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

1. What hero/heroes are on your “list” (like the celebrity list, if they turned up on your doorstep, your significant other would have to step aside for a few hours)?

2. What heroine would you want to be trapped in an elevator with? (Or hero!)

3. What author would you have over for tea?

4. If a romance heroine was based on your personality, what type of novel would it be, and what would her name be?

5. If a movie was made of your favorite romance, who would you cast as hero/heroine?

I have been glomming the Crusie books on my Books(not)Free queue, as lately I have a hankering for contemporary romance like I often have a hankering for chocolate. Usually with chocolate it’s Watchamacallit candy bars, which I adore, especially since I can’t get Clark bars in New York. With contemporary romance, I want light, somewhat fluffy, funny, fresh, fun, all works beginning with F, and let’s be real, some hot f’in is ok, too!

While I was sitting down organizing my reactions to this book, it occurred to me that I ought to develop a rubric for discussing my grading levels. So here is a rough sketch of the Grading Scale of Sarah:

Why do I give a book an A? I read books on the train to and from work, and if the book is so good that I can’t let it sit in my bag overnight, and have to head upstairs to read it all evening long instead of watching tv with the Hubby, AND if the quality of the book does not falter and let me down at the end, then it is an A book. If I want to grab it out of my bag and end up wishing I hadn’t, or if I am content to read it on the train but still enjoy it while I am reading it and don’t catch myself staring at the other passengers’ books to see what they are enjoying, then it’s a B. If I read it and it’s not bad, but nothing that makes me almost miss my train stop because I am into it, it’s a C. If there are egregious errors, the plot line leaves me cold, and I find myself forcing my fingers to turn pages so I can finish it already, then it’s a D. F books are books that were so torrentially bad, I couldn’t bear to finish them, or only did so because I wanted to watch the train wreck (no pun intended, and God forbid) until its end.

So on to my review. Crazy for You was delicious, and it had some elements that I adored and couldn’t wait to reread before I put it back in the bag for a Books(not)Free return shipment. But there were some major flaws that, though they didn’t get in the way of the romance (which was quite hot, thank you Ms. Crusie!), they got in My way as the reader, especially when the flaws were errors that slapped me back into reality.

Hie thee to for the best part of the year: voting on the Best & Worst Covers of 2004!

Series often bore me, and step backs often look the same, but oh, gee, is the Worst Cover category a FUN mess to vote on. Oh my. I’m still cracking up over one of them. I thought it was hard to shock me, but let me tell you, color me plenty surprised. 

On re-reading the piece I posted earlier about girl cooties in SF, I noticed I never actually explicitly stated another point I was trying to make: People often equate emotion with stupidity, and assume that books whose raison d’etre is an emotion--a womanish emotion, at that--are all automatically intellectually bankrupt and could’ve been written by a chimp with a typewriter. This assumption is implicit in Day’s contemptuous dismissal of female SF writers and the romance novels in space they write. Romance bad, esoteric physics theories good, unga unga ooka ooka. Another false dichotomy, of course. A good love story is, in my opinion, extremely hard to write. Traditional romance novel authors don’t need to worry about the implications of nanotechnology; instead, they have to deal with something as squirrelly and in some ways every bit as complex, exotic and difficult: portraying a couple falling in love, and doing it convincingly. Someone like Catherine Asaro often juggles both types of squirrelliness at the same time. Not too bad for a mentally-polluted woman.

I’ve mentioned before how I often put books through a 15-page in-store trial before deciding to buy them. What I didn’t mention is, sometimes the author wows me so much with a certain turn of phrase early on in the book that I’ll end the trial well before the 15 pages are up. Sometimes I’m seduced despite myself. Take, for example, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. The story didn’t sound particularly appealing to me--it was marketed as a dysfunctional family saga, and I don’t usually go for family sagas, dysfunctional or not. But browsing one day in the bookstore, I picked it up on a whim and started reading. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d accidentally skipped the prologue and dived straight into the first chapter, where I read this sentence:

Down the long concourse they came unsteadily, Enid favoring her damaged hip, Alfred paddling at the air with loose-hinged hands and slapping the aiport carpeting with poorly-controlled feet, both of them carrying Nordic Pleasurelines shoulder bags and concentrating on the floor in front of them, measuring out the hazardous distance three paces at a time.

