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

Ever hear a song, and then hear the remix, and the remix is SO MUCH BETTER you wonder why folks didn’t do that with the song the first time around? That’s pretty much a clunky parallel to how I feel about gothic romance. Old Skool gothic romance? Terror-laden women in floaty nightgowns running from unknown or known villains, and usually trapped or ensconced in a castle that’s drippy, damp, and altogether creepy. Mix in subtle explorations of the social position and limitations of women and mysteries, curses, and much angsty hand-wringing and you had a very frustrated Smart Bitch Sarah in 18th Century Literature seminars. There’s a limited amount of patience I can manage with heroines who are all, “Oh, I’m scared, run run run! In my bare feet! In my nightgown! Oh my innocence so easily symbolized by a garment! OH OH OH!”

But the new crop of New Skool gothic, which seems to be a saffron of a genre - not much of it, but when it’s good it’s damn pungent and heady - retains the classic elements of fear, castles, mysteries, and curses, but mixes in other familiar and more modern historical archetypes: wounded heroes blended nicely with the mysterious potentially monstrous gothic heroes, as well as heroines who can be both scared out of their wits and somewhat intelligent and intrepid at the same time. There might be a diaphanous nightgown or two, but I as a reader have an easier time respecting the petrified yet kickass woman beneath.

Castle of the Wolf is a wonderful new-skool Gothic romance that not only passed the “Take it out of my bag and read it when I’m NOT on the bus” test, but the “Read the whole damn book while Freebird is napping on a Saturday” test, which means it was some addictive prose indeed.

Yadda yadda yadda IT’S FRIDAY and it just so happens that my steel sieve of a mind is not quite as sieve-y as normal, so we get a personal ad contest today. WOOOOOOOOOT. First person to correctly guess the title, author and heroine’s name will get a brand-spankin’ new Smart Bitch aristocratic title--and for a small fee, a brand-new spankin’ is also available to go with the title. We’re generous like that, we are.

Ready, set...GO!

---

Scarred young miss with a talent for horses seeks OMGHOT man for one night of passion. Why? Because my husband obeys the Law of the First Husband’s Wang, which states that any non-hero dude married to the heroine in a romance novel must suffer from some sort of erectile disorder. I need to get pregnant FAST, because if I don’t, my husband’s heir will inherit and he’s in a creepy cult. (Seriously, if we were in an episode of The Simpsons instead of a Georgian era romance, the dude would totally be humming “Nananananananananananananananana LEADER, LEADER.") Are you the right man for me? I prefer them cute and heavily concussed from carriage accidents.

I just did some checking and it seems that the Hyatt Regency in Dallas, location of one giant Romance conference, has rooms available - though I am only staying from 12 July through 15 July so I didn’t check for the night of the 11th.

Should you be interested in staying at the conference hotel, the conference rate for the night was available and there was no problem securing a reservation for me as of 11am this morning Eastern Time.

So - if you’re at the Adam’s Mark or another hotel and want to switch, you can call the hotel directly at 214-651-1234 and ask for reservations for the conference.

See you there! 

It’s time for another SBTB Fark-style contest of complete madness and hi-freaking-larity.

Behold: The Hasselhoff. You thought the joke was dead? Not so, says the copies of the Hoffobiography now in my dining room.

Your challenge! Create a LOLHoff using any of the many fine images of the Hoffster that you can find on that wily interweb. For those unsure of that of which I write, an LOLHoff is similar to a LOLCat or a LOLHunk.

You can post your LOLHoff (plsplspls, don’t make it bigger than 300x300 px) in the comments using an IMG HTML tag or you can email them to Candy or I and we will upload and post them for you.

We shall laugh and post and Hoff and vote all in this thread, and discuss who has best used their skills for their LOLHoff. Voting will end on Monday July 2, whenever we decide to stop counting.

There be Winners? Then let there be prizes!

1st place: The official Hoffobiography of your very own, and a $25 Amazon gift certificate.

2nd place: The official Hoffobiography and a $10 Amazon gift certificate.

3rd place: The official Hoffobiography and a Hoff Plane of your very own (paper not Boeing).

