Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

Today’s (uhhh, actually, yesterday’s) Romancing the Blog entry was about author blogs influencing book-buying decisions. With me, it really boils down to this: If I refrained from reading books written by assholes or people whose opinions differ in any way from mine, I’d run out of books pretty damn quick; I think my list of authors would probably be pared down to, like, Eric Schlosser and Jennifer Crusie. Aside from that, I also find it fascinating to read books by people whose views are radically different from mine. A couple of years ago I tried reading Mein Kampf, for example, but I had to quit at page 150 because it was seriously sending me to sleep. I never knew anti-semitic vitriol could be so boring.

Blogs have introduced a lot of authors to me; recently I saw a PBW book written under the Lynn Viehl pseudonym (If Angels Burn) and I picked it up because I recognized the name through her blog. I certainly don’t agree with some of her opinions, but the premise of the book sounded interesting, and hey, if I gave Hitler a chance, I had to extend the same courtesy to PBW, no? (Note: in case it wasn’t obvious, that last remark was strictly in jest, and I’m inserting this clunky disclaimer only because I am completely opposed to using smilies in my blog posts.) The book flunked the 15-page in-store preview, though, and it’s the only reason I didn’t buy it. The other day I saw an Alison Kent book, and while I agree with her views (as presented on her blog, anyway) more than PBW’s and Alison’s on-line persona is much less abrasive, the same thing happened: 15-page preview didn’t grab me, so no go. Monica Jackson’s In My Dreams, on the other hand, passed the 15-page test. And now that I’ve finished the latest Emma Holly I checked out from the library, I’m going to start reading this one, Monica, so the review should be up soon. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

(Funnily enough, I found out about Monica not through her blog, but through LLB’s blog. Anyone else think that if these two meet that there will be a catastrophic explosion such as what happens when matter and anti-matter collide and spontaneously annihilate each other?)

Similarly, I’m interested in checking out other authors’ books whose blogs I read should I see them in the stores. If I see a Holly Lisle book I’ll give it a fair trial, even though I categorically disagree with her stance on abortion. I’ll give Kate Rothwell’s books a try too, ditto Lydia Joyce. Monica Jackson brought up Brenda Coulter in her blog entry about this issue, and though I definitely disagree with Coulter on some things, I’ll check out her books if I see them since I’m still determined to give Inspirationals a fair shot, though God knows when I’ll get around to that because Emma Holly is seriously starting to fuck up my TBR stacks.

That 15-page in-store trial, man. It’s really the final arbiter of what I buy, unless the book’s by an autobuy author. The blog thing? The authors’ entries may make for good rant fodder for this site, but I honestly don’t think it affects my purchasing habits other than the exposure to a huge variety of new-to-me authors.

I am Countess Kicksherownass this morning, since I thought I was all smooth grabbing an older short story from a major author. GAH. But - Congrats and big ups to Rani who is now known as

Baroness Pressèdhamm

Wear your title well, and make sure to use it when making dinner reservations. You get a better table that way. 

It’s Friday, y’all. So rustle up some creative thinkin’ and have yourself a go at this week’s Guess that Lonely Heart:

Murderous best-selling author seeks boot-scootin’ hero to rescue her from forced friendship and bonding with cattle-rustling plastic women. Tumbles in the hayloft invited, but hero must be willing to accept heroine who at all times insists on speaking for herself. 

Christine Sanders is an American heiress who inherits a considerable shipping fortune when her father dies. Her heinous uncle and legal guardian (Romance Novel Commandment Number 19: Thou Shalt Not Allow an Orphan Heroine to Have a Decent Guardian, Unless Thou Art Setting Up The Scene for a Guardian-Ward Romance) rushes her into marriage with Justin Delerue, Earl Smithton. Unfortunately, Christine hears some extremely unkind remarks bandied about by Justin and his best friend on the night before the wedding. You see, short of scoliosis and a lazy eye, Christine is inflicted with just about everything a young woman of her time dreads: she is six feet tall, obese and pimply. As a consequence, she feels socially awkward; in fact, she overhears this conversation as she hides in the balcony over the library, her nose in a book, hiding in the dust and looking out the window.

