I read Fifty Shades of Grey expecting loads of bad writing and S&M up the kazoo…and got neither. But questions? Oh, I came away with questions.
What is good writing? Some reviewers lambaste the writing—and Fifty Shades has its quirks. Christian Grey, the dark hero, often “cocks his head to one side,” as though he could cock it any other way. And maybe an editor or someone should have realized that no one in Seattle would say, “I shall no longer have to sit in rows of anxious students,” or speak of a man’s “bespoke suit.” I know the British thought of English first, but that just ain’t the way we talk it in America.
On the other hand, I agree with thriller author Sean Black, who says in Fifty Million Shades of Green: The real story behind Fifty Shades of Grey, that “to complain about the writing “is to ignore the fact that the ability to engage on a storytelling level with readers often trumps the ability to craft beautiful prose.”
So it must be something else that so many people find so fascinating.
Is it the S&M? If that’s the case, our society is worse off than I ever imagined. I mean, I first saw the movie 9 ½ Weeks in 1986. There’s not much in Fifty Shades that’s not in 9 ½ Weeks. Where’s everybody been for the last 26 years?
And, besides, erotic stories that include S&M has been a fast-growing segment of romance for several years, according to Ellora's Cave publisher Raelene Gorlinsky. Should anyone be surprised that a book from the subgenre finally hit the big time?
Is it the romance? "What I loved was that it was a great love story,” a 39-year-old mother and lawyer from New Jersey told ABC News recently. To which I say, “What love story?”
Seriously. A 21-year-old virgin who talks like a seventh-grader meets a handsome, rich dominant male and, after three weeks, all they’ve done is have sex and talk about having sex. And when she decides they need to talk more, they just rehash a bunch of their old conversations.
Oh, Christian is willing to go beyond his usual limits with Ana, which in his case means having sex without whips and chains. And I guess more happens in books two and three, where the heroine, Ana, “fixes” Christian so they can finally realize their Happily-Ever-After.
Or maybe it’s because Christian thinks Ana is so desirable that he has to have her no matter how “yucky” she is at the moment. In one case, it’s after she’s just gotten back from a five-mile run; in another, it’s when she’s having her period and he yanks out her tampon as part of the foreplay. (Hey, I agree that if women can handle menstruation, men certainly should be able to as well. But, really, he doesn’t even ask her first.)
What makes a great romance story? Great characters you care about. Does Fifty Shades have that? Meh.
Is the book a romance at all? Romance author and USA Today blogger Joyce Lamb says no. “The ending (of book one) is not happy,” she recently posted. “The No. 1 rule in romance novels: A happy ending is a must, even when a book is only the first in a trilogy that probably does have a happy ending. Also, the ‘hero’ of Fifty Shades of Grey does something at the end that is not redeemable by romance novel standards.”
What’s all the fuss about? Or, more precisely, what should all the fuss be about? I’m pretty sure that the use of floggers and vaginal pleasure balls, and not tampon tugging, is the reason Fifty Shades has been banned in some places. Which also says something unfunny about our times. Is it really all that bad if some people get jiggy when other people shove steel spheres into their orifices? Isn’t it far worse that Ana talks about Christian the way you hear abused women talk about their abusers? Like musing about how hitting her is how he “gets his kicks” and apologizing to him for being angry over a severe spanking by saying, “I asked for it.”
Gulp.
I’m not alone in wondering about this. In her HubPages blog, writer and public health professional “LauraGT” writes, “What is disturbing about the popularity of this novel is not the mild S&M scenes, but how the storyline so closely mimics the patterns displayed in an abusive relationship. Remove the S&M entirely, and the basic dynamics of power and control that exists in abusive relationships remain.”
Furthermore, Ana only participates in Christian’s sadomasochistic “play” because she thinks it will make him love her enough to change. But “in reality,” LauraGT says, “it is rare for someone to change in this type of situation, without serious professional help.”
She goes on to articulate my thoughts quite well, acknowledging that while she seems to be taking the book too seriously, “I know it’s fantasy. I know it’s escape. But, why are people still writing about romance this way? And, why are so many women (and men) gobbling it up? One explanation is that women still don't feel powerful (or equal) in their relationships, and they seek fantasy worlds where women with magical powers are able to change the men in their lives and make them more loving.”
That’s more than I expected to take away from this wildly popular and widely derided book, so maybe it is a work to be taken seriously. I don’t know if I’ll ever have all my questions about it answered, but I do know I won’t be finishing the trilogy.
And, no, it’s not the tampon thing or the thin lines between eroticism and abuse. In the end, I just don’t care all that much about the characters.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Prom and the pouring rain
A woman I knew in high school posted on Facebook a picture of her daughter heading off to prom. That sparked a flurry of reminiscences; my contribution was about how prom night was raining and cold.
A second woman I knew in high school commented how odd it was that anyone would remember, of all things, the prom night weather.
And I wondered how you could not remember the weather.
First, remembering the weather is in my DNA. For example, it was sixty degrees on Christmas in 1982, and twenty-four below zero on Christmas Eve in 1983.
But Christmas comes every year. This was PROM, for crying out loud—a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Champagne. All-night dancing. The girl of my teenage dreams in my arms. How much more romantic does it get?
Plus, in Racine, Wisconsin, prom is like the Academy Awards. Six high schools hold dances in their own gyms, followed by an all-schools celebration in a ballroom downtown. Couples travel in caravans from their schools to Memorial Hall, where a local organization sponsors music and breakfast till a couple hours past dawn.