EDITED TO ADD: Should you win the Hoffatstic biography prize, please consider that we’d welcome your Guest Bitch Review™ of the content therein, because there can never be too much Hoff.

But of course, you can has samples:

Bitchery Reader Lucinda Betts is a guest writer at Romance Reviews Today, writing about a very interesting pair o’ topics.

1. Was a painting recently auctioned by Christie’s really really REALLY a portrait of Jane Austen?

2. How lame is Clive James’ defense of his own doubt as to the pictures subject? Based on the style and subject matter of her books, Jane wasn’t pretty enough to be that person? Lucinda says, “WTF?”

I think the mystery is intriguing and I’m ignoring Clive for the moment. He can bluster to himself awhile. Lucinda makes an excellent point in terms of the “Is it or isn’t it?” question that the painting bears a strong resemblance to the sketch of Austen from 1870 based on a sketch by her sister Cassandra.

Now, I have two questions of my own.

1. How many levels of lame and wrong is it that I looked at the Rice portrait and thought, “Dude, her hair is awesome. Can I take this JPEG to my hair stylist and get me some Jane Austen hair?”

2. How soon until a slightly-altered version of this mystery appears in a romance novel inspired by, or derived from, the recent increased number of Jane Austen-esque books? And will it be called The Austen Code? 

Some kind reader sent us several covers from Lady Aibell Press a while back. And by “kind,” I mean “256 different flavors of sadistic, you goddamn bastard.” I would’ve forgotten about the existence of these covers, but a hard drive clean-up turned them up, and like the generous bitch that I am, I’m sharing the pain with you.

Candy: How To Turn into an Angel in Three Easy Steps:

1. Buy a bad Rick James wig.

2. Fold giant paper fans and staple to your back.

3. Run around shirtless while looking creepily smug.

Sarah: My concept of guardian angel does not at all include Scott Baio with a greasy, stringy mullet and wings made of kilos of cocaine. I struggle to think whose angel that might be. Maybe Lindsey Lohan’s.

Candy: “Eep, opp, ork, ah ah"--that means “I’ll have dirty anal sex with both of you using my unnaturally huge toes in the back of your brother’s broken-down 1979 Cutlass while warping the aspect ratio of reality.”

Sarah: now that’s a whole new fetish subset I’d never considered: Empty Head Women With Giant Bunion Feet—Plus Bonus Alien.

Candy: Darlin’, if you knew how to position your mouth correctly, you wouldn’t have to dislocate your jaw every time you tried to give a blowjob. Seriously, going down on a dude works so much better when you’re actually within proximity of his dick, know what I mean?

I mean, the judge doesn’t exactly look impressed. And check out your boyfriend, there. He’s all “Eh, what can I do? The blowjobs are terrible, but let’s be honest here, with a face like mine, I’m lucky to be getting any kind of trim at all.”

Sarah: According to the American Legion flag code, “The flag should never be fastened, displayed, used, or stored in such a manner as to permit it to be easily torn, soiled, or damaged in any way.”

By placing the flag on a book with a woman too dumb to know where a penis is located and two smarmy men with a penchant for too much toupee glue, this cover has done more to damage and soil the flag and the international reputation of the USA than any international affair of the last 25 years. 

Too bad the American Legion doesn’t directly specialize in the asskicking of those who desecrate the American flag by placing it on horrific covers. The only thing worse would be alien feet. 

Charlene forwarded me this link to a flash advertisement sequence for Reversa. If you load the Reversa website at seemoresideeffects.ca you can “Step into the Living Room.”

Select a product (I selected the UV Anti Spot Lightening Cream which is the first box on the left and then clicked “See more Side Effects")

Wrinkly suit blonde lady gets up, and then a sullen chef walks in (WTF?).

Here is where I ask: Hot or Creepy?

Click “Make Bread.” Sullen chef kneads bread. Mantitty jiggles. He spanks the loaf of bread and does a half-assed job of accurately kneading it.

Charlene says, “I’ve never seen the product on store shelves, and I’m not sure what skin cream has to do with a half-naked guy kneading bread, but hey.”

Now, if I looked at everything BUT his face, because he was sneering and kind of smarmy looking in a “Yeah I know I’m hot” way, he was hot. But include the face? Creepy.

