Stacia Kane

I had a little epiphany the other day. Someone posted a comment about romances on another blog and I said something like, “Oh, you’re judging all romances by one” or whatever. And I was actually a little irked. Not a lot irked, but a little irked.

Then I saw that article I linked to (which is turning up everywhere, btw.) And I started thinking about it. Cue epiphany.

Who cares?

Why do I care if someone thinks romances are crap? Why do I care of someone thinks they’re easy to write, or dull, or stupid, or Not Real Books?

In other words, why do the opinions of the rude and pretentious matter to me?

A lot of people I know were pleased with that article. They thought this might be a step towards getting romances somehow recognized as art or something. And you know, that’s fine. If it’s important to them, that’s fine. But for me it’s a little like being good in bed. As long as the person who shares that activity with me (that would be my husband) is pleased, I don’t care what people I’ve never slept with think about my performance.

And ultimately, I do believe all this “We’re serious artists” stuff is bad for romance. Why? Because, as I said the other day, romances should be fun.

I think there are a lot of people who are trying so hard to prove that romances are smart and well-written and Worthy of Serious Consideration, that they’ve forgotten to write fun stuff. I’ve read some dull-as-dishwater romances, believe me. And I really think this is the reason why.

Romances have gotten so politically correct. So safe. So bland! You rarely see, for example, heroines who throw china and heroes who punch holes in walls and people who scream at each other and then start kissing and have angry, tearful sex on jets flying to their private island, where they’ll connive to take over the corporation of some hapless fool who is the heroine’s real father but she doesn’t know it. Or whatever.

Part of this may be because such characters became a little cliche by about the early nineties (although one thing that does piss me off is when current writers pick on those 70′s romances. Those writers had it a lot harder than we do, writing on typewriters all day and not having communities or blogs or email. They were published authors in an age where a woman having a career that she cared about was still an anomaly. So quit talking about how much better you are than those hacks, okay? Or how dumb and cliche their books were. They paved the way for you, and you should have some respect.) Part of it may be simply that such stories aren’t fashionable at the moment-market trends do change. But I firmly believe there are a lot of women out there who are bored by the romances coming out now, who would jump all over something like that were it published now. Something big and blowsy and fun. Like The Crimson Petal and the White was touted as being before we all read it and realized it wasn’t that sexy at all, not was it especially fun, and the ending sucked.

I think this is why paranormals have become so big. Because vampires are allowed to be sort of smooth and sexist (mmmm). Werewolves are allowed to be rude alpha males (in fact, it’s pretty much a requirement, isn’t it?) Erotic romance is part of this, too. Lots of action, lots of sex, lots of excitement. Not page after page of the heroine’s crusade to help the poor, or whining about the man who left her when she got pregnant, or whatever.

The point is, I’m tired of hearing about and reading about and seeing articles about how romance writers should be taken seriously and look how good these books are and what modern topics they cover. I realize it’s necessary in some places to keep new readers coming into the fold. But the people who we seem to be trying so hard to impress are never going to care. They just won’t. A romance could win a Pulitzer and they’ll still say romance is crap. So why bother? Why not just say, “Yeah, and lots of people love reading my crap, so there.”

Let’s all try it, shall we? Let’s be proud to write fun stuff, to write books people enjoy reading.

It’s like that guy Miss Snark overheard talking about his Life of the Mind. Screw you, you pretentious weed. It’s probably easy to live a life of the mind when nobody wants to talk to you because your head is so far up your own ass you’re practically a gordian knot.

People like that aren’t worth my time, and they shouldn’t be worth yours.

So bring on Lady Sheba St. John and her mortal enemy, the handsome Lord Devlin, and their forbidden passion!

If the length of the title doesn’t clue you in, I have words, words, words all over the place. (“Because I was afraid of worms, Roxanne! Worms!”)

Ever have one of those days where it seems like you get a million story ideas, each one better than the last, so good you’re tempted to abandon your current WIP and the work you planned to start next and start on the new idea?

I’ve had two days like this now. Last night I couldn’t get to sleep I was so excited. Now I am literally bussing like a cokehead over a different idea. (Also maybe caffeine is involved.) Seriously. I was reading something and a random sentence jumped out at me and a whole book fell into my head.

It’s great. It’s also really, really bad and dangerous. You know why?

Reread that second paragraph. See the part where it says, “you’re tempted to abandon your current WIP and the work you planned to start next…”? Get it now?

I would be more excited about this burst of creativity, but part of me is convinced it’s that nasty little sneak, the Subconscious Fear of Failure, working in combination with Old Lazy. If I never finish another book, I’ll never sell another book, but I can keep writing newer and better ideas! The next one will surely be the one I finish, right? Of course! Why wouldn’t I finish a book with such fantastic potential, the book sure to rocket me to the top of the NYT bestseller list?

I’ll tell you why. Because halfway through that-once I’m through my clever opening and the story is really getting going, I’ll get a little bored because that first burst of excitement will fade, and I’ll decide it all sucks, and instead of working through it so I can get to the point where I know it doesn’t suck again, I’ll start something else! Something better! Something…shiny.

Plus…there’s The Shield on DVD to watch. I’m a much better writer after I’ve watched Vic Mackey kick some ass for a couple of hours, right? Or after a little snack. Or maybe a movie. Then a cigarette. Then they might show a good rerun of Frasier or something. And next thing you know…thassright. I’ve writte 200 words and wasted my whole evening.

So while part of me is way, way excited about this new story, I’m not going to hurry up and start writing it (except for as much of the plot I can get, written in longhand–which is how I always do my synopses before starting work) until it’s had some time to sit in my head and I can be sure it isn’t just my Sneaky Sub trying to distract me, magpie-like, with Shiny New Story Ideas.

Some Random Notes:

So excited! I almost hit 30 comments on my last post (and I haven’t forgotten about Part 2, or the Kick Ass Heroines, or any of the other stuff. It’s all written down where I won’t lose it, I promise, and besides, that shit’s in my head all the damn time anyway.) I know it’s actually more like 27 because I had that lame-ass spammer show up, but still. It’s more than I’ve ever had. Simple minds, simple pleasures, you know. That was a very cool simple pleasure for me.

And on that note, sometime in the next few days I plan to update my links (adding, not removing). SO if you want to link to me and would like me to link to you, let me know. It might be good to keep in mind that I do read the blogs I link to every day, and that generally they are the only blogs I read. I go through them one by one (although, as I say on the sidebar, in no particular order). If you’re not there, I probably won’t check yours, just because I either have to dig through comments every time or I have to bookmark you and I always forget to bookmark. So either comment or shoot me an email.