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True Confessions

It's that time, fessin' up, full disclosure, opening the kimono, baring my soul, or whatever other hackneyed phrase you'd like for admitting something slightly scandalous. 

I seem to be in the good company of generals and socialites, though. Besides, I'm just writing about extramarital sex, not engaging in it. Of course, maybe that's all they were doing too. One thing is certain; we can depend on the press and paparazzi to get to the bottom of their shenanigans, while we either drool vicariously or point fingers. At this juncture, no one really knows exactly what's been going on. After all, how could the tens of thousands of emails have been vetted yet?

As for me, well, Amazon knows. And a few of my friends and fellow writers. A clever reader might have noticed that if you buy a copy of Taking Flight, Amazon will suggest you buy a copy of Wink by Rusty Lane. Of course, Amazon is forever recommending books for us based on our searches, whether we want them to or not, and I suspect most of us ignore these obvious marketing ploys.

So, you ask, why the nom d'plume (that's French for pretending you're not the guy who wrote something to be embarassed about). And why confess it now? Good questions (even if I made them up myself). 

Wink, The Confession of a Serial Monogamist, was the second novel I attempted. I thought of it as an exercise in writing sex scenes—a contemporary romance, mainly from the guy's perspective, but also from the perspective of the two-faced young woman who pursues him.

My first confession is that I had way too much fun writing Wink to call it work. And it did cure me of my reticence to dive right into an explicitly described sex scene. But it also allowed me to play with a wide range of descriptions of intimate adult behavior. Some scenes are merely sexual innuendo, others are the "cut to the blazing fire" type popularized in the 1940s.


Some describe sex in couched language, others offer details, and one is so completely over-the-top it will make you laugh.

Call Wink a light, romantic comedy bordering on male fantasy. A beach read. A figurative "wink."

Back to the why now question. If you could watch me writing this, you'd see me shrug.

No reason for my timing, really. I guess it seems dishonest not to claim one of my children, because, make no mistake, novels are an author's progeny, even those he considers black sheep.

Let's just agree it's time for the prodigal son to come home.



Still, I plan to keep my fictitious name, Rusty Lane. I like the gender ambivalence. Most of all, I like what I found when I googled it: a 101-year-old burlesque star. Too funny. Check it out:

Rusty Lane

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