Another person I showed it to? Desperate to find out who that guy is so she can wallpaper her phone with his mantitty.

So I ask you - Mr. Bread Kneading Chef Mantitty: hot or creepy?

Edited to add: I checked out “Pastry Making” with sullen shirtless chef mantitty? I had to run away while the other woman nearly ran away with my monitor so she could be alone with it. In my mind? OMG CREEPY RUN RUN! 

Hello, my funky leetle cheekens,

Meljean Brook, who wrote the most excellent Demon Angel, is going to be at Powell’s Books at Cedar Hills Crossing on July 2nd, 7 p.m. That’s next Monday. I plan to be there--and my hair should be nice and purple by then, so I’ll be especially easy to spot, so come by and say hi (or smack me in the head with a nice piece of haddock if I gave your book a bad grade). I haven’t finished Demon Moon yet, but if it’s really good, I might ask for her to sign my breasts. Wooooo Spring Break!

I’ve also heard rumors that Brook might run around covered in nothing but the promotional posters she printed for the event. So take THAT into account, eh?

(What, me, use shameless promises of gratuitous nudity for promotional purposes? NEVER.)

Anyway, if you live in the Portland area, come to the signing and show Meljean some love. It’ll be radtacular.

Update! On July 5, Cheryl Sawyer dropped by and clarified her use of de rigueur in the comments and very politely pointed out that I was, in fact, talking out of my ass, for which I apologize. My statements about how stilted the book came across to me still stands, however.

Mark Twain once said that an author should “say what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it,” and as far as a rule of writing goes, that’s a good ‘un to keep in mind. It certainly was what sprang to mind when I attempted to read Cheryl Sawyer’s The Code of Love recently.

Here’s the setup:

In 1810, some English soldier dude escaped from a Mauritian prison, but was betrayed, recaptured and brought back. Now, let’s play “spot the strange word usage” with me in this excerpt, hmmmm?

Only Delphine Delgaish knew who had betrayed him to the legion, and she told just one other person, so no one else knew what to think. Which made a visit to the Garden Prison de rigueur at the earliest opportunity.

That particular use of de rigueur stopped me cold and had me running for my dictionary. It was somehow proper etiquette--in fact, socially necessary--for a genteelly-raised unmarried young woman to visit a dangerous, recently-escaped prisoner of war? WHAT?

De rigueur carries very strong connotations, most of them pertaining to fashion and social etiquette, and any uses outside of these contexts are usually deeply ironic or meant to provide comic contrast (e.g., “Genital torture and ritual humiliation were de rigueur at Abu Ghraib"). In this particular book’s case, visiting a prisoner to find out what exactly had gone wrong was perhaps necessary, perhaps even vital, but unless the visit was an attempt to, I don’t know, ascertain the color of his breeches or inspect the state of his Hessians, nothing about it was by any means de rigueur.

The use of this phrase made the book come across as trying too damn hard--an impression that was sustained across what bits of the book I managed to read. It wasn’t necessarily F-grade bad, or even D-grade bad, but it was tedious as hell, and made for a very stilted read. After ramming through a few more pages, I decided to give up on it. For the bits I managed to read, I’d give it a D+. It may have improved later, but I honestly didn’t want to wade through the rest of it. It made me a very sad panda, because it seemed like such a waste of an interesting premise.

Sarah: If you get the Publisher’s Marketplace’s ‘Today’s Deals’ email, you learned that Candy and I have a book deal. Or, as we put it, an omgwtfbbqholyshit book deal. To quote the announcement, it was a “nice” deal.

Sounds like my mother in law might have been involved - “Oh, Sarah! That’s so nice!”

Seriously. My blood pressure is already low and I had to put my head between my knees while we were talking to our agent about it. Hell, I have to put my head between my knees when I type words like “our agent.”

So many of you have written about the moment when you got The Call, and yeah. Head spinning? Check. Mouth hanging open? Check. More head spinning? Check. Candy totally did the pee-pee dance for at least an hour. (I do the pee-pee dance pretty much all day so no one noticed the change in my choreography.)

