Naked Came the Culture

A friend and I were having a talk today about the need to enjoy and be knowledgeable about a literary genre you're working in if you care about ancillary, secondary things like being successful. Like f'rinstance, I've got a romance novel written during National Novel Writing Month, and it observes the romance novel genre rules and I think has a bit of potential, but it's not exactly a confession to say that at this point I've written one more romance novel than I've actually read.

I have an annoying habit of being able to think of exceptions to almost any rule, so I mentioned to my friend a literary sensation from 1969 titled Naked Came the Stranger. A newspaper columnist looked at the current bestselling novels and decided that things had come to a pretty pass, and to prove it he collaborated with a couple of dozen other newspaper types to produce a deliberately awful novel with lots of sex in it. The plot, if plot it be, involves a woman who revenges herself for her husband's infidelity by becoming even more of an infidel than he is. The writers gave themselves a collective name—"Penelope Ashe," which I think is like the Best. Pseudonym. Ever.—and of course the book became a huge hit.

My own romance book has some sizzling sex scenes itself, as sizzling as a nerdy guy's imagination can provide. Plus it's about pirates and whores! Oodles of fun for the whole family. I've been mulling my own pseudonym—"Lacey Lustgarten" seems to have possiblities—but I haven't settled on that. It's pretty important to get it right. As far as being trashy enough to succeed, I do have some fears. These days, 1969 looks like Boston in 1669—my evidence? The prosecution has one exhibit, your honor. There's no doubt, we live in a golden age of skank, but hey, bloom where you're planted, right?