A dead queen, like war, pestilence, famine and all the rest, can be a bit of a nuisance to the writer of contemporary fiction, particularly contemporary erotica. There might well be another blogpost in the relatively near future about the unexpected difficulties of writing erotic fiction that’s too-firmly anchored in the present day, I suppose.
Certainly just about every author producing fiction set broadly in the real world and the present day has had a hiccup or two since the start of the covid pandemic, which all boils down to: how much do you let current events lurk in the background of your story?
Anyone working on a story set this Autumn is now going to have to concern themselves with the dead queen, aren’t they? I remember a chicklit novel published around the end of the 90s which used the last great griefwank as a plot point. I won’t name the author or the book, as I have forgotten one and bear no particular illwill towards the other, though the book was really quite annoying. A key chapter had the main characters sitting in front of the telly on the day of Princess Di(ed)’s funeral at which point it was revealed that Evil Husband Stealer was Evil because she sat there pointing and laughing at it while Virtuous Betrayed Wife had been blubbering since the news broke and was therefore rewarded with Wick-Dipping Hubby dumping EHS… I suppose an earlier draft featured them all watching the death of Bambi’s mother or something, with the same depiction of snarky impatience losing out to emotional incontinence.
Though the actual dead queen saga is degenerating into such utter mayhem that anyone seeking plot ideas is really going to be spoilt for choice. You could lock up your characters in a holiday resort, perhaps. And then there is the magnificence of The Queue to see the old parasite lying in a box on a table – the possibilities of that are almost endless: frottage, the sparking of a new relationship, humiliation kinks based around no access to a toilet…
While I appreciate he may not want to run the risk of bringing the fascist tabloids – and the Twitter-using morons who believe their propaganda – down on his head, I can’t help wondering what kind of story Chuck Tingle might make of a dead queen – and the potential for butt-pounding. At least Prince Pegging Willy might read it.