To quote the announcement, we’ll be writing a guide to romance novels, “a funny, somewhat bitchy and adoring look at the world of romance novels, from the authors to the covers to the conferences to the audience around.”

I’ve been rather shy about discussing it as it is in development, but there it is. We’re putting the word “Book” and the word “Deal” in the same sentence, and trying really hard not to pass out.

Candy: Sarah’s covered most of it, but I have this to add: HOLY FUCKING SHITDAMNNING CRAPMONKEYS IN A FUCKBARREL.

Back when Sarah and I asked for questions that we could answer in our About Us sections, one of the questions was “Are you guys going to write a book? Like, SMART BITCHES GUIDE TO ROMANCE NOVELS, vol. 1?”

Back then, we snorted, gave silly answers and moved on.

We really, really didn’t expect anyone to approach us and essentially say “DUDES. WRITE A SMART BITCH BOOK ABOUT ROMANCE NOVELS.”

So yeah, that weird sound you hear? That’d be my brain boggling.

We’re going to write a book. What’s more, we’re going to write a book that in all likelihood will contain the words “shit,” “fuck,” “cunt,” “cock,” “cocksucker,” “motherfucker” and “tits.” Also, “twat.” Not to mention “crapweasels” and “cuntmonkeys.”

This is going to rock.

Sarah: Oooh. Crapweasels. That’s also nice.

To entertain myself while reading this book--because God knows this book was not entertaining, or at least, not intentionally so--I found myself imagining what it’d be like if the various elements of Red Hawk’s Woman were represented by interpetive dancers. I saw it going something like this:

Dramatis Personae:
THE BOOK, represented by a person clad in a dollar-store Indian costume
THE PLOT, represented by a half-baked cake the size of a wading pool
GRAMMAR, represented by a man in a suit
DIALOGUE, represented by a giant ball of twine
MALAPROPISMS, represented by a woman wearing a bright pink spandex leotard covered in sequins and gold puffy paint

Scene:
A darkened stage, with a badly-painted backdrop of mountains and scrub. To the right of the stage is a big tub full of THE PLOT; off to the side is DIALOGUE, an end dangling seductively loose.

THE BOOK leaps out onto the darkened stage, spotlight trained solidly on it. It lets out a loud cry of anguish as it lands badly and breaks its ankle. This, however, does not prevent it from hobbling back on its feet; soon, it is twirling madly, if erratically. Its thrashings inevitably bring it up against GRAMMAR, whom THE BOOK proceeds to grope and molest in the most unseemly manner. MALAPROPISM sees this, and not one to be left out, comes up behind GRAMMAR, bashes him on the head, does the Hustle on his unconscious body and ties him up using some of the twine of DIALOGUE. She then grabs THE BOOK and makes out thoroughly with him. The two of them, lips still firmly locked, proceed to dance again, slowly at first, then going faster and faster, entangling themselves in DIALOGUE in the process, until they trip and fall over the body of GRAMMAR and straight into THE PLOT, where THE BOOK and MALAPROPISMS proceed to swim about, occasionally spuming like whales.

...what, you want an actual summary? And maybe some analysis? What the fuck? You think this is some kind of review site or something?

Bah. Fine. You win. Here’s the review proper:

Check this out: according to this wee bit o’news forwarded to me by many a reader there are now internet words that inspire the ire. No kidding.

According to the article, the internet words people hate the most:
1. folksonomy
2. blogosphere
3. blog
4. netiquette
5. blook (aka Blog-to-book)

I agree. I hate the world “blog.” And “Blogosphere” makes me want to commit crime. If I could wear normal tshirts, I’d be wearing this one. All the time.

But I was thinking yesterday that a LOT - as in more than three of the last 5 books I’ve read - have used the word “scudded” to describe clouds moving across the sky. What happened, was it the “writer’s word of the day” while manuscripts were being composed? I’ve seen it in a few contemporaries and a few historicals, too. It’s like the new version of “pelisse-” remember when every historical heroine had to put on a pelisse at some point and it was never sufficient protection from the elements?

Has anyone else noticed certain words in romance fiction becoming “trendy” for a time, to the point where you get incredibly tired of them? Not just sexual terms, either, though we’ve talked about that. More like words that seem to spread like viral videos from one set of books to the next. Anyone else notice this or am I just nuts? 

