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

We moved last weekend.

OK, let me amend this sentence: We moved out last weekend, and are now deep in the process of unpacking and settling in.

I’m going crazy by slow degrees. Boxes are everywhere. The cats, after spending about 48 hours being afraid of rambunctious dust motes and Mars going into retrograde, are now having a great time at the new place. They especially love the stacks of boxes.

God, do they ever love the boxes.

Unpacking is made that much more interesting when a furry orange cannonball insists on leaping into the boxes as soon as I open them. Especially when the boxes contain pointy objects.

Locking him up in a room while I unpack results in the Unholy Howls of Much Grief and Mournfulness. Seriously, he makes it sound as if I’m beating him with a rubber hose. Forget sparing the neighbors all that noise--MY nerves can’t take it.

The upside is, I’ve become quite the accomplished cat tosser. I can now scruff, lift and launch in one smooth motion.

Anyway, that’s why I’ve been mostly absent the last week or so. Things are calming down. Sort of. I still have to sort my clothing and I have yet to unpack my 20 boxes of books (I don’t think all my other stuff combined took up 20 boxes), and one of the old bookshelves finally gave up the ghost, so I have to assemble a new one, but otherwise, the rooms are beginning to resemble living spaces instead of a replica of downtown Manhattan made from cardboard and Rubbermaid Roughneck tubs.

A sign of returning normalcy is that I’m browsing through the book section again when I go grocery shopping instead of powering through and grabbing only what I need because I need to go back NOW NOW NOW AND UNPACK GAAAH. I saw Passion by Lisa Valdez at the store yesterday, and I had to stop and check it out because I’ve heard so much about it.

I read the first couple of pages--the book starts with a letter--and I was struck by something. I’ll excerpt little bits of it below; let’s see if you noticed the same thing I did.

My Dearest Abigail,

What news I have! I hardly know how to tell you--you, my dearest and most trusted confidante, my girlhood friend and sister of my heart--you, who did warn me so directly and honestly what might happen were I to let my heart rule my head. (...)

I, Lucinda Margarita Hawkmore, am with child! A fact, I know, that in and of itself is not entirely remarkable. But wait, dearest, for here comes the revelation that will lift your brows ceiling-ward. [goes on to explain that she’s preggers with the OMGHOT gardener’s baby]

Now, my dearest, you mustn’t chastise me. As you know, I am completely devoted to my new lover, Lord Fentworth. And because I have already borne a Hawkmore heir, George, in his usual compliant, husbandly fashion, shall accept this child as his. (...)

With all my love,

Lucinda

Post Script: I know I can rely upon you to burn this letter.

So did you guys notice what I noticed? To be fair, this is a problem that’s endemic to romance novels in general. Hell, a lot of popular fiction in general.

I’m talking about spelling everything out in excruciating detail for the reader.

In that letter--a letter to an intimate acquaintance, providing scandalous, extremely private news--the letter-writer not only tells the recipient of the letter how exactly she’s related to her, but gives her full name, her husband’s first name, his title, the fact that she’s borne him an heir, the name of her lover and his occupation.

All this information being provided in one fell swoop--information that the recipient of the letter knows already? Kind of annoying.

In fact, if the letter is so sensitive that the letter-writer wants the recipient to burn it, wouldn’t she refer to things more obliquely instead of spelling everything out? Before the story even begins, I’m snapped out of the fictional scenario because if nothing else, I didn’t see why the declaration of the name would’ve been necessary. In fact, I would’ve loved having to guess which of the main characters is the bastard child later down the road.

When authors do this, I feel the same way I do when the people at the bank or the store start speaking extra slowly and clearly with me once they see that I’m Chinese, even though I speak and understand English just fine.

In short: I feel condescended to. I feel like the author has assumed certain things about my capacity to figure things out by myself, and I resent that.

The problem is, a lot of romance novels do this ALL THE TIME.

Another example:

How often have you seen foreign words being used, only to have the same word in English repeated immediately after?