Caught between a less-than-stellar guardian and a fiancé who seems intent on marrying her, dumping her in Devon and then forgetting all about her, she decides the only way to freedom is to drug Justin on his wedding night. That way, she can run away and hope that Justin annuls the marriage once he realizes he’s been abandoned. Unfortunately, Justin’s trouser monster remains fully functional even after he’s been drugged, and the wedding night boinking commences. So much for an annulment. (Romance Novel Commandment Number 30: Thou Shalt Not Avoid Boinking, Even While Under The Influence of Narcotics)

Once he passes out for reals, Christine gets to haul her (rather substantial) ass to her godfather, Julius Davies, a former pirate who likes the lads. (And let Sarah just interject here: the meeting with Julius made me laugh out loud. For I ask you, if you were to meet a pirate, what would you expect him to say?)

While hiding out with him, she comes up with an idea: she can masquerade as a pirate and steal her fortune back by raiding Justin’s ships. Julius is skeptical, but Christine’s Staunch Determination persuades him, so he puts her through some rigorous training to effect her transformation from Christine Sanders into the pirate Christopher Daniels. Some of this training involves putting gourds in her pants, woot! Gourds in her pants to pee out of, too. Because the GoodVibes Softpack didn’t exist yet, sadly.

Oh, and besides turning her into a convincing man, they also take the extra precaution of hiring only gay pirates as their crew. Yes, you read right. A ship literally filled with asspirates. Except for the gunner and his companion, Sally, who is a goose. Yikes. But what’s a little bestiality between pirates, especially with a well-dressed goose who understands spoken English. And spoken pirate English.

After Christine/Christopher gets her swishbuckling crew together, the raiding commences and everything goes swimmingly, until Christine encounters the ship carrying his lordship. She uses the opportunity to capture him, bring him aboard her ship and demand a divorce. Justin, who had been going sick with worry for Christine ever since her disappearance, is at first shocked and furious that Christopher Daniels is actually his missing wife, then decides to use this opportunity to rock Christine’s boat. Ship. Whatever. Can their love survive the turbulent seas of misunderstanding, recriminations and the fact that Christine has a bigger gourd tucked away in her pants than Justin?

Courtesy of Sarah’s friend, Iron Lesbian #1.

I have absolutely nothing clever to say about this picture. Maybe later, when the feeling of horror has passed.

I’m reading Candy’s copy of Emma Holly’s Strange Attractions on the subway. In light of the debate about sexual language, terminology and propriety, I have to say, reading erotica in public gives me the frequent impulse to make sure I put my clothes on this morning.

Normally I have no embarrassment to read whatever romantic literature I want on the train. I mean, I sat down next to a woman who was, much to the shock and amusement of the women across from her, putting on her makeup and curling her eyelashes while on the train. And the train was moving. It was both fascinating and gross. I mean, no one wants to see eyelash torture devices in use in public, and no one wants to see the covers of some of the books I read, particularly the open-mouthed-clinch covers with the big phallic pillars in the background. I get some raised eyebrows if the cover is egregious, but hey, I don’t care. Anything’s better than curling your eyelashes.

But today, reading erotic literature, with bum humping and S&M and bondage and sex and humpity hump hump humpity hump hump look at Frosty go, I had to hold the book inches from my face. I look at what people are reading all the time. What books, what magazines, what genres - I’m always checking out other people’s reading material, and if someone glanced over my shoulder to the goings-on of the pages I read on the train… oh my.

I wouldn’t have been embarrassed per se, but I would have felt a little naked. I would hope if someone did glance over my shoulder they went to work with as nice a flush to their face as I did. Surely, their poor manners shouldn’t and won’t change what I read.

But I do have to say, reading the naughty naughty in venues where the literary equivalent of eavesdropping is possible and frequent does make a difference in how easily I lose myself in the prose. 

Meljean analyzes in detail why Teela and Prince Adam never got it on, with lots of pictures. And I mean LOTS of ‘em. See Cringer and Adam get caught in a compromising position! Ponder what lies under Skeletor’s loincloth! Speculate on who ultimately looks more gay: He-Man, or Prince Adam? (I still say He-Man takes the cake. You KNOW he has a Digweed and Sasha CD at home that he dances to all the time while using his sword as a glowstick, all the while wistfully wishing Man-At-Arms would take him away like Calgon.)