Have I mentioned here that I exist in something of a news fast? I rarely if ever read the news. I might hear a few seconds of an update on the radio, and I see the backs of other people’s papers on the subway, but I’ve been on a news fast for a long time, mostly because I don’t trust a word that comes out of any major American news outlet. That’s a longer story.

The other reason is that lately, I am so incredibly hormonal. I really can’t figure out why. *rests hands on giant round gestating stomach* If I just sit here a minute I might come up with a reason… I can’t really put my finger on it. But yeah, most of the time, the news upsets me more than a little. I’m a lightweight. I admit it. Well, that’s not really the right word. I’m as big as a barn, and not light in weight at this time, but hormonally and emotionally speaking, I’m a bit of a wuss.

So reading about the following made me exceptionally glad I wasn’t wearing mascara today. I was crying out of rage and sorrow, and out of incredible pride and admiration.

On April 7, 2007, Dua Khalil Aswad, a 17 year old Yazidi Iraqi girl, was pulled into a crowd of men, some of whom were family members, and beaten and stoned to death as an “honor killing.” She had been seen in the company of a man of a different faith, a young man who was a Sunni Arab. Armed policemen were there, and the entire murder was captured on handheld video. No one did a thing to stop them or to save her. She died of a fractured skull and a broken spine.

A month later, Joss Whedon wrote about Khalil on Whedonesque, and his entry inspired a group of people led by Skyla Dawn Cameron to put together “an anthology of responses to Khalil’s death and the issues Whedon raised in his original essay ([the] culture of misogyny, violence against women, and the need for equality). It will be printed through Lulu.com, with all proceeds going to charity.” The planned release date is the one year anniversary of Dua Khalil’s death, April 7, 2008.

The book, Nothing But Red is seeking writers and artists to participate - and all formats, media, and genres are open - as well as volunteers to help put the book together. The first article will be Whedon’s original post, though the organizers are looking for anything that serves as a response to Khalil’s death. Submissions are being accepted from 1 August 2007 until 1 November 2007.

You can find out more at the Nothing But Red site, or email Skyla Dawn Cameron directly. But spreading the world is of the most help.

Ah, our wonderful Bitchery readers. The best covers ever come from our intrepid readers, who risk breaking their scanners to provide us with romance cover horrors from the way back machine, and the not so far back machine.

First, two covers from Josefina, who says she is house sitting in a home filled with romance novels from long long ago, some of which are scary, scary things.

Sarah: If you’re in a boat that appears to be on fire, I’d say prenatal status and the absence footwear are the least of your problems.

Candy: They see me rowin’, they hatin’,
I know they’re all thinkin’ I’m so white and yuppie
Think I’m just so white and yuppie
Think I’m just so white and yuppie
Can’t you see I’m white and yuppie
Wearing SPF 50

Sarah: Is the spectre named “Poncy?” Or just “Ugly Shorts?”

Candy: I don’t know about “blithe,” but I think at least one of those spirits was gay.

Sarah: And can we talk about the demon pug? That’s seriously the creepiest dog I’ve seen, and usually pugs are just adorable.

Candy: Dude! That’s no pug! That’s Kuato! Give ‘im a break; he is a partially resorpted twin, after all.

Finally, this cover comes from an anonymous reader who asks us not to share her name. Thanks, anonymous!

Sarah: Dear Diary. Today I killed a man with my shoe. Fortunately the shoe was red. Equally fortunate, there was a cover artist from Harlequin there to record the whole thing. The End.

Candy: Gawd. I can just see this as the premise of some awful, awful chick-lit romantic suspense. She’s a ditzy personal-assistant-turned-assassin with a shoe fetish, and when her boss tells her to use stilettos, she uses stilletos. :weeps:

That thumping sound you heard? Was Triskelion crashing to ground.

That’s right: Triskelion publishing is no more, and according to Dear Author, they’re filing for Chapter 7, which is liquidation of assets, rather than a reorganization.

If you’re a Triskelion author, what’s your next move? Readers: What’s your take?

Thanks to Kalen Hughes for forwarding on that news tidbit to us.