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

Since the growing addiction to Books(not)Free, my recommendations are less than reflective of my recent purchases, mostly because I haven’t made any recent purchases.

For example, out of the top 8, five are Julia Quinn novels, and of that five, I’ve already read three. Time to do some grooming of the recommendations list.

But one author I don’t think I’ve read appears at #8: Sabrina Jeffries’ Royal Brotherhood series. Judging from the titles, Princes are having no problems getting some. Anyone have a reaction to this series? Worth the clickity click click, not to mention the bling bling? (Because you know I have to hock a diamond to afford a paperback these days!)

Beyond that, several LKH’s later and a manic clicking of the “not interested” button, I have a rather curious recommendations list - and keep in mind, this is like telling you what uncool manner of music I listen to:

5. The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown, by Julia Quinn et al.
4. Industrial Magic: Women of the Otherworld, by Kelley Armstrong
3. Dead to the World, by Charlaine Harris
2. The Good, the Bad, and the Undead, by Kim Harrison
1. When He Was Wicked, by Julia Quinn

What’s on yours?

1: Black Rose, by Nora Roberts.

I already ruminated on this trilogy, and how ParaNoramals don’t really do it for me. I already know that a friend I’m going to visit this summer has a copy, so if I’m seriously jonesing for something to read I can borrow hers.

2. Killing Time: A Novel by Linda Howard.

Linda Howard makes me howl. Ever since the heroine was in horrible, horrible psychic and physical pain and STILL the hero got a woodrow, I have had no patience for her. Plus, this novel returns to her “entrancing supernatural territory of her popular novels Dream Man” and that alone makes me run away, run away!

3. Lie By Moonlight, by Amanda Quick.

Quick, someone get me a chaise and some smelling salts because nothing heads quickly for the Cliffs of Overwrought like a Quick novel. And check out the Amazon blurb: “Who but Quick finds such joy in chestnuts as the boy thief mentored by the rich man he tries to rob...? Quick plunges into every cliché....” No, thank you. I get enough clichés listening to my Mother in Law.

4. The Wonder Spot, by Melissa Bank.

Ho there, What a different sort of cover. What is this? I know all about my wonder spot; RWA won’t let me talk about it, since it’s located in the cuntal area, but I do know where it is. Judging by cover alone, this could be interesting.

Drat drat drat it is not. I don’t even think it’s romance. It’s a coming-of-age story. Yo, Amazon, unless the heroine meets the hero at a young age, starting a romance when the heroine is 12 is not a romance. Even the blurb from Publishers Weekly says it is a story about a girl “struggling to achieve a grownup self-awareness.” That ain’t no romance.

5. Jamie, by Lori Foster.

You say “Jamie” and millions of romance fans think “Outlander,” so maybe “Jamie” is the “Madison/Emily/Emma” of hero names for the next few years.

Ouch: Publishers Weekly says, “The fifth installment in Foster’s Visitation series (after Just a Hint—Clint) strives to be a Jennifer Crusie–style lighthearted romance with a paranormal kick, but while the setting and secondary characters possess charm, the bumpy plotting keeps readers from fully suspending their disbelief.” Not only does this book feature psychics, it features psychic kids, and there’s nothing more precocious and far-too-advanced-for-their-age than a psychic kid in a romance. No thanks. Pass.

6. Oceans of Fire, by Christine Feehan.

Pass.

And if you put Christine Feehan in an anagram generator, you get “A Inference Shhit.” Nothing inferred about it.

7. A Good Yarn, by Debbie Macomber.

A sequel to The Shop on Blossom Street about a yarn shop and women. From PW: “A heartfelt tale of crafts and comraderie.” I love the crafts angle- very fad-oriented. Next up, The Low-Carb Shop Around the Corner.

But not strictly a romance, so no thanks.

8.Sins of the Night (A Dark Hunter Novel) by Sherrilyn Kenyon.

Not a chance.

