Writing this as my next book might suit me to a tea. Not that I’m copy-catting or stealing an idea. I like to think of it as capturing the zeitgeist.
The 50 Shades revolution has made me think hard about changing genre. I may yet write a book called 50 Shades in which I focus on light covers, particularly those of table lamps. The sequel, 50 More Shades, would feature the overhead light variety. However, I thought it would take an extraordinary amount of persistence, sheer cussedness and caffeine to be able to make lampshades thrilling for 50,000 words.
My next quasi-brilliant idea was 50 Shades of Black, a tome about depression. Difficult to research though, as many of my subjects would be disinclined to speak to anybody at all, even themselves, let alone a stranger blatantly band wagoning. An unfortunate, but fatal, flaw. Also, once I had written it, mood destroyed, I would be ready to jump off the nearest bridge as would anyone who had had the misfortune to read it. Thus my tome would become gradually extinct as more and more people suffered from terminal mood crashes having read it. However well-known I became there could be no sequel as I had already hopped off aforesaid bridge. Dead famous. Not my intended career option.
The upside would be that more comedians would be required to try and offset the disastrous effects of my social commentary, which would help with the unemployment figures.
My other option was to stick more closely to the content and less to the title. As they say, sex pays, which I believe doesn’t only apply to the oldest profession in the world (yes, you’ve got it. Writing. Morals similar: giving pleasure as required to complete strangers, for money).
I would need a pseudonym so no-one could link me with my frisky frolickers. Being recognised as having spawned them would be inordinately embarrassing. Imagine standing at the checkout at your local supermarket and somebody saying. “Oh, I recognise you from the cover of Steamyreads Monthly. I love that scene where Lolita Amazinbod and Adonis Hunkofmeat frolic off towards those crashing waves …”
My son decided that I should be called Carmen Loveme. I thought Carmen Grabme had a more open, physical approach but he felt that the first was much more subtle. To the same degree as a blunderbuss.
The sublime beauty of the Carmen name is that it could be applied to any type of the genre, clearly giving an indication of what the book is about. Carmen Shoveastakethroughmyheart is clearly another vampire lookalike. The one by Carmen Findoutyou’reawizardonyour11th birthday should be a bestseller. I’m shortly going to write a culinary range of books by Carmen Cookwithme. Very shortly; about 20 pages each.
You’d be wrong if you thought that Carmen Playwithme was back to the frisky frolics. This will be a book aimed at the under fives, concentrating on 48 ways to decorate a snail, with advice on how to look after stick insects. The one following the adventures of a rock band will be written by Carmen Playwithmeohyeahbaby.
Branching out into other names could be descriptive of genre too. Venus Flowingheart would be a romance writer, unless spelled Venous Flowingheart, in which case we’re back to the vampire novels; the rather more lurid versions being Arterial Flowingheart.
My husband points out that if I morph to Carmen Shopwithme, he’s leaving. If only life was always so simple.