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

Yo. Bitch. Why is it such a challenge for you to write this review?

A few reasons, but mostly because I’m having a hard time balancing my thoughts on the reaction to the story, and the story itself.

Jeez. Whiny bitch, much?

Well, yes. And also, bite me.

If I had to line up my first reactions to this book, which has been discussed much everywhere and by many (and by some who haven’t read the book in the first place and what is UP with that?)

I agree. Cranial-rectal impaction is just heartbreaking to see, isn’t it?

Truly, it is.

Anyway, my primary reaction is as follows:

If you are sensitive as a reader to scenes of sexual coercion, forced seduction, or rape, as well as emotional abuse and feelings of terror and helplessness, I don’t recommend this book.

This is not your standard spun sugar Avon release. It doesn’t allow you to remain complacently amused and merrily entertained. It’s more than a little angsty, and it attempts to do many things in its approach to the genre.

If I were to judge the book purely on Campbell’s ability to make me uncomfortable, this book would score highly.

(Caution: continuing review is all kinds of spoilerish, so be ye warned.)

Looking at these covers, I wonder that they didn’t resort to cabin boys more often. And I’m speaking for both the men and the women. Though I certainly wouldn’t blame the cabin boys for RUNNING LIKE HELL away from these specimens.

Candy: That look on the woman’s face? It’s not awe at the dude’s manliness, it’s terror at his hair. Look at it. You know it was lifted from the scalp of some murderous criminal, and that soon it will possess his soul. In fact, why don’t we just retitle the book ”Hell Toupée” and call it a day, all right?

Sarah: Dude. Look at that chick’s fingers. Those are some Man Hands.

And that gentleman better stay away from any sea fire, since the wax they use at Madame Tussauds does melt. The only thing worse than stubbly man titty is melting man titty.

Candy: I’m no meteorologist, but when the sky looks like God just came down with a walloping case of jaundice, I’m pretty sure running for cover is the smarter option rather than, say, humping on the beach. I’m just sayin’.

Sarah: And now, the ballad of The Sun Fucker:

Tiny thrusts are all you take
Humping on the sun.
I hope blisters don’t break
Humping on the sun.
Mullets protect me from the glare
Humping on the sun.
Good thing her ass ain’t bare
humping on, humping on the sun.

Candy: Once again: dudes, if your ladyfriend is acting like the cat from the Pepe LePew cartoons, you either need to change your wooing tactics. Or brush your teeth more often. Probably both.

Sarah: There is something so elegant and sexy about heroines who have no neck.

Except when neckless heroine gets paired with a hero who has a wide, flat ass. Rwor.

Candy: Awww! Lookit the touch of spare tire on the dude’s middle. I suspect it wouldn’t be there if he didn’t insist on wearing pants that would form a spontaneous tourniquet should he be cut at the waist.

The woman should really watch out for this guy’s hair, too. It looks full of evil intent as well. Seriously. Take a cue from the swans, woman. Animals know, man.

(Wait, swans? By the ocean? What the hell? Are there saltwater swans?)

Sarah: Forget the snark above. Muffin top IS IT for your hero.

All you writers out there, I expect to read about heroines caressing the soft, supple overhang of ab fat above the hero’s tight, soft worn jeans. Got that? Get on it!

Thanks to the many who forwarded me a link to Jenny Crusie’s rant about those who seek to ban rape from all romance on the basis of one book.

Of particular note:

Romance novels do not determine what readers think; readers determine what romance novels get published. Glen pointed out that the romance industry is more responsive to reader feedback than any other genre. Through reader boards and blogs, listserves and e-mails, and even snail mail, readers let publishers know what they think, but the biggest message they send is what they buy. Readers determine what a successful romance novel is, not writers with a political or moral agenda, and they do that by reading. The books they buy in stores, the books they check out of the library thereby encouraging the libraries to buy in great numbers, send a clear message in the only language publishing speaks: Sales. So I’m annoyed by the people who want to make some topic off bounds for me as a romance writer; they should get their cotton-pickin’ hands off my genre. But I’m not worried about it. I know romance readers too well to think they’ll let anybody push them—or me–around.

As usual, I bow to the sharp wit of Crusie when she’s got a bee in her bonnet. Well played, ma’am. She never leaves her clue cake out in the rain.

There’s a big ol’ discussion going on at Romance Buy the Blog today - a group of Princeton students are gettin’ schooled on the finer points of romance from a scholarly perspective.

Unfortunately for me, Mother Nature’s attempts to drop 8 inches of rain in one day means I have limited time at the computer today, and as a result, I can’t do justice to the whole discussion in this space. But go have a look. 