I decided on the spot to get the book. That first sentence created such a wonderfully vivid mental picture, I figured if the rest of the book was even half as good, I’d love it. (I did. One of the best damn books ever.)

Similarly, when I was grocery shopping yesterday, I noticed that Patricia Gaffney’s The Goodbye Summer was out in paperback. I love Gaffney; I don’t love women’s fiction. I mean, it’s all right and all, but… I don’t know. I think it’s my prejudice against anything remotely heartwarming, and yeah, I know how odd that sounds coming from someone who reads a lot of romance novels. But I told myself, it’s Gaffney, I need to at least check it out, so I set my shopping basket down and picked it up.

The kicker for this book didn’t arrive until page 2, when Gaffney describes the heroine’s grandmother:

Nana had long, pretty, smoke-gray hair and, before it softened with age, a long, bony, sharp-featured face. She loved it when people told her she looked like Virginia Woolf. Nobody ever added, “If she’d lived to seventy-nine instead of walking into the river.”

Not only was that passage funny, it provided me with a clear image of Nana, and also a wonderful little glimpse into her personality. Gaffney still has the magic. So I came home with a new paperback about heartwarming lessons in love and loss, the kind of story that would normally make me break out in hives just thinking about, unless there was also the promise of loads and loads of loin-warming boinking involved (who needs antihistamines when one has sweet, sweet smut?).

I also effectively broke my resolution not to buy any new books until I exercised at least 120 minutes a week for 4 weeks straight. So Pat: if I become a lardass (or more of a lardass than I am already), I’d like you to know that it’s all your fault.

Today’s entry is going to talk a great deal about science fiction because the inspiration for this entry comes from two articles dealing with SF, but I swear I’ll tie it back to romance novels before the end of my rambling session. At least, I hope I will.

The first article is written by an SF writer, Debra Doyle. It’s an excellent and hilarious take on SF called the “Girl Cooties Theory of Genre Literature.” The whole thing is worth reading, but this part here is what sparked my interest:

We start by positing the existence of a body of sf readers and writers (numerically perhaps fairly small, but nevertheless extremely vocal) who are deathly afraid of getting girl cooties. “Hard sf” is their science fiction of choice, because it has the fewest girl cooties of any of the sf subgenres. No subjectivity, no mushy bits, none of that messy relationship stuff getting in the way of the classic sf values of hardness and rigor (and no, I don’t think the elevation of those particular values is coincidental.) Admixtures from other genres are allowed provided that the secondary genre also provides the reader with a low-cootie environment. Westerns don’t have girl cooties, for example, and neither do technothrillers. Men’s action-adventure is about as cootie-free as it’s possible to get.

The second article is actually a huge discussion on Electrolite sparked off by Vox Day, my favorite asshole Christian Libertarian whose views, interestingly enough, rarely seem Christian or Libertarian; if I had to categorize him, I’d call him “ authoritarian Bible Literalist and Ann Coulter fanboy with a bad Mohawk and massive chips on his shoulder regarding women, gays and Jews.” But don’t take my word for it, let the man speak for himself:

The mental pollution of feminism extends well beyond the question of great thinkers. Women do not write hard science fiction today because so few can hack the physics, so they either write romance novels in space about strong, beautiful, independent and intelligent but lonely women who finally fall in love with rugged men who love them just as they are, or stick to fantasy where they can make things up without getting hammered by critics holding triple Ph.D.s in molecular engineering, astrophysics and Chaucer.

Ooooh, I don’t think I’ve ever participated in a meme before, but I simply couldn’t resist the one I found on Sara Donati’s website.

