If you read Rough Draft Confessions, you’ll know that the original title for Consequences was Methadone (long story which I will never, ever share) (well maybe) (one day), which was a terrible title, and then my second title was Defensive Adultery, which my editor told me was a terrible title for a romance (“It’s not a romance,” cried I. “It’s an erotic tragedy. With, um, a happy ending. Hey. Can that be it’s tagline?” and it was he he suggested we call it Consequences, and I suppose if I took the trad pub offers, it would have been published as Consequences, but instead, I got to call it what I want, and I called it Consequences (of Defensive Adultery).
Which is probably why it’s my worst selling book, because romance readers do not like adultery.
Of course, Consequences is not a romance.
It’s just my best book.
And you should hear the audiobook. Elisa Kae’s voice is so good to fuck to.
I might have overshared…
I have to go now.
By the way: on its own? Consequences is a terrible title. Do you know how many books called Consequences are out there? Millions. Well, tens of thousands anyway. There is only one Consequences (of Defensive Adultery).
(The brackets were my sneaky way of downplaying the adultery. Because I’m … naive. Sigh.)
(Worst post ever.)
(My blog needs an editor.)
(Help. I can’t stop writing…)
Reader: What the hell is the book about?
Jane: Right. Hold on. Let me tell you…
—This? Nothing. A photograph.
He looks at the photograph, and demands a story I don’t want to tell.
Isn’t this what all women want? A lover who’s passionately interested in the quotidian details of their excruciatingly boring, dysfunctional lives—as well as skilled with hands, and tongue, and cock?
No. Not me. Or do I? I start to talk. I tell him about… about all of them. And, inadvertently, me. Things I’ve never put into words for anyone before…
That’s the game you and I are playing. Do you not know that? I am looking for the key. And you’re trying not to give it to me. But you want to play, and so you keep on talking, and so eventually, you will.
I’m very careful not to say too much. I sure as hell am not going to take my somewhat sociopathic lover of the moment into the tragedy of my life.
Why not? Tragedy is erotic. The things that make you laugh don’t make you hard. Or wet, lover, as the case may be. Check yourself.
Fuck. Really? I’m doing this? Why?
Because you want to. Because you’re compelled. Does it matter? Just talk.
So. I do.