I’ve been pondering the Heroine who is Too Stupid To Live, and I have to wonder: why does she exist? Is she evidence that romance readers who prefer their heroines dumber than rocks are also seeking to identify with the hero and not the heroine?  Or maybe that the reader who loves these dimwits is perhaps rather dim? Disparaging assumptions about reader intellect aside, I still don’t get how this monster came to wield so much power or appear so frequently.

Candy thinks it’s a “cheap and easy source of conflict: heroine puts herself in danger, and hero has to rescue her”¹. It feeds the rescue fantasy in a really lazy way, she says.

I agree that the method behind the madness is certainly true in some cases, but I have to ask what the point of access might be for a reader relating to the protagonists (if one assumes that the reader relates to the protagonist couple when reading a romance). How does a reader connect with a heroine who winds up in dangerous situations, draws ridiculous conclusions with no evidence, and generally exists in a state of cluelessness?

I think there’s more likely some degree of hero-fascination in seeing the capable rescue the incapable, assuming again that the female reader in question is often the functioning caregiver in a given situation. But is there also an attraction to identifying with the clueless and often-rescued? Broad assumptions, ahoy!

As Candy and I were discussing the subject, the question of identification reared its head. Do readers even identify with the protagonists at all? Is that a mistaken concept?

For example, in the circumstances of a TSTL heroine, Candy says, “a good deal of it’s also feeding into the ‘rescue me, big hero dude’ fantasy, in which case, I’d argue the point of identification is at least partially with the heroine. This is all assuming that readers identify with the characters, too, because a lot of readers don’t. I don’t, for example. I tend to be more of a spectator.”

Myself, I’m not a spectator as a reader, though I have to think hard about my role as reader when I choose a romance. Reading romance demands a different kind of involvement on my part. I don’t seek to identify with one or the other of the pair, but with the emotional development between them. It’s not so much the individuals as what is between them that attracts me.

What’s interesting is the one area in which Candy and I agreed: to quote Candy, “For romances, I have to like the protagonists in a way I don’t have to when I’m reading other types of fiction.”

Hear, hear. If I find one of the protagonists unlikable, I can’t participate in the development between them, though how I participate other than empathizing is something I’d have to ponder further, as a ready answer isn’t popping into my brain.

Candy explained further better than I could: “I don’t think empathy is strictly necessary, [but] believability is important. They may not make decisions I would, but I need to appreciate how they arrived at those decisions.” In other words, it’s more a question of being able to relate to them than it is to empathize with them in all aspects of their story.

Thus encountering a heroine who is Too Stupid To Live ruins a lot of the enjoyment, though whether the reason for that ruination is because of a lack of connection to the protagonists, or a mere disgust for rescue scenarios is an individual determination. Sadly, we’ve encountered plenty of dumbass heroines, like Lee-Lee from Desire’s Blossom and Whitney from Whitney, My Love. (Aside: it is amazing how many people read Whitney when they were younger, then went back to read it again after more romance experience and HATED her insipid blockheaded ass.)

Does the TSTL heroine piss you off because of sloppy characterization? Inability to relate? A natural inclination to dislike the stupid and blissful? (Sorry, that’s me.) What’s your take?

¹ Candy’s addendum and assorted thoughts:

There are only so many ways to invoke conflict in romance. Too much external conflict, and you risk switching the focus of the story from the relationship to the external circumstances, in which case, it’s not really a romance any more. Too much internal conflict, and you have a claustrophobic story, or one in which the hero and heroine are either separated for a long time (which: bonerdeath), or one in which the hero and heroine are fighting constantly (which: even bigger bonerdeath). A TSTL heroine who needs to have her stupid ass saved is an easy way for the conflict still be focused on the couple while adding a sense of adventure to it all. Plus, hey, lookit how gosh-darn spunky she is! Isn’t she feisty? And look, another 20-50 pages of story, what with the TSTL set-up, the heroine falling into danger, and then having to be saved.

I’d also like to stress that TSTL behavior doesn’t always break a book for me. One instance of TSTLiveability might be forgiveable, especially if the heroine is young and naive. If she doesn’t learn, however...that’s when I contemplate bringing out the giant bat marked “A Clue” and beating her over the head with it. There’s also the question of believable motivation. If she’s being TSTL for sufficient cause, or if circumstances are desperate enough that the TSTL behavior might actually make sense or seem like a viable option at the time, I might be more inclined to forgive her. And then there’s magnitude of TSTL behavior, too--how much does she endanger herself and the other characters? How likely would it be for somebody in similar circumstances to do something like that? For instance, take Merry of The Windflower, especially her escape attempt. Merry is young and sheltered, but not necessarily stupid; however, her attempt to get away from The Black Joke was pretty ill-advised--but the Curtises did a great job of showing us how desperate she was, so while I was cringing and going “No no no bad idea,” I wasn’t angry at her the way I’d be at a garden-variety dingbat heroine. As Sarah said, “Keeping the reader from getting angry at her is probably the border between ignorant naive heroine growing up and TSTL heroine.”

