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

Then Dunnan gets his fool self killed. (But of course he does. He’s mean to horsies! And he enjoys killing other people! Such a character cannot be long for the world in a romance novel, particularly if he’s married to the heroine.) Moncrief also finds out that his brother has died, making him the Duke of Lymond. He resigns from the army, returns to Scotland, and though he knows it’s a bad, bad idea, finds himself paying a visit to the widow.

Catherine Dunnan is a royal mess. Harry’s death has sent her into a spiraling depression, and along the way she’s developed quite the laudanum addiction. When Moncrief finally meets her, he finds her condition disturbing, but she’s still attractive, of course—drug-addicted romance novel heroines still look good even if they’re sallow and skeletal. When he returns the next day to deliver a spurious last letter from Harry to help comfort her despair, he finds that she’s deep in the throes of Happy Overdose Land.

He immediately takes steps to shock her back to consciousness, but in the process sees her in nothing more than her nightgown, and even worse, has to undress her. This, of course, is an unacceptable state of matters, so he marries her on the spot.

The problem is, Catherine remembers none of this when she regains consciousness. The overdose, the measures Moncrief took to drag her out of her drug-induced coma, the hasty wedding—none of it. But for better or worse, she’s now the Duchess of Lymond and a newlywed when she hasn’t even reconciled herself to being a widow.

Moncrief’s aloofness and autocratic manner irritate Catherine, while Catherine’s obsession with Harry’s letters chaps Moncrief’s hide. Gradually, though, Catherine learns that the real Harry is quite at odds with the man she had fallen in love with in the letters. Since Harry left for the Lowland Scots Fusiliers a mere month after the wedding, it’s not as if she had much time to get to know Harry’s true character.

Overall, I enjoyed the book quite a bit. The characters were engaging, the plot was interesting, and Ranney’s writing style is quite beautiful, but it lacked that special punch that would’ve made it a keeper. Catherine’s drug addiction was particularly interesting to me. It’s not very often that romance novel heroines are allowed such self-destructive behavior, but her descent into it and her recovery are skimmed over when I wanted more grittiness. And ultimately, in a weird twist provided by an out-of-nowhere suspense side-plot, we find out that her addiction wasn’t necessarily her fault anyway. That struck me as sort of cop-out; I would’ve found Catherine a much more interesting, nuanced character if the dependency (and her insistent denials that she wasn’t an addict) had been all her.

Also, the way Catherine handles the revelation that Moncrief truly was the letter-writer was just a bit too calm for my tastes. This is a situation just begging for some high drama, and Ranney has certainly demonstrated that she can write these sorts of things with a very deft hand—my two favorite books by Ranney (actually, these are two of my favorite romance novels, period), Upon a Wicked Time and My Beloved certainly didn’t shy away from drama—so I’m not sure why Ranney avoided it this time. Like To Love a Scottish Lord, a bit more Sturm und Drang would’ve been appropriate. This is ironic because many romance novels have the exact opposite problem: too much melodrama over small, inconsequential issues.

Catherine’s relative calmness when she finds out the true identity of the letter-writer is a contrast with her far more believable reaction when her former in-laws, Harry’s parents, come for a visit and start making insinuations about her lack of devotion to Harry’s memory while praising his name to the skies at every opportunity. She loses her temper and tells everyone off who has been giving her a hard time, and it’s one of the most entertaining scenes in the story. If Ranney had been able to impart that level of energy, snappiness and depth to the rest of the book, I would’ve liked it even better than I did. As it stands, though, this book is certainly no slouch, and it’s definitely worth a read if you’re a sucker for stories involving unrequited love.

The jury is still very much out as to whether the chapter will ever be formally recognized, but at least the application process is underway at the time of this Bitchery posting. And I’ll bet even the most uninformed, disinterested non-writer among you can guess why: that awful world, erotic. And, of course, everything for which it stands. Because even after the lot of us agreed, following much outrage and gnashing of teeth, to eradicate the offensive word from our
title and description, nothing has been guaranteed. After all, even if we don’t CALL ourselves authors of erotica or erotic romance, the fact remains that we consistently write about The Act in terms that leaving little-to-nothing to the imagination, and often include same-gender participants and/or threesomes, foursomes and moresomes.

And even those of us who don’t stray far from the more vanilla combos of one man/one woman/one horizontal surface often force our couples to indulge in hedonistic activities like, as mentioned by an incensed author in an RWR* letter-to-the-editor, ORAL SEX ON THE FIRST DATE. This, the aforementioned author insists, is not her idea of romance. She didn’t bother to give an alternate definition, but I’m guessing the word “porn” wasn’t far from her mind. Or maybe “smut.” Frankly, I’d be surprised if she were thinking “erotica,” but I could be wrong. It’s been known to happen.

So, to recap…

We can’t call ourselves the Erotic Romance Chapter because...well, because. No one’s really given us a GOOD answer as to why the word is verboten. Lot’s of blather about “image,” and what romance really IS, and what it ISN’T. None of which has anything to do with the fact that EVERY MAJOR NEW YORK HOUSE is now dipping its toes--hell, its heels, soles and ankles, too--into the erotic waters. Even Harlequin, that bastion of the closed bedroom door, is beating the coochie drum with its new “Spice” line. And yet, RWA remains resistant. Seems nonsensical to me, but what do I know? I’m unpublished, and a trashy, ill-bred EROTIC ROMANCE WRITER, to boot.

I am one member of a potential chapter, among over two hundred, who is waiting to hear if the sitting National Board has the grace to say, “We don’t much like HOW you write romance, but since you’re writing about people in love and including that all-important happily-ever-after, we agree that you DO WRITE ROMANCE. So come on down, girls, and get yourself a slice of the
pie!” But I’ll be surprised if they do.

On the other hand, I’ll be equally surprised if they say, instead, “Sorry. You just don’t make the cut. In fact, you fall so short of what we consider an exemplary group of romance authors that we sort of wish you’d just...disappear. Completely. And take those icky-poo readers who LIKE your nasty girlie-porn with you.” (Rounded off nicely with a delicate, ladylike shudder, of course.)

We should be so lucky to get such a direct, honest response. If I could face the board today, here’s what I’d tell them: Don’t squirt me with feminine hygiene spray and tell me it’s raining. For God’s sake, ladies, if you haven’t the balls to say you don’t like us or the studmuffins we rode in on, at least don’t lower yourselves to hypocrisy. I--and, I suspect, many of my sisters in smut--would respect you more for a little forthright bitchiness than all the genteel double-speak in the world.

For one thing, your average forthright bitch has class. And I can appreciate that, even when I don’t agree with her about much else.

*RWR - Romance Writers Report, a monthly journal distributed to RWA members.

(Smart Bitch Editorial Note: Two paragraphs of unduly sensitive and detailed information that wasn’t meant for public consumption have been deleted by request.)