Smut Novels.

Recently, I found what my life's true calling should be. I should become a Harlequin writer, better known as a smut novelist.

Don't be shocked. It's a long story, so let me explain.

A close friend of mine and I went to the public library the other day. I was there with all intentions of perusing my usual section of fiction and non-fiction. But, I saw my friend--who usually doesn't read books--focusing all her attention on two rows of small paperbacks. I wanted to know what had piqued her interest, so I walked toward her.

As I got closer, I had to shield my eyes from all the hot pink book bindings. But somehow I managed to focus and read the book titles.

Sold to the Sheik. Rescued by the Sheik. The Businessman's Bounty Wife. The Italian Count's Defiant Bride. The Sicilian Boss's Mistress.

I wanted to run back to West, Matthew and Wharton, Edith and cower, right then and there. Either that, or roll on the floor laughing at all the terrible titles and--what I was positive would be--badly-written plots.

My friend glared at me, knowing that I was preparing to aim some uppity English major judgment on her for reading Harlequin. But, I instead held my tongue--to my own chagrin--pulled down a "novel" to read the first few paragraphs:

Four years of college and two more of graduate school had gotten Julia Wright where she was today - wearing a too-tight Bo Peep costume and staring down the mayor's belligerent adolescent son.

"Unhand the goldfish, Billy, and no one gets hurt."

He stood at the edge of the artificially made pond and stared at her defiantly. "It's a koi, not a goldfish." His words bounced off the frantically wiggling fish poised right above his mouth.

Julia wanted to drop-kick him over the nearest rooftop. "Unhand the koi." Her voice was pure Cameron Diaz in kick-butt mode. "Put it back in the water. Now!"

Billy muttered something under his breath with the rampant disgust only a twelve-year-old boy could display. But he did toss the fish back into the pond that formed the centerpiece of the public library's grounds.

("Good Girls Do" by Cathie Linz)

It's not a Pulitzer Prize-winning piece of work, especially that dated line about Cameron Diaz. But I was surprised at how much of an attention-grabber it really was. I was expecting something more along the lines of "Fabio and Renee stared into each other's eyes longingly," etc. etc. But a little boy almost eating a koi? Interesting. Very interesting.

I decided that, if I am going to make fun of this "chick lit" genre of literature, I had better have read one of the works first.

So I checked out this book by Linz, while my friend picked up Hot Pursuit and The Billionaire's Contract Bride.

Checking out the book was one thing, but getting it home was another entirely. As an English major, I feel that I have a reputation to uphold: I should read Brothers Karamazov or Light in August for kicks, not this type of a book. So I did my best to maintain that rep: hiding the novel under the couch, picking up On the Road whenever my mom came through the living room, reading the book in my bedroom after the rest of the family had gone to sleep. Oh, the lengths I went to to read that book.

And was I riveted by Good Girls Do? Did Linz floor me with her eloquent language?

Not quite. Halfway through the first chapter, I started thinking of all the writing faux pas that Schaap had taught me in Fiction Writing. "Show, don't tell," is one. Linz had a tendency to say, "Angel was carefree and hippie-like" but didn't really show the reader that she was. Linz would also go on moralizing tangents that made me want to skim the book. Besides that, there was the stereotypical "bad" boy decked out in his leather jacket and tight t-shirt riding along with his Harley that Julia falls for. Does he get reformed in the end? Hmm, that's a tough one. Take a good guess.

Another thing that Schaap taught in Fiction Writing is that love scenes are rather difficult to convey realistically and should be avoided at all costs. These scenes are either overly romanticized, extremely awkward-sounding, or just plain funny. And it is. Really, how could anyone aptly describe something like that?

What astounded me most is that Linz is a USA Today-bestselling writer. Not that USA Today is the mark that all would-be writers aspire to. But at least Linz's work is getting published and is read by millions of romance-craving women (and men!) around the world. It's a feat that today's batch of more "literary" novelists have yet to achieve.

Reading Good Girls Do taught me one thing: if I want to write like a fifth grader and make a fortune, then chick lit and Harlequin romance is the way to go. I could be a best-selling author in hardly anytime flat if I signed a romance novelist contract. I'd have to sacrifice (most of) my writing skills and potentially shame my family, but it would bring in lots of glamour and plenty of easy (pun intended) money.

I was thinking that I should continue with the whole "Sheik" notion. Maybe I should write a smut novel called Shackin' Up with the Sheik or Shakin' It with the Sheik. Seems like a popular and potentially best-selling topic. What do you think?