Why the hell would the characters say something twice in a row, especially when they know the word in English in the first place? If understanding the foreign words is crucial to the plot, then make the meaning of the word obvious in its context, or provide a glossary at the back, or even have a character say “ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER. DO YOU SPEAK IT?”

But this awkward translation on the go? Fuck that shit. It’s not just unrealistic, it’s distracting.

Or how about all those times when there’s a Big Revelation, and the author goes into agonizing detail and spells everything out for you? Doesn’t matter if it’s the killer being unmasked or a Clarification of Misunderstood Lurve. Typically, the characters have an a-ha! moment, and words like “Of course, it all made sense now,” or “Now, thinking back on it, she suddenly realized that...” preface a lot of internal musing that snaps all the puzzle pieces in place neatly.

Argh.

The most egregious example of this sort of thing, however, isn’t actually part of a book per se. It’s the back cover blurb for Archangel by Sharon Shinn, which gives away EVERYTHING that’s gradually revealed to us, bit by bit, over the course of three books.

I read the back cover blurb for that book, and immediately felt the urge to slap the asshole who’d approved it. A huge part of the fun of the Samaria series was slowly putting the puzzle pieces together, and suddenly realizing exactly what the oracles did and how they communicated with God. Thanks to one measly paragraph, the joy of putting that puzzle together? Shot to hell.

All because some buttmunch somewhere probably decided that people wouldn’t be able to figure it out.

Part of the reason why I love books like For My Lady’s Heart is because the author takes the exact opposite tack: she assumes that we’ll be able to puzzle shit out on our own. Dialogue in Middle English? Hey, why the hell not? And no glossary, either--at least not for the first edition. It’s sink or swim, baby.

So, yeah, much as I love romance novels, I have to say: there’s a definite dumbing-down-for-the-masses vibe I get from many of them.

Oh, by the way? I realize I do some of these things when I write fiction. It’s part of what frustrates me so much about my own writing, and why I thought that last chapter of The Book of Angels was awkward and info-dumpy.

Every so often, the clothing & accessories say more than the wearer when it comes to a romance cover. Candy and I think it’s time the fashion had a chance to speak for itself!

Sarah: First, the mardi gras beads - what every stylish “faux Native American” maiden is wearing this fall - along with a stunning low-cut gown and a Wonderbra.

Second, if you’re a man going for that “faux Native American” look, go through your grandfather’s bureau, dig past the 1940’s pornography and his hot letters from your grandma during the war, and find his Venereal Moose Lodge Membership Ribbon. This makes a stunning and utterly authentic armband for your next fashion pow wow.

Candy: OK, those track pants that come with the matching knife? They gotta go.

And I didn’t know Native American dresses came with shoulder pads. I learn something new every day.

Sarah: I didn’t know that the Gap had chainmail tunics for men. But I totally saw that mock turtleneck on sale there this weekend. Think it’s cold to press your wanton cleavage up against metal links like that? Ouch. I bet it pinches. And not in a good way.

Candy: The chick totally stole Elvira’s dress and threw a bucket of varnish on it so it would look nice and shiny for this photo. However, I think she needs to watch more vampire movies--so that she can learn how NOT to garotte herself with her cape, if nothing else.

Sarah:”Look, I TOLD YOU. You have to UNTUCK my shirt BEFORE you unbutton it. I don’t care what Fabio said, it’s not COMFORTABLE. How would YOU like it if I tried to yank YOUR dress off before undoing the buttons? See? It sucks!”

Candy: Dude obviously flunked Rake School, because he hasn’t figured out that to get to the REALLY good bits, you need to bunch the skirts UP, not try to yank them down, and vice versa for the bodice.

Sarah: Scandalous Miranda is only scandalous because she just loves to check for pitstains in her man’s shirts. Miranda’s got the magic of Clorox 2.