Katia forwarded me a link to today’s Achewood comic, which features a custom romance novel that seriously had me spitting coffee out of my mouth onto the screen.

I will never look at pepperoncini the same way again. 

It’s been a while, kids, but here’s another one of those personal ad contest things. Woo, and also: hoo. Be the first to correctly guess the author, title and heroine of the book in question, and enjoy the admiration of your friends and the envy of your enemies as you parade around in one of our utterly awesome Smart Bitch aristocratic titles--now guaranteed to emit 75% less greenhouse gases than before.

---

SWF, curvy, poor self-esteem, not looking for anything in particular, though I’ve always had the hots for my incredibly young, incredibly good-looking stepfather. Yeah, mom is dead, but how many different flavors of wrong would it be if we were to hook up? Especially since he’s running the fashion empire she helped build and I’m the heir. It’d be wrong. So very, very wrong. Like, giving stepdaddy-a-blowjob-under-the-desk wrong. But also, hot.

Kurt Vonnegut became unstuck in time for the last time yesterday.

Let’s take a moment and appreciate the crazy old bastard, eh?

I leave you with one of my favorite quotes from Slaughterhouse-Five:

“Go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,” murmered Paul Lazzaro in his azure nest. “Go take a flying fuck at the moon.”

Purely on the basis of the “I gave her my heart, she gave me a Peep” entry, I had to share this with y’all:

The Washington Post’s Gallery of winners in the Peep Diorama Contest.

A graceful curtsey to IL#2 for the link.

EDITED TO ADD:

A link from the intrepid Zoe:

Passover Peeps!

I am so building that on the seder table next year. No question.

Our Intrepid Heroine: Fawn Bluefield, a wide-eyed ingénue of a farmer’s daughter. Cute as all hell, and if you’re reading this as an indication that the book will be in many ways a coming-of-age story for Fawn, then may we commend you on your astuteness?

Our Intrepid Hero: Dag Redwing, a Lakewalker patroller. Not young. Not even remotely an ingénue. Missing a hand. Could probably kill you by flexing his right toe, because that’s how much of a bad-ass he is—not that he would, unless you really, really, really deserved it.

Lakewalker? Double you tee eff, mate? Ahh, see, in this particular world, there are two types of people: Lakewalkers and farmers. Lakewalkers don’t always walk around lakes, and farmers don’t always farm. Lakewalkers are a race of humans with groundsense—this means they can see and (to some extent) manipulate ground, a sort of aura emitted by everything in the world (with some exceptions, but more on that later). Farmers are Original Flavor human, with only the usual five senses to work with.

Dude. This sounds all fruity-ass hippie to me. C’mon. Auras? Yeah yeah yeah, we know, but for serious, it’s not even remotely New Age fruity or annoying. Bujold does a fantastic job of taking a rather tired old concept—call it the Force, call it an aura, call it ground, shit, call it Susan, if you want—and doing nifty things with it.

OK, fine. Two sorts of people, Lakewalkers and farmers. One has groundsense, which is not at all hippie dipshittery, something we’ll have to take your word on, and one doesn’t. Let us guess: the two factions don’t really understand each other, right? Right. The Lakewalkers are sworn to protect farmers, but most of them feel mild contempt for the farmers’ complete lack of groundsense. And for their part, the farmers find Lakewalker magic (as they think of it) creepy as all hell, and some of the Lakewalker rituals necessary for destroying malices are interpreted as cannibalism and necromancy.

Malices? Whuh? Malices are these mysterious immortal Things that were seeded during a darkly-hinted-at apocalypse in the distant past. Malices are, in a sense, pure hunger and pure evil; they grow by consuming all the ground in their surrounding area—and you have to understand, this goes beyond merely killing a living thing. Its very essence is sucked out. Malices will hatch at unpredictable intervals and in random places, so Lakewalkers are constantly on patrol in an effort to catch them before they become too powerful to handle, as only Lakewalkers have the ability to craft the special knives that can kill them. The act of killing a malice is also known as sharing a death, hence (drumroll) sharing knives.

OK, enough infodumpery. What happens with the story? Fawn finds herself in A Certain Delicate Condition after a liaison with the son of a rich neighbor, and runs away from home in a panic.