You’re stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
I had to think about this for a second, and then it hit me: The Jungle Book. Actually, both Jungle Books, if possible. Those books had it all: adventure, comedy, pathos, social commentary, really cool characters, poetry. I have read and re-read those books a million times and I still get goosebumps when I read “Now Chil the Kite brings home the night that Mang the Bat sets free...”

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Heh, going back to the Jungle Books: as a little girl, definitely Mowgli. And, oooooh this is embarrassing, but also Asterix. Yes, as a little girl I had a crush on a diminutive cartoon Gaul sporting a winged helmet and a walrus mustache. AndandAND, I’m not done humiliating myself yet: the second-in-command elf in Elfquest. Can’t remember his name. Silver hair, was the astrologer/astronomer guy.

I haven’t had any crushes on fictional book characters as an adult, but a few years ago I discovered Cowboy Bebop and promptly fell in love with Spike Spiegel. Don’t worry, I haven’t sunk to the level of doing shit like typing “LOL SO KAWAIIIII!!!11 ^_^ “… YET.

The last book you bought is?
I bought three books at the same time from Amazon.com: The Pirate Next Door by Jennifer Ashley, Duchess In Love by Eloisa James and Worlds Enough and Time by Dan Simmons. God knows when I’m going to get to them. I mean, y’all seen those pictures of my TBR shelves, right??

Five books you would take to a deserted island:
I HATE THESE KINDS OF QUESTIONS. Expand the list to about 50 and we’ll talk. And yes, the Jungle Books will be among them.

You can find the first part of the Kleypas Lightning Reviews here.

Somewhere I’ll Find You: In one word: SNORE. C-

Because You’re Mine: In three words: SNORE SOME MORE. C-

Stranger In My Arms: Yes, yes, yes, this is very blatantly a rip-off of The Return of Martin Guerre with an HEA tacked on at the end. I still loved it, incredibly contrived ending and all. Does this make me some sort of pea-brained, intellectually bankrupt fan of bodice-rippers? (Wait, isn’t that a redundancy?) Yeah, whatever. Bite me. A-

Someone To Watch Over Me: Oh great. A book involving an amnesiac who’s apparently also a whore and the Bow Street Runner who’s all pissed-off because she refused to let him get in her pants. The second bit doesn’t bother me, but brain damage so severe that it causes somebody to completely forget all of their past, including their name, would very likely causes other problems too, like, ohhhh, incontinence and general drooling idiocy. But then I guess a heroine suffering from uncontrollable ass-pee who is capable only of gurgling incoherently when spoken to is not sexy, unless you have certain types of unspeakable fetishes. Regardless of the tiresome retrograde amnesia plot, it’s still very readable, so B-.

Where Dreams Begin: Derek Craven, a lower-class gutter rat who clawed his way to the top falls in love with a gently-reared… Oh wait. Wrong book. No, I assure you, Zach Bronson is a different hero entirely. Snort. And it contains yet another re-tread of Kleypas’s patented “Put either the hero or heroine in some sort of health crisis so the partner’s love is crystallized in a way it never has been before.” Oh, also features a Kleypas “Sexy and Significant Dream Sequence.” No, no, I swear any resemblance to Dreaming of You is purely incidental.  *snicker* Regardless: Loved, loved, loved the book, even though it features that most improbable of romance novel creatures, the Orgasmless Widow. My heartstrings were tugged at mercilessly, and damn her eyes, it worked. It worked. A-

Suddenly You: OK, I really, really dig how the heroine is a plain Jane and the hero still can’t keep his hands off her. But the conflict was contrived and the book lacked complexity and vitality. B-

Lady Sophia’s Lover: Book Two in the Bow Street Runner trilogy that started with Someone to Watch Over Me and really, what a terribly ho-hum book. The hero is too good to be true, the excuse for a conflict is pretty damn stupid, and the one plot twist could be spotted a mile away. This book’s still on my keeper shelf, though, and I don’t know why. Must be the hot, hot sexx0r. Gotta have my prurient sexual titillation on hand. (Hee hee, “on hand,” geddit?) C+

When Strangers Marry: A truly pointless re-working of Only In Your Arms. So pointless, this is the only Kleypas book I haven’t bothered finishing. D

