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unfortunate events

Don’t Mock Romance Lovers

by | February 28, 2020 | | 3 Comments

I write in two genres that get a lot of grief – romance and horror. Romance readers are far too often stereotyped as fat, lonely women out for a thrill between the pages with sexy heroes to make up for the lack of excitement and love in their lives. Horror readers are far too often seen as weird loners or losers who have psychological problems. Sadly, sometimes the people and businesses who are in a position to uplift these readers ridicule and bash them.

Case in point: The Kennett Library in Chester County, Pennsylvania. You’d think a library would want to attract readers, not bash them. That wasn’t how romance lovers were treated during a recent event entitled “Bad Romance 2020” event. What’s even more aggravating is that this was the third year this event was held.

An announcement by the Kennett Library described the event as highlighting some “remarkable ‘vintage’ book covers” in a way that made it sound less like describing romance books than the women who read them: “languishing in obscurity… Sad. Boohoo. Unloved.” There are plenty of books in other genres that languish in obscurity. Why not pick on unread mysteries, comedy, or science fiction? Why are romances and the women who love them so often dragged through the mud like this?

It wasn’t enough to quietly mock these books. The event consisted of reading aloud what the staff determined to be the most awful, cringe-inducing passages – all for a laugh. So, the library laughs at its patrons who enjoy romances. One notice even described the books as “debauched” and then went on to further mock romance readers by saying “hold [these books] to our pounding hearts, caress their soft pages”. The only stereotypical words left out of the descriptions were “turgid” and “throbbing”, but they might have been a little too risqué for library staff.

It’s no secret that the vast majority of romances are written by women and read by women. These books are very formulaic. There are numerous tropes eager readers lap up and the books must have either a Happily Ever After or Happy For Now ending. Plenty of people who aren’t fans of romance bring those facts up and ridicule women for enjoying their chosen authors and sub-genres. So what? Mysteries are just as formulaic. Action movies are downright predictable. Horror movies are so formulaic and predictable spoofs have been made of them. Why not make fun of all of them? Yes, some do, but not to the extent that romance books and the women who love them are ridiculed.

This lack of love for a billion-dollar industry that outperforms all other genres comes down to not-so-thinly-veiled sexism. Women who read romances are seen by their critics as fluffy creatures who cannot stand up for themselves. They prefer to wait for a Handsome Prince to take their cares away. Rather than acknowledge that romance lovers are voracious readers who deserve respect, events like this discount their existence.

I write romance and I would not want to attend such an event. The ridicule has rubbed off on me. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to read my own works aloud, especially the sex scenes. I don’t have that kind of feeling when reading my horror aloud, even though my stories can be very violent. Violence is more acceptable in American society than sex. Some very violent movies are seen as masterpieces, yet show a nipple and some Americans squeal in horror. That’s so wrong I don’t know what else to say about it. We need more love and romance in this world.

Life is difficult enough. Reading is escapism. If a woman wants to escape into a sexy and thrilling romance, why make fun of her? If I want to write a romantic and erotic story about two bisexual werewolves looking for a third partner (“Full Moon Fever” will be released mid-2020), don’t mock me. If I want to write a sexy retelling of a fairy tale like “Trouble In Thigh High Boots” (Puss In Boots) or “Climbing Her Tower” (Rapunzel), don’t snicker at me under your breath. I’m reading J. R. Ward’s first book in her Black Dagger Brotherhood series and I’m enjoying the hell out of it. A library should not be in the business of ridiculing its patrons. Remember – these women have money to burn on books, and if they want to read romance, leave them alone. Instead of making fun of them, lift up romance novels. Celebrate their optimism. Admire the complex characters and relationships. Relish that happily ever after ending especially when the world is in turmoil. Romance readers and writers deserve respect.

———

Elizabeth Black writes in a wide variety of genres including erotica, erotic romance, horror, and dark fiction. She lives on the Massachusetts coast with her husband, son, and her three cats. Her story “The Beautiful Move in Curves” appears in “Dangerous Curves Ahead”, an anthology of sexy stories about plus-sized women. Look for it at Amazon. Her new paranormal erotic shifter romance novel “Full Moon Fever” will be for sale in 2020.

