When I was in high school, I had a small group of girlfriends. We used to live on a diet on what were called ‘bonkbusters’ – an 80s feast of sex, shopping, and romance from novelists like Judith Krantz, Shirley Conran, and Jackie Collins.
One day, egged on by my friends, I started to write my own – a soap-like saga bashed out on my sister’s portable typewriter with recycled computer paper my dad brought home from work.
This smutty opus was called ‘Bedrooms’ – because the trend then was to have a single title like ‘Lace’ or ‘Scruples.’ Soon the pages were piling up and chapters were being passed around in class from one greedy hand to another.
My friends, who were all the inspirations for my glamorous characters, would give me editorial notes. ‘Make me bitchier, richer,’ they’d say, ‘give me a hot boyfriend, a bigger penthouse.’ And because these were high school girls, the most consistent request was, ‘More sex!’
I’d go home, haul out my sister’s typewriter, and comply with their outrageous demands. I never had to worry about what to write next – they were telling me. It was a bit like a patchwork quilt. I kept adding and adding and I never finished the book.
But writing that book was a great lesson to me – perhaps one that I’ve forgotten. You have to write to an audience – genre if you like – and you have to write to entertain. We’re storytellers. We have to keep them turning the pages. It’s our only job.
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