I just read some guy's blog about how his kid manipulated him into staying home from school. He was clever...the writer, not the kid. He used to word "wiener" in the subject so people would read it. Catchy, not dirty, but little boy dirty and certainly aimed at getting attention.

Titles.

Oh, yes. Titles.

Certain words can catch the eye, incite interest.

Sexy or nearly sexy words.

Double entendres.

Something to do with sex, like a bed, or a leg or dream or pillows or hearts or kisses or lack of clothing. Or a wiener.

Now, this guy wrote one book and was working on the second. It is literary, I assume, since he is a guy and everybody knows that guys write literary fiction while women, well, we women write trash. Genre fiction. Itty bitty little stories that sell by the thousands and support the literary fiction guys who sell about 400 books to their relatives and walk about smoking pipes, giving readings at bookstores all over the world and enjoy plump advances of the money our little genre books have made for the publishers.

I'm angry.

This guy didn't have any more to what he wrote in his blog than any ten women I know. But, because of his wiener, he is viewed with respect, nay, even AWE, while I'm relegated to the stack of romance writers with gaudy covers in gaudy colors so we'll attract attention on the shelves.

This guy...I truly, truly bet he doesn't earn out his advance.

I earned out mine.

However, we aren't talking about the $50K he probably got in advance for his one paltry effort. It's harder to earn out that kind of advance, but a heck of a lot easier to earn out a few thousand bucks. Even at twenty four cents per book.

You have to sell thousands of books, though. He won't. I bet. I bet a million dollars.

Okay, okay. I make no pretense of writing a literary book. I won't write about anybody's wiener to attract attention. I'll tell a story with a good ending where everybody ends up satisfied and there will be some love scenes from the woman's POV and they won't be graphic at all.

Not literary.

I could probably have a drunk in a literary fiction book. He wouldn't have to be cleaned up to sell in Wal-mart, either. He could be drunk, and he could have a reputation for screwing nameless women before he finds one he can care about. He could drink, he could rant and swear and kick puppies in the name of literary fiction. He could be the worst psychopath in existence in literary fiction and take delight in harming women and small children. That way he'd be tortured. Tortured? He SHOULD be tortured, but no, he's just a complex character in a man's work of literary fiction.

I make no pretense of being a great writer. What I like to think is that I'm a good storyteller. Perhaps good storytellers don't deserve to make lots of money and travel the world reading passages from their books. Maybe we're doomed to sit in front of our computers and write on blogs how unfair we think it is that our books could be just as insightful as some guy's, but because we do not have wieners, we don't get paid big bucks and we have to put out and put out and put out to make any sort of money.

No wonder women write under pseudonyms. I can't spell that word I'm so illiterate and wienerless. Grrrrr.