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

To our readers in the UK:

We are so sorry for what has happened in London today, and we hope that you, your families, and your friends and loved ones are safe.

We know how this feels, and you are in our thoughts.

-The Smart Bitches

Edited to Add:

Maili requested animated gifs to cheer her up. So in solidarity with our friends across the pond, we offer a one-time-only presentation. 

I’m in a cranky sort of vengeful mood today, which I tend to foster by thinking of all the best revenge and just-dessert plot twists that have happened in romances I’ve read.

There’s Julia Quinn’s An Offer from a Gentleman where Sophie smacks her evil stepmother around and delivers the final smack: “THAT was not for not loving your daughters EQUALLY!” That was rather savory - not only was stepmother d’eville smacked around and ruined socially, but Sophie reserved her final smack-down not on her own behalf, but on the behalf of her step-sister, who was standing right beside her during the ruckus. A selfless smackdown. Ahhhh. 

And there’s the one Anita Blake novel where she kills a human to invoke her necomancy, thereby making it nice and soupy powerful, raises a few hundred zombies, and then turns the zombies on the humans who have been keeping her captive. The zombies reduce them to shreds - very nice!

There’s also a very nice amount of just-desserts in the end of Sullivan’s Island by Dorothea Benton Frank, in that the heroine ends up very, very happy, and her ex-husband ends up remaining in the mess of his own making, enabling the heroine to say, “He’s a fool for staying there, but I wish him well.”

I know I get frustrated with books where the villain doesn’t get enough punishment for their behavior - this is my fantasy, after all, and I definitely want checks and big ass balances. But I also do enjoy a book that ends with the heroine getting over her anger and saying to herself that sometimes, it’s best to let karma take care of the imbalance, instead of risking her own karma to get revenge. I do, of course, love it much when the book details how that karmic boomerang came around and whooped the villain in the ass, though.

What about you? What’s your favorite savory just-desserts story resolution from a romance novel?

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous book prices
Or to take arms against a sea of banal writing
And by opposing end them. To buy, to read--
No more.

Heh, I’m too lazy to do the whole soliloquy. I’m sure you get the gist of it.

Anyway, Maili’s Romancing the Blog post today hits right at the heart of many of us biblioholics: Autobuy authors who have been struck off the list.

I have quite a few romance autobuy authors who have remained on my list ever since the first book of theirs that I read. Right now, they are:

Laura Kinsale (biiiig surprise there)
Loretta Chase (I know, another surprise)
Jennifer Crusie (the shocks keep on coming!)
Judith Ivory
Karen Ranney
Shana Abe
Barbara Samuel/Ruth Wind (romance only, not women’s fiction)

All these authors (with the exception of Kinsale) have in their past written a couple of stinkers, but to date, their good stuff far, far outweighs the turkeys. Once an author makes the autobuy list, I can be quite preternaturally patient, and none of the authors on this list have tested my patience too much.

As many of you probably know, an autobuy author who broke my heart when she stopped writing romance novels is Patricia Gaffney. Pat, come baaaaaack! No, there’s nothing wrong with women’s fiction, but dammit, it’s not a genre I care for particularly, and as always, it’s all about ME and MY NEEDS. (Or at least, it should be, waaaaah!)

Anne Stuart and Lisa Kleypas are two autobuy authors who were knocked off the list for a period of time, then reinstated in a blaze of glory. When I first started reading them, they came out with a slew of brilliant books and got me hooked, but then somewhere down the road slipped into the Slough of Crappy Writing and wrote a streak of mediocre--or downright bad--books (Stuart when she switched from Avon to Zebra for her historicals, Kleypas with Somewhere You’ll Find Me and Because You’re Mine). They have since redeemed themselves (Where Dreams Begin, Shadow Lover), and while the quality is of their books can be quite uneven, I’m toughing it out because they’re still producing more good stories vs. bad ones.

Some authors that stopped being autobuy include:

Mary Jo Putney
Connie Brockway
Chirstina Dodd
Pamela Burford
Vicki Lewis Thompson
Judith McNaught
Susan Kay Law
Teresa Medeiros
Shelly Thacker
Jo Beverley

I dropped Putney and Brockway not because the quality of their books became worse; it’s just that certain aspects of their work that never used to bother me (the rather modern tone, the tendency for Putney’s characters to engage in extremely modern talk therapy and self-analysis) starting bugging the shit out of me. It took me a long time to give them up, especially Putney; I gave up on her just this year, and really, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to resist temptation when I see a new release of hers at the library or at the bookstore.

The others became autobuys based on one or two books (or in McNaught’s case, four) that I really enjoyed, but I eventually realized that all the subsequent books of theirs that I read got nothing stronger from me than a big old “meh.” McNaught’s heroes also started blurring together for me; the only distinguishing feature about them was their eye color.

Who are your autobuy authors? Are there authors whose books you automatically buy even though you know they, well, suck, and have been sucking for all this age? (Yes, HelenKay, this is an invitation to come on out and ‘fess up in gory detail to your addiction for biscuit-lovin’ Texas Rangers.) Are there autobuy authors who have never--or almost never--disappointed you?