Step 1: Instead of ass say buns, like “kiss my buns” or “you’re a buns hole”

Step 2: Instead of shit say poo, as in “bull poo”, “poo head” and this “poo is cold”

Step 3: With bitch drop the t because bich is latin for generosity

Step 4: Dont say fuck any more because fuck is the worst word that you can say

So just use the word mmmkay!

Big flappedy-flap-flap going on about those naughty words certain romance authors like to use and those naughty acts these same authors like to write about.

A quote from a letter to the editor published in the RWR:

“There’s a big difference between sensual romance and erotica, and I think we made a big mistake in lowering our standards to accept such a publisher.”

Ahhhh. Right. Must not lower those professional standards. Nope.

Let’s play a game. Guess which type of passage I MUCH prefer reading (and which sounds more professionally-written, period):

A. She had even pretended to be a man while on the opium-carrying ship! Even though dressed again like a man this night, she at least admitted to being a woman, which she most surely was!

B. Trembling now, Eric tried to breathe as steadily as his friend. His own erection felt like a club, hot behind the cloth B.G.’s feather-light caresses tugged. His employer was always gentle, always careful not to hurt. It was the only complaint Eric ever had.

Passage A contains no mention of sex at all, but frankly, I find it much more offensive that a book containing sentences like that (and trust me, the book this was excerpted from was FULL of gems like those) was published.

Now sit down and brace yourself, because this may come as a BIG FUCKING SHOCK (whoops, sorry, BIG MMM-KAYING SHOCK), but I generally don’t judge the merits of a book solely on sex scenes or whether naughty language is used. If the characters engage me, if the craft is solid, if the plot is entertaining, I’ll enjoy the book whether it had 20 sex scenes or none at all. What a revolutionary concept!

And actually, if the romance novel (especially a contemporary) contains explicit sex scenes like, ohhhh, say, humping of the ta-tas, and the characters don’t dare to so much as say “cock” or even “penis” and instead use ridiculous euphemisms like “arousal” or “manhood,” I WILL laugh at inappropriate moments, read the passage out loud to my husband so HE can laugh too, then proceed to make fun of it in excruciating detail in on a website I run with an equally snarky partner. There’s a time and place when no-nonsense descriptions and those naughty Anglo-Saxon words come in handy, people.

I understand that reading about throbbing staffs and moist orifices being violated in a variety of graphic ways does not float everyone’s boat. That’s cool--there are PLENTY of books out there with non-graphic sex scenes. But why these prudes gotta ruin my shit and try to make it harder (huh huh, I said hard) for these books to be published? Leave me to my happy, pervy, foul-mouthed fun, goddammit. I’m certainly not lobbying to have romances that use too many exclamation points or ellipses be banned, no matter how much it offends my tender sensibilities.

Anyway, I’m not going to say any more, because Sylvia, Shannon, Monica and HelenKay have done a more than adequate job of stating how I feel, and repetition is tiresome.

OK, I’m really, really late on this. I suck. But it’s such a cool little game; better late than never, no?

Anyway, the ever wondrously smart (and almost never bitchy) Maili instructs us to:

1. Take first five novels from your bookshelf.
2. Book 1—first sentence
3. Book 2—last sentence on page 50
4. Book 3—second sentence on page 100
5. Book 4—next to the last sentence on page 150
6. Book 5—final sentence of the book
7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.
8. Feel free to “cheat” to make it a better paragraph.
9. Name your sources
10.Post to your blog.

Ho-kay! Here are my results:

Della Mitchell clutched the steering wheel of her silver SUV and closed her eyes. Instead, after wrangling with accelerated motion such as the spinning bucket, Newton saw no option but to invoke some invisible background stuff with respect to which motion could be unambiguously defined. “I’m saying we choose what’s familiar, for good or ill.” If they had a normal marriage, he would kiss the delicate curve of her throat and find a way not to crumple her gown while he made them late for dinner. “All we know is the ghost is most likely to show himself when the moon is full and the B & B is hosting handsome young tourists.”

Yowch! Do I win some kind of prize for Most Schizophrenic Paragraph? I didn’t actually bother to go to my bookshelves (I mean, which bookcase should I have chosen? The HC bookcase? The one holding the paperbacks? What about the ones holding nothing but TBR books?) so I just grabbed five of the eight books currently littering my computer desk.