Candy: OK, I admit it: I got nuttin’ after Sarah’s perfect snark. All I can think is: they both looked so happy and really freakin’ turned on by the bleach fetish.

“Oh baby, scrub those yellow stains OUT. Oh yeah, pour more of that bleach on. Yes. Yesssss. Oh, right there, rub harder, yes, yes, YESSSS!”

Armpit-stain bleaching fetishes: they’re the steppingstone fetish for other bleach-related perversions. Next thing you know, they’re getting all Lara Flynn Boyle on us.

The guy actually looks like he’s been huffing quite a bit more of the fumes than he should, because dude, he looks like he’s hiiiiiiiigh.

Sarah:I don’t know where to begin. Is he wearing pink shorts or does he have a biiiiig muffin top problem below the waistline? Are they underwater? If not, what’s up with her hair? Is he dead? What’s wrong with the bone structure of his chest? Did he have open-heart surgery recently?

And FOR the LOVE of GOD put some CLOTHES on. This Lady doth protest because it is COLD and you are standing near the LOCH and you are NAKED. My eyes! My EYES!

Candy: Nope, not open-heart surgery. That’s totally where his third nipple used to be. Scandalous Miranda up there accidentally burned it right off with some bleach.

And that hair… I actually feel sorry for the model. Who can we sue for gross misapplication of a wind-machine?

Or was she just really, really surprised to see that his third-nipple was gone?

First, l’Shana Tova to all our Jewish readers. Since it’s Rosh Hashana, I am required by Jewish law to visit all the relatives and eat all of their food. At nine months pregnant, I am up to the task. But before I go, a question inspired by the discussion of the origins of romance:

What do you consider the Classics of romance? If you were, say, designing a course around the origins of the romance novel, or were looking to trace the finest examples of romance backwards through the library, what books would you choose?

On my list, which I’m still mentally building: Evelina by Fanny Burney, and Pride & Prejudice (particularly if Colin Firth is reading or at least featured prominently on the cover - yowsa!) certainly fill the bottom of the rotation, but picking my 20th century examples is going to be hard.

At least I have ideas for a list to make in the car! 

The RWA hasn’t brought up the definition of romance recently, but while I was playing on Wikipedia, I thought I’d look up their definition:

A romance novel is a novel from the genre currently known as romance. The genre has two strict criteria:

* the story must focus on the relationship and romantic love between a man and a woman;
* the end of the story must be positive, leaving the reader believing that the protagonists’ love and relationship will endure for the rest of their lives.

On the whole, I’d say the wiki entry is not bad. Sure, there are some holes, and certainly the question of plot restrictions and genre requirements could be debated over many, many bottles of wine, but it does pare down what a romance novel is - and not by defining what it is not! I call that a “Canadian definition” so named because Canadians often have to define the differences between American and their own culture by discussing what it is not.

However, the wiki discussion of the Origin of the romance novel caught my attention:

Origins of the romance novel

The earliest English novels in this genre appeared in the 18th century. Classic, highly-regarded romantic novels are Pride and Prejudice (1813), by Jane Austen, Wuthering Heights (1847), by Emily Brontë, and Jane Eyre (1847), by Charlotte Brontë.

Huh. Are these romance novels? More importantly, are they the origins of the romance novel?

I confess to not having read Wuthering Heights, but Jane Eyre? That book left such a poor taste in my mouth I don’t know that I could consider it a foundation for the romance novel - unless it’s a foundation for my personal opinion of what makes an unredeemable hero and what makes for a doormat of a heroine. I’m not a big fan of Ms. Eyre.

Pride and Prejudice, though, I’m on board with that, and Emma, as both books discuss and acknowledge the romantic and matchmaking elements of their storylines frankly, if not on the first page!

So, what other books are the Origins of Romance in your opinion? The Flame and the Flower? Men are From Mars? Red Fish, Blue Fish?

Congrats to THIS! Christine who guessed correctly: Lily Tremaine from Night Shadow by Catherine Coulter.

Kneel and receive your title!