So what’s your favorite flavor of hero (I don’t mean that literally)?

I’m a big fan of the tortured hero, but especially when he keeps it quiet and the narrator doesn’t spend a lot of time in his head. Somehow, being inside a personally tortured hero turns him rapidly into an angst-filled hero, and that just makes me want to send him to therapy, not to bed with the heroine.

But what kind of torture? Overcoming a painful childhood? Overcoming a painful loss? Not always my favorite, because mourning means that the lost person is almost always on the periphery, and it’s hard to maintain a romance between two people when there’s a third in diaphanous form lurking in the background.

I think my favorite kind would be the tortured hero who has shut himself off from everything remotely emotional, using work or something similarly lacking in personal engagement to shield himself from intimacy. Having the hero unable to resist his attraction to the heroine, despite wanting desperately to do so, is about my favorite kind of hero. I’ve written about that before - the hero who tries to resist for fear or loathing of intimacy is about my favorite kind.

Every character has something to deal with personally or within the relationship in order to earn their happily-ever-after. So what’s your personal preferene when the hero has to work for his - what do you love to read about when it’s time for the hero to earn his bliss? 

Sarah: OK, first, no one rides horses in diaphanous gowns unless you are dying for chapped, chafed skin.

Second, open shirt? What is WITH the OPEN SHIRT on all these MEN? Do we need empirical proof that they have nipples?!

And finally: that horse has the thickest, shortest neck I’ve ever seen. Now that is cruelty.

Candy: Maybe they need empirical proof that the dude doesn’t have a third nipple or a partially-resorpted conjoined twin below his xyphoid process or something? I do think that according to the medical wisdom of the time, riding around open-shirted into a raging river on a rearing stallion with your main squeeze perched precariously on your lap is a sure recipe for the ague. Or drowning.

Either way, what bliss.

Sarah: I always look at these making-out-naked-under-the-waterfall things and think two things:

1. Ew. Leeches!
2. Ew! LEECHES!

I mean, seriously, who is going to hop naked into a waterfall pool and not find something squicky on the bottom under their toes?

Furthermore, she is so skinny, she might be dead. She’s certainly not healthy. Does she even have enough muscle mass to hold her own head up? Or does her noggin flop over like a newborn’s if he’s not there to hold her up?

Candy: Aieeeee! The lollipop head, it hurts me to contemplate it! But I guess the dude compensates for her complete lack of muscle mass by having enough for a small island nation.

Sarah: I know this is a feature of Photoshop - but which one? Is it the pastels filter? And does anyone know WHY the artist decided to use it? Do they need to look like they have a fungus?

And this one has some excellent font action going on, too. Lady of FIRE! Just say with with a Beavis voice and it gets even better. Fire. FIRE! Lady of FIRE!

Also, is he, um, screwing her in mid-air? Is this a circus routine?

Candy: Wow. I didn’t know the Ice-Capades were popular in the Old West. Just you wait, he’s about to toss her so she can spin into a double axel. It also explains her gawdawful outfit.

I also love how the woman looks as if she’s orgasmically happy with her hair, too, like one of those Clairol Herbal Essences ads. Dude thought it was his wiener, but really, she’s moaning in ecstasy from her totally organic experience.

Sarah: I once had a photo like this taken of me. Not with my shirt open and a pelt on my back. But I went to Glamour Shots and they airbrushed the shit out of my face and that’s kind of what it looked like: all matte and perfect. I don’t know what he’s so blue about - there are millions of men in NYC who would kill for that level of smooth manscaping.

Nice Harry Potter scar, too.

Candy:

High above the mucky-muck, castle made of clouds,
There sits Wonderboy, sitting oh so proudly.
Not much to say when you’re high above the mucky-muck.
Yeah, yeah.
Wonderboy, what is the secret of your power?
Wonderboy, won’t you take me far away from the mucky-muck man?

Now it’s time for me to tell you about Young Nastyman,
Archrival and nemesis of Wonderboy, with powers comparable to Wonderboy.
What powers, you ask? I dunno, how ‘bout the power of flight?
That do anything for ya? That’s levitation, holmes.
How ‘bout the power to kill a yak from 200 yards away…
with mind bullets! That’s telekinesis, Kyle.
How ‘bout the power… to move you?

Hmmm. Apparently, some romance novel covers make me think of Tenacious D songs. Time to up the dose of my medication. Can’t wait to see which cover inspires me to think of “Fuck Her Gently.”

Oh. Wait.

Sarah: This guy is creepy. And it looks like there’s another dude in the bed next to him, over to his right.

Sweeter Savage Love? Legendary Lovers?! Come on - this guy has absolutely nothing beneath that sheet that is legendary or sweet or savage. Anyone who has to over compensate with that much manscaping and personal grooming is definitely sporting a wee willie winkie.

Candy: Dude. What a skanky-ass pose, and what a skanky-ass model. I have the oddest feeling that he has the sheet over such a strategic area because he’s covering the oozing sores. Is it just me? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?