'Frisson of Passion?' or 'Ever Been Slaughtered?'
by Trisha Fitzgerald

When first asked to write an essay on my favourite book and how it influenced me, I was seriously tempted to feign 'pseudo- intellect' by saying 'The Catcher in The Rye', or 'Fear of Flying', but it just wouldn't have been the truth. The answer is easy. Without a doubt 'Frisson of Passion' by Breathe N. Heavy . . .

OK, that's a blatant fib, too. You're absolutely right. Breathe N. Heavy is not an author and a novel called 'Frisson of Passion' does not, to my knowledge, exist. Somewhere, however, lying redundant in the far reaches of a nameless literary merchant's warehouse is a book which might have earned this title. It is a work of pure unmitigated garbage, gushing with clichés, empty phrases, inexcusable clangers and nauseating dialogue. Truly abominable. No, really, believe me, it is vile, perfectly vile - yet it has changed my whole life and led me to a door behind which I have found good friends, excitement and, very often, ridiculous happiness. The world of e-books and e-publishing.

Let me explain. Many years ago, I suddenly discovered myself living in a far off land surrounded by natives speaking a foreign language. It was long before the days of Internet shopping and sorely grieving for my local bookstore, I began collecting any novel in English which happened to cross my path, not really giving much thought to content or genre. I pounced upon flea market finds, grovelled for fellow expatriates' cast-offs and pinched visiting relatives' holiday paperbacks. This precious bounty was squirreled away on a bottom shelf and, with the revolutionary birth of online retailing, quickly forgotten.

Then, one rainy day, I was caught on the hop for something to read and remembering my cache, I rummaged around, finally pulling out a copy of - yes, you've guessed - 'Frisson of Passion', or rather, the novel which might have had this title, but didn't. I made myself a cup of cocoa, burrowed a nest in the corner of the sofa and settled down to a good Sunday afternoon read.

The first frisson hit me on page two.

It escalated inexorably from there on. Our heroine fell from one frisson to the next; one might say multiple frissons. Frissons of joy, frissons of exhiliration, of excitement, of apprehension, and so on. If the context really had called for all these rampant frissons, then they might have been easier to digest, but succumbing to a shuddering frisson of animal lust just because Miles had passed Mary on his scooter made my mind boggle. I had to share it with someone and placed a long distance call to my sister in England.

'Kathy, you won't believe what I'm reading. The most putrid rubbish. It's making my toenails curl backwards . . . !' I proceeded to tell her about the hero, Miles (that was his name, no joke), and his raging virility.

'Listen to this dialogue - it's a bed scene,' I scoffed superciliously, ready to quote.

'Oh goody,' Kathy replied eagerly. 'Let me pull up a chair.'

'Don't bother, it's all over pretty quickly.'

'Ah, I see .. . well go on, anyway.'

I began to quote, distorting my voice for effect. '"Oh God, Mary . . . Oh God", "Oh God, Miles!" "Oh Mary, oh, oh . . .", "Oh God Miles . . . Miles . . . more Miles . . . more! Oh God, Miles . . . more!"'
Silence. 'That's it?' Kathy asked after a moment.

'The full Monty.'

'And what did you say the book was called?'

'Frisson of Passion.'

'I can't understand why she didn't call it "Miles and More".'

Our shrieks of laughter could be heard echoing down the line (across the miles, so to speak).

We spent the next few days exchanging calls. As the plot thickened, my telephone bill grew. Each unforgivable literary faux pas was torn apart and scathingly belittled, our squeals and squirms of disgust grew increasingly unrestrained, and when the final page was turned the disappointment was great.

'You'll just have to send me that book,' Kathy begged. 'It's truly the most ghastly thing in print.'

I carefully packed and posted it, wondering if ever a bestseller had been so fervently coveted. Then another thought came to mind, a naive deliberation born of inexperience. I could surely write better, and if not better, then at least as equally appalling. This writer had been published, after all.

And that's what I did, slowly at first, but later with increasing enthusiasm, only to discover that creating a story and putting it on paper was not the piece of cake I'd so vaingloriously believed it to be. Breathe N. Heavy, or the author who might have had this name, but didn't, suddenly soared in my estimation. It was hard work, full of unforeseen pitfalls and moments of desperation.

When my first novel was finally finished, I began wondering what to do with the manuscript and, by chance, discovered e-publishing. 'No!' my friends warned. 'Go for print!' Unsure, I started to research my options in depth, ticking off the pros and cons. E-publishing was a clear winner. This is where my voice will be heard, I thought determinedly. Here I can chat with my peers, seek advice, develop my skills and learn the trade. Six months later my novel was accepted by the managing editor of a British royalty-paying e-publisher and went up for sale the same year. I couldn't have been more proud had it been in the bestseller display window of an up-market bookstore.

Thank you, 'Frisson of Passion'. And to every author who has ever suffered derisive condemnation from condescending critics or readers, you have earned my deepest respect for what you do. Breathe N. Heavy, I take my hat off.

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