Worth Any Price: Hero beats off to picture of heroine, there’s a flimsy excuse of a suspense plot, and everybody in the book sweats constantly and profusely. No, seriously: everybody seems to remain in a perpetual state of moistness in this book. There, I believe I covered everything of note. No, wait, one more thing: the hero’s excuse for why he has problems with physical intimacy? Incredibly stupid. So stupid, I actually said out loud “THAT’S IT? Get over it, ya goddamn pussy.” The third installment of the Bow Street Runner trilogy. C-

Again the Magic: I’ll repeat for the heroine of this book what I said about the hero in Worth Any Price: GET OVER IT, YA GODDAMN PUSSY. I really dug the prologue, though—pity the hero transformed from a genuinely sweet beta type into another cookie-cutter growling asshole alpha, indistinguishable from the ocean of growling asshole alphas that chokes romance novel-dom. The secondary romance involving the heroine’s younger sister single-handedly saves this book, despite its very, very modern take on alcholism. B-

Secrets of a Summer Night: I really, really liked this book, and I really, really liked the heroine. I don’t get why people were all, like, “OH MY GOD the heroine is such a bitchy snob!” How ‘bout this for an idea: people back then were incredibly, bitchily snobby about meaningless shit like social position. People today are incredibly, bitchily snobby about meaningless shit like social position. The heroine grew out of it and learned to love the hero despite her assheaded prejudices, which is pretty damn awesome. Also: I appreciated how the heroine likes pretty, shiny things. I am heartily sick of the swarms of saintly heroines whose complete lack of materialism is somehow an indication of superior moral fiber. Feh. B+ (verging on A-)

First I saw Shannon doing it, then Rosario did it, and tonight I was all bored and decided ohhh, what the hell, I’ll do it too:

Which File Extension are You?

Heh. Look, Ma! I’m popular, except with The Man!

Short, snarky vignettes on every published Lisa Kleypas novel to date. (Edit: Uhhh, actually, only goodly chunk of published Kleypas novels are covered in this entry, the rest are to be covered tomorrow.) Not sure how helpful this is for the reader, but savor it, y’all, this is one of the few instances of brevity from me that you’ll ever find. And of course, feel free to tell me how awesome and spot-on my opinions are or how completely full of shit I am in the comments.

Ready, set, GO!

Where Passion Leads: Kleypas’s debut novel, published in 1987, and, y’know, oy. OY. A rapist hero, a heroine so annoying I wanted to dip her in battery acid, Big Misunderstandings, and loads and loads of derring-do, a lot which did not seem necessary to the plot. Gah gah gah. D

Forever My Love: A secondary character from Where Passion Leads gets her own book, and she’s *lowers voice* French and masquerading as some impotent aristo’s sex toy, so it’s OK for the hero to treat her like shit. But it’s surprisingly entertaining. Some of it is inadvertent, like Mira rubbing herself like a horny kitten all over the hero’s very manly hairy chest. C+

Love Come To Me: Set in America, which is somewhat of a rarity with Kleypas. Completely unmemorable; all I can recall was that I wanted the heroine to get together with the hero’s best friend, who seemed like a really cool guy, vs. the hero, who was a jerkface. C

Give Me Tonight: Now we’re talkin’! Kleypas hits her stride with this one. Nice girl time-travels to the past to find herself in the body of an ancestor of hers who disappeared without a trace long before she was born. And this ancestor is a raging fucking bitch. Oh, and there’s this hunky ranch foreman who’s like, all, “I know you’re a raging fucking bitch, but you’re hot, and I want you despite my better judgement, so c’mere and let me seducerate you, rowr!” Rowr indeed. A

Only In Your Arms: This book is good only because it sets up Justin Vallerand for the next book. Oh, OK, it’s not bad, but it did run a bit long, and it’s a rather tiresome re-tread of the “cynical older man screwed over by dead slutty bitchwad of a wife meets pretty young ingénue who restores his faith in lurve” kind of a story. B-

Only With Your Love: Holy crap, I love this book. Evil twin seduces dead good twin’s widow and makes her fall in love with him. The weird thing is, Justin and Celia alone would annoy the piss out of me, but together, they’re dynamite. Deeee-licious, evil, sexy fun. A

Then Came You: OK, for that scene in which Lily ties up Alex in bed alone, this book deserves an A-. Oh, plus Alex’s abiding awe of Lily’s butler is, y’know, so CUTE.