That sounds annoying. Yeah, again, we know it sounds bad, but trust us, once you meet Fawn’s family, the dude who impregnated Fawn and Fawn herself, you’ll understand why. Also, can we go on with the review without quite as many interjections from the peanut gallery?

Psh. Fine. Thanks. Right, so Fawn is on her way to the city of Glassforge, hoping to find a job there, when she encounters a Lakewalker patrol. She hides from them, though not very successfully, of course, what with their groundsense and all. When she continues on her journey, she’s abducted by the minions of a recently-erupted malice in the area—her Delicate Condition makes her especially attractive to ground-hungry malices. Luckily for her, Dag stumbles across the kidnapping, and successfully tracks them back to the malice’s lair, where, with significant help from Fawn, he manages to kill it. But something Very Strange happens to one of the sharing knives during the process of killing the malice, so Dag and Fawn find themselves thrown together for the nonce until they solve the mystery. And we won’t go into any more details here, because really, read the goddamn book already.

Oh, so you guys liked it? Hellz yeah we did. It is distressingly, compulsively readable. If you pick it up, be prepared to forego meals and showers. Sarah and I talk some more about it below, though we don’t recommend that you read our back-and-forth unless you’ve already read the book, because it’s all sorts of spoilerish.

Candy: Reproduction, the Rube Goldberg way! First, place the heroine on a long slide, legs spread at a specific angle, where a series of dildos diddle her as she slides down until she lands on a harness at the bottom. Then a series of ball bearings fall down a spiral slide, landing onto a scale, where the counterweight-triggered flame-thrower activates and burns away the rope that was holding a bowling ball, which then rockets down a precisely lubricated chute and thumps down behind a chicken, which is startled into laying an egg. This egg drops onto the handle of a precisely-balanced knife, causing it to cut through the string that was holding a catapult in place, wherein lies our Proud Hero with an Even Prouder Erection, and the catapult hurtles him through the air, whereupon he lands with near-surgical precision in the heroine’s hoo-hoo (which is, of course, Magical) and ejaculates.

See? Easy peasy.

(Credit to Lady Rhian for digging this cover up for us. Oh man.)

Sarah: Oh take a letter Maria
Here’s how babies get made.
I gotta use a dry-erase board,
Cause you’re a crappy lay.
You’re too dumb to use the laptop
and I can barely make a dent.
When we called it ‘family business,’
this isn’t what I meant.

And who is this bozo who labels a pacifier as a “luxury item?” Yeah, if you count a few moments of peace by soothing the baby a “luxury.”

Candy: I saw the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead on Sunday, and all I can think of when I see this cover is “I can smell your spicy brains.” Except I’m not sure who’s thinking that--the zombie cowboy, or the zombie baby.

Sarah: It takes three cowboys to make one baby? Like hell it does. Unless something is going on in Colorado that I don’t know about.

Candy: I’m not sure what’s more terrifying: the terrible frosted bangs on the cop, or the weird NAMBLA-Village People-fetishy air of the cover in general.

Sarah: The Badge, the Baby… the gay burlesque cover model, the impossibly small shortall and the scared looking toddler. Yeah, I’d be scared of that man, too. He looks manic and altogether far too attached to Sun-In and hair product. That baby is cute and pulling at my heart strings - but not in a “Oh, how romantic” kind of way. More in a “Kick that man in the nutsack, grab the baby and run” kind of way.

As a slight corollary to our Rules discussion below, I have a question for y’all. While doing my “romance in the news” search today, I found an article about an author, Lori Wilde, offering a course online through Kent State’s Trumbull Campus titled, Romance Writing Secrets. Wilde, according to the article, will instruct online students “how to structure a romance novel, how to get a novel published, and gives tips on students’ writing samples.”

(Tangent alert: does anyone else love how every single article about romance and the writing or publicizing thereof features the same fraking set of statistics from the RWA on romance sales? I wonder if the PR director for the RWA has a recording of herself just for reporters, so that when they call, she can rattle off the standard set of often-published statistics without hurting her voice. None of these news articles ever really branch past the “look at all the sales- can you believe that?” tone to deal with much else in the way of romance as a market. *Le sigh.*)

Anyway, here’s my question: do writing classes, specifically those targeting romance, help? Published authors, did you take a class or merely take the plunge into writing? I don’t mean the question to demean Ms. Wilde’s course, as I haven’t seen a syllabus or assignments for her online course, but having seen a few similar course offerings, I have to wonder what is ultimately gained from the course assignments, because many of the most popular authors in romance today are largely, to the best of my knowledge, self-taught. They learned their craft through writing, rejections, sales, pitches, and manuscripts. I haven’t heard many authors discuss creative writing courses or instructional guides to romance in their bios, leading me to believe that for the aspiring writer, the best training is, “Pick up pen. Write words down. Repeat.”