9. Something Blue, by Emily Giffin.

This smells like Chick Lit through the monitor LCD. Hm. Beautiful, perfect girl has life turned upside-down when plain-looking best friend steals her fiance and leaves her alone - and pregnant. Ouch. Aside from a twinge of “go, plain best friend, go,” I am not going to read this book because it sounds like the baby is what’s going to fulfill her empty life, and that’s a lot of expectation and pressure to put on a newborn. I hate when authors do that. If something is missing from the heroine’s life, another person, particularly a small, dependent one, is not going to fill it with flowery happiness. If you’re not complete, it’s up to you to fix yourself. It’s not a job for a baby to make your sad life all better.

See? Now I don’t have to read this book.

10. One Night of Sin, by Gaelen Foley

I really liked “Pirate Prince,” but I couldn’t get through “Princess,” not after that weird nursing-yet-still-a-virgin scene, so I’m hesitant to pull out my credit card and actually pay for a Foley.

So that’s the top 10. How disappointing. We have Feehan, Quick, and Foley. If they were a law firm, they’d represent clients by flinging purple prose at the jury and having humpy sex on the judge’s bench.

So, readers of the SBTB: what do you recommend that’s coming out this summer?

Some of you know that my parents didn’t really bother restricting what I read when I was a kid. They hid actual pornography from me, which was useless because I ferreted out my dad’s stash of Playboys by the time I was 10--and just about gagged when I saw my first glimpse of pubic hair, because goddammit, isn’t armpit hair bad enough? Now I’m going to get hair there when I grow up?

Anyway, I had access to all the bookshelves in the house, and a half-hearted effort was made to keep the spicy books on the higher shelves, but c’mon, there were CHAIRS around and nobody ever specifically told me I couldn’t read specific books or had to stay away from certain shelves (not that it would’ve done any good), so once I’d exhausted all the relatively innocuous books in the lower regions, like Agatha Christie mysteries, I explored new hunting grounds. And found a whole new world. A new, confusing world.

I’ve mentioned before that Special Gifts by Anne Stuart was the first novel with oral sex I’d ever read. I now realize that’s not true. I’m pretty positive Nine and a Half Weeks contains oral sex scenes as well, and I was 11 when I read that, three years earlier than Special Gifts. However, so much of that book whizzed right over my head; I’m sure all sorts of box-munching and cocksucking went on in that novel—I just had no idea.

And while Nine and a Half Weeks was by far the most explicit book I’d read, many other books I read at about the same age contained explicit sex scenes too. When I found out about Rainbow Party, I admit I felt a little shocked that it had been released as a YA title, but I thought back on some of the novels I was reading between the ages of 10 through 15, and I seriously doubt Rainbow Party can beat Lucky or I’ll Take Manhattan (or Nine and a Half Weeks) for sheer sweaty dirtiness. I can’t say for sure, of course, because like everyone else talking about this book, I haven’t read Rainbow Party yet, though I plan to do it soon because I’m very, very curious about how the author treats the subject matter. Stay tuned for the review, which I will definitely stick up on Amazon.com to counteract all the hysterical “NO I HAVEN’T READ IT YET BUT I HATES IT BECAUSE IT’S SO FILTHY OH THINK OF OUR PRECIOUS CHILDREN OH THE DEPRAVITY OH THE MORAL DECAY CAUSED BY THOSE HORRIBLE LIBERALS WITH THEIR SEX EDUCATION AND THEIR SECULAR HUMANISM WHOOPS CAN’T TALK ANY MORE ALL THE FOAM IN MY MOUTH MAKES IT DIFFICULT OK GOTTA GO BITE SOMEBODY NOW IN THE NAME OF JESUS K THX BYE” reviews.