These here are the books I used:

The Sistahood of Shopaholics by Leslie Esdaile, Monica Jackson, Reon Laudat and Niqui Stanhope
The Fabric of the Cosmos by Brian Greene
The Royal Treatment by MaryJanice Davidson
The Bartered Bride by Mary Jo Putney
Pirate’s Price by Darlene Marshall

Everyone I encounter online, or at least, everyone who left their comments and reviews online for me to find, LOVED this book. I mean, love love loved it, to the point where they put it in the time capsule and let future generations find it so that they, too, can love it. Maybe my future children will love this book. But I sure didn’t.

Seriously. I know. I’m insane. I’m defective in some way. But holy hell if Crusie didn’t write the first contemporary heroine that was actually Too Stupid To Live (TSTL). Not that she put herself in mortal danger at every turn but woo damn. By page six I wanted to reach into the book and smack her silly.

Instead, I wrote her a letter:

I meant to link to this yesterday, but what with thinking intently about schwanstuckers and hoohahs and euphemisms therewith, I plumb forgot.

Anyway, Christina Dodd, Connie Brockway, Elizabeth Bevarly, Teresa Medeiros, Eloisa James and (allegedly, though she has yet to post) Lisa Kleypas have banded together to create a blog called Squawk Radio. They’re smart and funny, and they have the most hilarious hen backgrounds. Sarah can’t stand Eloisa James, tee hee hee.

And now I present to you.....

By the Power of Greyskull.... I HAVE NOTHING TO SAYYYYY!

Random thought: Anyone else think He-Man shooting that “lightning” from his “sword” at poor Cringer who then turns into a raging beast looks somewhat homoerotic and bestial, well, just flat-out WRONG?

I love how this page has rapidly tackled the more sultry and scintillating issues at work in romance novels - be specific, we’re talkin’ nookie! Serious nookie! I’m still giggling over the phrase “chocolate starfish.”

But - my IT department? They will be looking at the log files of accessed pages and thinking I am one depraved little woman.

So I had an idea: not that Candy or you all or even I can refrain from saying “big honking cock” or even that we should - but let us come (huh) up (huh) with a master (huh) list of euphamisms for our various actions, lest someone be unable to access our site due to our propensity for naughty talk. I figure between our collective readership of romance novels past, present and future, we can come up with plenty o’ phrases to refer to any and all sex acts.

Except that one, you know, with the goat. 

Hey, all this talk about massive schlongs has made me think about a related issue: When did oral sex become de rigueur for romance novels? Because it wasn’t always this way. I remember reading many, many books in the Good Old Days in which the heroine was lucky to have her nipple lapped at before Lord Massivecockershire rammed it home. I remember reading Special Gifts by Anne Stuart when I was 14 years old and nearly passing out because it had this incredibly graphic oral sex scene in it. I went for a while without encountering any until I picked up a Lisa Kleypas novel. Nowadays, when I pick up a romance novel, I expect to read some oral lovin’ if there’s any sex in it at all--to the extent that I feel as if something’s lacking when the heroine doesn’t get any head.

Anyone want to weigh in on this? Is my memory about little to no oral sex in old romances wrong? Was I so young that I missed the act entirely because I didn’t understand what was being described? Was oral sex the old anal sex, as in “naughty things the author is not allowed to write about because we think the public will be grossed out by its ickiness”?

So Connie Brockway is migrating from historical romances to contemporaries. Am I the only reader who has enjoyed her work in the past (I have three of her books on my keeper shelf) who’s not at all upset about this?

Here’s the thing: while I have enjoyed many of Brockway’s books, and she was an author on my autobuy list for about 5 years, I have always thought her voice was very, very modern. It didn’t bug me at all until the Bridal series was released. I read them both, and the characters and tone struck me as so modern and not-British (the characters seemed like Americans in period drag) that I gave up on Brockway entirely. This is by no means her fault, because I don’t think she has changed; I have. I have her McClairen’s Isle books still TBR, and every time I keep passing them over for something else when the time comes for me to pick something new to read.

Now that she’s writing contemporaries, though, I think I’ll have to check out her new releases again.

Monica Jackson takes on some of the covers for the top 100 romance novels at Barnes and Noble and Amazon. I laughed until I coughed. Sarah and I may be out of a job if she ever decides to turn cover snarking into a regular feature on her site.

(OK, not out of a job. Out of a hobby. A hobby that’s generated an amazing number of visitors.)