Web site: http://elizabethablack.blogspot.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/elizabethablack

Twitter: http://twitter.com/ElizabethABlack

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/elizabethblack

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/b76GWD

Suffering and Art … puhleeeze

by | September 15, 2018 | | 7 Comments

Recently, over on the Oh Get A Grip blog, Lisabet Sarai noted a preponderance of famous artists who suffered from some sort of mental illness, and wondered if suffering for your art was essential to creativity.

I was reminded of that as I underwent the new protocol for screening for depression. If you haven’t had your annual checkup, be prepared to be asked a series of questions ranging from the softball – have you been feeling down lately? – to the startlingly hardball: have you tried to kill yourself?

 My interrogator was a bit taken aback at my response when she asked me if I’d felt depressed anytime during the past few months. First I said yes. Then I laughed, out loud and heartily.

I quickly assured her I wasn’t off my rocker.

“C’mon,” I said. “You know what I’ve been through. If I wasn’t depressed, I’d be afraid there was something wrong with me.”

This time she laughed; after all, she had my recent medical history in her hand.

As the end of last year approached I was contemplating an easy slide into retirement, which was to include a nice chunk of change in the form of a $50,000 severance. Around Christmas time, the place I worked for declared Chapter 11. Kiss that severance goodbye. Not to worry, though, as I had squirreled away enough for a decent nest egg. But damn, that 50 grand was going to be my European river cruise money.

About five weeks after that great news I was hospitalized for seven days and diagnosed with a scary auto-immune disease. Today I’m taking about 15 pills for breakfast, some of which come with vexing side effects.

Then, just to drop the hammer on the bump left from the last brick that fell out of the sky, I came out of the hospital with a crippling sciatica that I blame on the bed and which I still haven’t shed entirely.

By that time, I was beginning to understand how easily people came to believe in witchcraft and such, because I was convinced someone was going bat-shit crazy with a voodoo doll of me. Talk about a series of unfortunate events.

So, yeah, I was depressed. But I had reasons to be depressed. And I wasn’t at all uncomfortable about being depressed.

In fact, I embraced my depression, got crabby and enthusiastically vented my irritation. And while I cursed my fate with gusto, in no way was I going to trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. After all, I am the son of an Irish mother who often advised, “Might as well go ahead and feel sorry for yourself, because no one else is going to.”

Yup, just a waste of time.

Meanwhile, I had come to detest th0se awful pharma commercials where they list all the god-awful side effects of whatever overpriced miracle drug they are trying to flog. Don’t talk to me about goddamned side effects.

Nor could I stomach any more of those uplifting and inspiring stories news shows feel obligated to feature these days about folks who have overcome some debilitating disease.

The commentator would always gush at the conclusion, “Oh, that’s so inspiring.” To which I would grumble, “Aw, fuck you.”

See, when I’m hurting and miserable, I don’t need to be faulted for not founding a university.

On the other hand, I recalled the sage words of a lonely but brilliant man, an outstanding grammarian whom I considered a mentor at a Connecticut newspaper I worked at a century or so ago. In a voice that made you wonder if he gargled with gravel, he’d lament, “No matter how bad things are, no matter how fucked up you might be, some asshole will always come along and say, ‘Well, things could be worse.'” Amen.

I know there are people more afflicted than I; so what? Geesh, don’t turn it into a competition. Is there such a thing as suffer-shaming?

Don’t misunderstand me. I would never diminish another human being’s ordeals or sufferings. Particularly, folks who suffer from clinical depression. I have lost friends to that accursed ailment.

Maybe some writers and artists have been able to channel their suffering into their art. I did attempt to get my mind off my woes by plopping myself in front of a keyboard and managed to eke out one story. But practically speaking, when you’re hurting, and you’re a normal human being, you can’t really think of anything else.

Any advice to the contrary brings me back to some bad old days of my childhood when fat nuns who looked like they never wanted for anything in their lives would tell us poor kids, “Offer your suffering up to God.”

Huh?

As for just being crazy, and not even realizing you’re suffering, I have no experience with that … yet.

So, don’t bother me about suffering artists. And when the storm of slings and arrows blows your way, remember it’s your right as a human being to gripe and get crabby. You’re not obligated to inspire anybody. Piss, moan, and persevere … the art will take care of itself.

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