“The Washingtonienne” is proof positive that the book industry, when it sniffs the rich aroma of profit, can fling aside its 18th-century ways and boogie with the big boys. Ordinarily it is the dumbest business on the planet, taking nine months to a year — or more — to shepherd a manuscript through editing and production, a process that involves endless expense-account lunches at which absolutely nothing is accomplished, sales conferences (sometimes in exotic locales) at which editors’ immense egos are stroked and/or destroyed, and the demolition of whole forests to print news releases that nobody reads.