Dreaming of You: Like all other Kleypas groupies, this is one of my favorites. Derek and Sarah are perfect for each other, and Derek completely broke the mold at the time—a big bruiser of a hero who’s from the gutter and doesn’t turn out to the illegitimate son of the Duke of Twitterpants? Quelle idée! A

Midnight Angel: A hero with a hook instead of a hand! A Russian heroine with psychic powers! A crazy, megalomaniacal villain who later gets his own book! Dude, definitely an A.

Prince of Dreams: OK, I liked this book, though I really, really didn’t expect the time-travel aspect of it, but I can’t help feeling that Nikolas cheated on his own wife… with herself. Weird, non? B

Coming tomorrow: Lisa Kleypas, the Crapper Years, during which she writes nothing but yawn-worthy books for a while.

Update: Business as usual now, our fake front page has been moved to its own folder for posterity. Link is below, and feel free to bookmark it and enjoy the adorable bunnies as necessary.

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Hope you enjoyed the bunnilicous new front page. For those of you who missed it because you got here via a bookmark or some other link that didn’t direct you to the home page, you can see the diabetes-inducing horror here. Click on any of the bunny photos to get back to the blog.

And the Smart Bitches dub Angie the winner, for correctly guessing this Friday’s Romance Personal Ad: Frances from Catherine Coulter’s Midsummer Magic.

Kneel Angie, and receive your title:

Monica Jackson has accused the Bitches of being afraid to pick up a black romance lest it sully our hands. Does this mean we’ve finally made it? Monica bringing up the race card with sundry heavy insinuations of how the reviewers are reluctant to read books penned by black people, period (not just black romances) could perhaps be a sort of trial-by-fire for new romance-related sites that don’t bring up Beverly Jenkins at their inception.

Because, y’know, we’re a really young site. Take a look at the archives. I know, it’s hard to imagine life before us Smarty Bitchypoos, but try really, really hard, mmmmkay?

Second of all: If Monica had waited two, three months tops, basically after I was done with all my current library books, she would’ve seen a review of one of her books on this here site (very probably In My Dreams, since it sounds really interesting). Five whole months for a brand-new review/rant website to get to a black romance--is that some kind of record? Do we deserve some kind of prize? Or at least a cookie? Would we beat even Mrs. Giggles? How long did her site exist before she started reviewing black romance novels? Inquiring minds want to know.

I’ll tell you what, though: I like Monica because she brings on the full-on snark, and she’s not afraid to speak her mind. No pussyfooting, no coy withholding of names. The gloves are off, ladies! Hie thee to the comments on her blog to see what develops during the day.

Addendum: Monica took back some of the snarlier things she said about us. So much for my hopes for a vicious cat-fight.

Oh great. Now people Googling for “bitches cat fight humping” are going to find us, too.

Time for yet another Smart Bitches Romance Novel Personal Ad. As usual: guess the novel in the comments, and first correct winner gets a very special title, from Sarah, Duchess Cuntington, and Candy, la Comtesse du Gant d’Amour!

WANTED: MAN WHO SEES THE OBVIOUS

SWF, Scottish, loathsome of Sassenachs, seeks man who can see beneath the surface to woo and win brilliant, though disguised, whip-smart lass. Men who employ blunt force, stubborn will, and cream to ease their passage on the unwilling need not apply. Promise to love, honor, but there will so not be obedience in this relationship. Men with winsome and spunky mistresses need not hesitate - if you can win a bluestocking, you can win me. But do expect to give the hussy up once she is finished saving us from danger, is that clear?