And not only did my parents not bother restricting my book choices, they also didn’t bother to discuss any of my reading material with me. My mom certainly couldn’t, because she’s illiterate. And I don’t mean functionally illiterate, I mean she seriously can’t read anything except numbers. Being born a female in the late 30s to a Chinese family in the poorest neighborhood of the most crime-ridden state in Malaysia doesn’t lead to quite the high-quality education one would expect. My dad? He reads the newspapers. If he’s feeling really sassy, he’ll read Newsweek or Time Magazine. So it’s not as if we were reading these books together and discussing them, and even if we were reading the same books, my parents are old-fashioned in that They Don’t Discuss That Sort of Thing with Children, no no no.

So I read all this adult material in an almost-vacuum, with all except one of my older siblings in college or married with their own households already, and I was far too embarrassed to ask my one remaining brother any detailed questions. I would talk about some of this stuff with my best friends, but shit, they had no clue either—we came up with all sorts of wacky theories, including one I won’t even go into about what would possibly happen if you happened to accidentally drink dog pee. (Don’t ask. No, seriously. Don’t.)

So while part of me kind of wishes I had more guidance at that age, part of me is not at all sorry, and when it comes down to it, I wouldn’t change my learning process for the world. If nothing else, I learned to perform research at a very young age, plus some of the weird misconceptions I had make for some funny-ass stories.

However, lax though my parents were when it came to policing my reading material, they were very, very stringent about teaching me a few important lessons and making sure these lessons had sunk in: they taught me that fiction is not reality, and they taught me basic ethical principles. They were also very careful to keep tabs on me when I went out with friends, and set firm boundaries on what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior.

See how wacky my parents were? They cared more about what I was doing in real life than what kind of fiction I was reading. Crazy, man, crazy.

The point (or one of the points) of all this rambling is: I turned out OK. No, really, I did. I’m not saying that the way I was raised is ideal. But despite of my extensive, omnivorous and not-necessarily-appropriate-for-children reading experiences, I am not and have never been sexually promiscuous, I have never been accidentally pregnant, I have never contracted a disease, I have never cheated or been cheated on, I have never been addicted to drugs (unless chocolate counts), I have never molested any children or furry little animals, or whatever other worst-case scenario people imagine when they think of what would happen to a kid if the kid took a look at some titty or read about a guy getting a blowjob. I finished college in just over 3 years instead of the usual 4, I graduated maxima cum laude, I hold down a steady job and I am able to sustain healthy, loving relationships. Not too bad for a kid who started reading Jackie Collins at an age when the mere thought of kissing boys was gross.

I’m willing to bet that millions of other kids have sneaked peeks (and more than peeks) at books with explicit sex and/or outright pornography, and turned out all right too. I don’t think reading material is a particularly good predictor of sexual pathology or ethical integrity; I think parents, the kid’s home life and genetics have a much, much bigger influence.

Yes, teenagers can be impressionable. I also think we tend to underestimate how smart children and teens are. Yes, there will always be dumbass teenagers who watch Jackass and decide Johnny Knoxville is a hero and attempt to barbecue themselves the way he did on that one episode, except they forgot Knoxville had a fire-retardant suit on. But these are dumbasses, real Darwin Award candidates in the making. We’re not talking toddlers with no concrete concept that fire = pain, we’re talking 14-year-olds, 15-year-olds, and if by that age they haven’t figured out that jumping off a roof or laying on a hot grill is going to hurt like a motherfucker, well, I’m not sure that lesson is ever going to fully sink in. And dumbasses make up a pretty a small proportion of the population—after all, the vast majority of teenagers who watched Jackass didn’t attempt any of the stupid stunts.

Similarly, I have no doubt that some teenagers will read the smutty-smut and decide to give some of the stuff a whirl, but--and feel free to call me crazy--I’m going to bet that a lot of kids will discover all sorts of naughty things by their creative little selves. There’s a report out showing that kids who vow to stay abstinent are more likely to engage in oral and anal sex but less likely to use condoms. If necessity is the mother of invention, then teenage horniness has to be a close second.