Back when I taught remedial composition to college students, I used to quote Nora Roberts to them when it was time for drafting an essay, or editing that essay: “I can fix a bad page but I can’t fix a blank one.” It didn’t matter how bad the first draft was; it was only important that they had one. I’m guessing that the best way to learn to write romance is to actually write said romance, and not read about or talk about writing romance. Certainly a familiarity with the genre and skills in writing dialogue, plot, and conflict would help (oh, laments the Smart Bitch, would it help), but can one acquire those skills through a course or a book, or must they be learned through practice?

When I look at all the book available to teach aspiring romance novelists the skills needed to craft a novel, I have to wonder: do the guides and the courses help at all? Or is it a good step for some, but unneccessary for others? Perhaps the real goal of these guiding options is to offer the aspiring writer a way into the writing process, aside from, “I bet I could write one of these.”

And verily my TBR pile is too large, and my time to read too short to do appropriate justice to a Harlequin with a short window of availability, but I wanted to bring attention to something cool that Cynthia Reese is doing with her April 2007 release The Baby Wait.

The book is about a couple who is already married seeking to adopt a baby from China. In her words:

I promise: it is not your garden variety category—for one thing, it’s in first person. For another, it’s about a married couple. For a third… well, the baby’s not a secret baby....

Reese has pledged a portion of her royalties to two charities that directly benefit Chinese orphanages:

One is Love Without Boundaries and the other is Our Chinese Daughters Foundation . There were so many worthwhile organizations that I found it extremely difficult to choose just two! LWB will use my donation to help an older, medically-needy child in Changsha, Hunan.

OCDF will use the money to support Coal For Kids, a program which provides coal to northern Chinese orphanages who get little or no funding from the Chinese government—some of these kids have lost fingers and toes because the orphanages couldn’t afford fuel for the winter!

I wish THE BABY WAIT were a NYT best-seller so that I could drop whole boatloads of cash on several of the very worthy charities out there! But I plan to do this for each of my books—give $$ back, so maybe my small offerings will add up
and make a difference in the life of a child.

So if Harlequin SuperRomances are on your romance shopping list, or if you’re interested in this particular story, your purchase funds a couple of worthy causes.

And behold, a topic near to Candy’s heart, and mine: the geek hero.

Seems Wired Magazine loves them as much as we do (obviously) for they have compiled a somewhat tongue-in-cheek list: The 10 Real Reasons Why Geeks Make Better Lovers.

The best part? The supportive echo of Candy’s previously published sentiments:

I’ve read recently that geeks make better lovers because they are so unaccustomed to romance that they will do anything for their mates. Also because geeks don’t have the social skills to cheat (wanna bet?).

Yeah, ha ha, let’s chuckle at the stereotypes. Might as well add that geeks won’t waste valuable relationship time watching football. Or that geeks are clueless and fashion-impaired and have the social skills of a bowl of fruit.

But you know what? Humorous Top-10 lists aside, geeks really do make the best lovers, for reasons that have nothing to do with adolescent ostracism or puppy-like devotion.

It’s all about sex-tech.

From increased sensitivity to environment, even if that environment is virtual, to role playing and intimate familiarity with fantasy enactment, geeks have it going on.

Which we knew, of course. 

I have to be honest: I have a lot of trouble getting into romance set in the future when said future romances are set in space. Other galaxies, other planets, sectors, warping - somehow my brain resists accepting the alternate reality, like it’s too big a jump and too far reaching a fantasy. I’m ashamed to admit I’m either really dim in terms of space imagination, or maybe I’m a lameass space snob. But sadly, space romances are hard for me to get into. It’s possible it’s because the few I’ve read have done world building via info-dumping, which is bothersome because it slows down the pace to a crawl even if the spaceship is traveling at the speed of light. But info-dumping is not really enough of a reason for my hesitancy. I’m not sure why my “select reading material” button goes dark at “Space, the year 3056....”

And yet, I scold myself, I’m willing to accept all manner of idiocy in a historical. And I’ve read plenty of romances set in the future - as well as a few set in a fantastical version of the 1980’s - and haven’t had a problem with the setting. But space - sorry to say - is kinda my own final frontier.

Well, no, that’s not true. Inspirationals are my final frontier. Definitely.

So starting a book while repeatedly telling myself that I’m being a douchebag is not the best way to an open mind towards the reading material at hand. Fortunately for me, Barry’s book slapped my sorry self into next week with the Power of Good Writing.