Whilst glancing through my mum’s book collection the other day I came across the ’80’s novels,’ as I tend to think of them (for no other reason as I remember them being there in my youth.) In amongst the Harold Robbins’, Jackie Collins’ and J.T. Edson’s nestled a huge collection of Mills and Boons. I actually read one once and wanted to gouge my eyes out afterwards so I wasn’t subjected to that tripe again.
So back to the present, this reminded me, with growing discomfort, of the time that a client who I did some copywriting and blogging for, asked me to produce some erotic fiction short stories for him.
I attacked the project with gusto, producing three extremely erotic stories, all situations and characters coming completely from my overactive imagination, a fact of which I proudly boasted to my client.
Of course, hindsight is a wonderful thing. Nobody shall ever again need to tell me that getting a full spec of the job in hand is imperative.
My client called me after receipt, in a state of mild shock. He apologised profusely for any embarrassment and explained kindly that he had required mild erotic fiction – otherwise known as ‘romantic fiction,’ i.e. not the hardcore porn I had presented him with.
Of course, certain words and scenes from my work flashed through my brain at a speed of noughts and I froze, absolutely crippled with embarrassment. Had I really used the word ‘c*nt’ (several times) in work I had presented to my client? What the hell had I been thinking?
At some point during the (one-sided) conversation his mild shock had been replaced by my disabling one. I didn’t hear most of the rest of the conversation as blood was rushing through my ears. However, he had obviously decided to forgive me and let me off the hook slightly as his parting words were, that whilst the work was useless for its intended audience, it would make some nice bedtime reading for him.