Hiya bookies!
For those of you who think today’s blog title isn’t possible, au contraire. At least, in the world of ‘literary’ novels. (Allow me to digress a moment. What, exactly, is a ‘literary’ novel? One that nobody wants to read? One that nobody can read? I’ve always been fascinated by this term, since I strongly doubt that I have ever knowingly read such a book. Just the nomenclature sounds boring.)
Ahem. Sorry. Back to the bad sex. You see, it appears there is so much bad sex running rampant through literary fiction that an award system has been put in place to keep track of it all. Yikes! It sounds epidemic, doesn’t it? Is all sex in literary novels bad? Is that a requirement of the genre?
I don’t know and, frankly, I doubt that I would care if it didn’t make for such delicious blog fare. However, since the list of candidates for this epic distinction was just announced I would be remiss if I didn’t make sure that my loyal bookies knew about it. To avoid it, if for no other reason.