I think this is all a REALLY long-winded way to say this: Just because you have no faith in your own kids doesn’t mean you should assume other people’s kids are as stupid, disobedient or impressionable. By all means wrap your children in a hermetically-sealed environment and fanatically police all their reading material (including what they’re looking at on the Internet) to make sure that there is nary a mention of “cocksucker” or “motherfucker” because you believe (to steal a phrase from Seanbaby) that “hearing the word ‘fuck’ is how Satan enters children’s groins.” But don’t try to restrict what other people can have access to in the process of rabidly ensuring your children’s physical and mental purity.

And honestly, what’s the big deal? A kid looks at something sexual and wants to know about blowjobs, or what an erection is, or what the word “cunt” means. Aside from the excruciating embarrassment resulting from discussing sex with your kid (an embarrassment that is very much cultural, by the way), what’s so bad about it? Isn’t this a wonderful opportunity to discuss certain issues, or at least lay the foundation for some future discussions? Wouldn’t you rather talk about this with your kids and explain some of the bigger ramifications rather than wait for them to find out for themselves when they start dating?

But then some people don’t ever want their kids to have oral sex. Like, ever. What’s up with that?

I just don’t get it, I guess.

NOTE: RWA Offensive Word Count: 10 total words in 6 out of 7 categories. The only one I missed was “cock,” although frankly, since I used variants of “cocksucker” twice, I think that should count, too.

You know the kind I mean. No one ever says a word about them that is remotely negative. They charm the hero, his best friend, the dog, the cook (of course the hero has a cook), the butler, the household staff- soon the heroine gets better treatment than the hero and everyone’s looking at the hero like he’s Satan’s left asscheek for being out of sorts with that so nice young lady.

Why is this a common device? From historicals to medievals to contemporary romance - even contemporary suspense, when someone might be trying to kill the heroine, which is a shame because she is so nice, the perfectly amiable heroine is everywhere. Why the hesitation to paint a chick with some flaws? And I don’t mean the size-12-oh-God-I’m-fat kind of flaws either.

I have a theory that it’s easier for women, who make up the majority of the romance readership, to forgive massive flaws in a hero (like, oh, say, raping the heroine, Mr. Historical Manstud) but it’s harder to forgive massive flaws in the heroine, because essentially, as a fellow woman, that’s her imaginary competition. The reader wants to like the heroine, wants to root for her and be her friend, and having her crafted with major personality flaws or the penchant for making boneheaded decisions creates a scenario where the reader knows better, and that there heroine might be so nice but she is also so stupid- and therefore, she doesn’t deserve that fine man.

The book I’m reading right now features a criminal heroine - she’s a no-mistaking-it felony-committing criminal - and yet she’s so charming and so nice that everyone adores her, and whenever the accusation surfaces among the charmed masses that her motivations might be less-than-pure, there’s no way they’ll believe it. Is this a plot device to arrange reader sympathy? Is her unmitigated niceness a way to circumvent dislike on the part of those readers who have been victims of her brand of criminal activity? She might be a criminal but, oh, she’s so nice. She’s a good person. Bless her heart. 

Hi, I’ll have the unbalanced dichotomy with a side order of bullshit, please.

My problem with the heroine who is so nice is the lack of redeeming that goes on. Most often, she redeems the hero from his snarly, cranky ways with the soothing balm of her eternal niceness. Or maybe she speaks up for herself and tells the mean antagonist to go fuck herself, but no one thinks otherwise of her for doing so.

More importantly, I don’t like people who are eternally so nice in real life, and as heroines, they’re vanilla. They’re boring. I continue reading the book and think, ‘Are you really that nice?’ At the end of the story, not much will be done to alter the heroine’s overall niceness because the heroine, and here’s what makes me really mad, is happily reinforcing the idea that women are always nice. We’re never mean. We are supposed to be so nice.

Fuck that.

*note: RWA-forbidden word count: 3