wants to win.
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