Throngs gather behind velvet ropes outside the schools and at post-prom to cheer as the couples pull up and sophomore boys escort the senior girls to the door on a red carpet.
It’s been like that since the early 1950s. I’ve seen Super-8 footage of my mom’s prom, held on a pleasant night in June of 1956. Every woman who didn’t look like Liz Tayor or Grace Kelly looked like Barbara Bel Geddes. The guys all wore crew cuts and James Bondian tuxes.
In 1977, there were hardly any black ties to be seen. I wore a light grey cutaway jacket, a pink ruffled shirt and a fuzzy bowtie that you can still see on Jon in the comic strip Garfield. Friends wore mint green, powder blue and ginger tuxes, in most cases to match their dates’ dresses. We sure looked ridiculous, but we sure had fun.
In spite of the weather.
Because in 1977, it rained so hard and the wind howled so ferociously that the velvet ropes lay tumbled in puddles. When I pulled up in my father’s Oldsmobile, the gym door opened a crack and a sophomore boy stuck out one hand, motioning for my date to splash her way down the carpet.
No escort. No throngs.
No romance?
What part of champagne, all-night dancing and “girl of my teenage dreams in my arms” do you not understand? It was the most romantic night of my life—until the night I met Mary Jo.
This is why I remember the weather.
And remembering this kind of stuff is probably why I ended up writing a romance novel. Like remembering the weather, it’s in my DNA.
There are no thunderstorms in Fast Lane; it’s set in L.A. Where they hold the Academy Awards. Like having prom every year.
And the weather’s always the same.
A second woman I knew in high school commented how odd it was that anyone would remember, of all things, the prom night weather.
And I wondered how you could not remember the weather.
First, remembering the weather is in my DNA. For example, it was sixty degrees on Christmas in 1982, and twenty-four below zero on Christmas Eve in 1983.
But Christmas comes every year. This was PROM, for crying out loud—a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Champagne. All-night dancing. The girl of my teenage dreams in my arms. How much more romantic does it get?
Plus, in Racine, Wisconsin, prom is like the Academy Awards. Six high schools hold dances in their own gyms, followed by an all-schools celebration in a ballroom downtown. Couples travel in caravans from their schools to Memorial Hall, where a local organization sponsors music and breakfast till a couple hours past dawn.
Throngs gather behind velvet ropes outside the schools and at post-prom to cheer as the couples pull up and sophomore boys escort the senior girls to the door on a red carpet.
It’s been like that since the early 1950s. I’ve seen Super-8 footage of my mom’s prom, held on a pleasant night in June of 1956. Every woman who didn’t look like Liz Tayor or Grace Kelly looked like Barbara Bel Geddes. The guys all wore crew cuts and James Bondian tuxes.
In 1977, there were hardly any black ties to be seen. I wore a light grey cutaway jacket, a pink ruffled shirt and a fuzzy bowtie that you can still see on Jon in the comic strip Garfield. Friends wore mint green, powder blue and ginger tuxes, in most cases to match their dates’ dresses. We sure looked ridiculous, but we sure had fun.
In spite of the weather.
Because in 1977, it rained so hard and the wind howled so ferociously that the velvet ropes lay tumbled in puddles. When I pulled up in my father’s Oldsmobile, the gym door opened a crack and a sophomore boy stuck out one hand, motioning for my date to splash her way down the carpet.
No escort. No throngs.
No romance?
What part of champagne, all-night dancing and “girl of my teenage dreams in my arms” do you not understand? It was the most romantic night of my life—until the night I met Mary Jo.
This is why I remember the weather.
And remembering this kind of stuff is probably why I ended up writing a romance novel. Like remembering the weather, it’s in my DNA.
There are no thunderstorms in Fast Lane; it’s set in L.A. Where they hold the Academy Awards. Like having prom every year.
And the weather’s always the same.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Fifty million shades of hot
I’m reading Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James because I have to find out what all the fuss is about. I’m on page 142, and I have no idea. So far, it seems about as traditional as a romance can be.
I’ve heard it gets kinky, and that’s what made some reviewers call it “mommy porn.”
Or maybe the sentence should be written this way: I’ve heard it gets kinky, and that’s what’s made some reviewers call it “mommy porn”???
Some people don’t like Fifty Shades being referred to as porn. Some people don’t like any erotic material written by and/or for women to be referred to as porn. I don’t know if Fifty Shades is porn, so I turned to someone who’s pondered the distinctions between porn and other types of erotic material, author Sylvia Day. In her blog, Day says porn is “stories written for the express purpose of causing sexual titillation.” Plot, character development and romance are optional. Erotica, on the other hand, is “about the sexual journey of the characters.” Emotion and character growth are important, but erotica need not show the development of a romantic relationship.
In erotic romance, Day says, “sex is an inherent part of the story, character growth, and relationship development, and couldn’t be removed without damaging the storyline. Happily Ever After is a REQUIREMENT.”
Since I haven’t finished Fifty Shades, I don’t know if it meets the definition of erotic romance. But by Day’s definitions, I think can I say it’s not porn.
On the other hand, I have read a few novels and short stories that purport to be erotic romance, but are really as porny and porn can be. A woman douses herself with a hose in the backyard on a hot day; the hot guy in the house behind her comes outside with an erection; they have hot sex in several orifices.
The biggest development here is not in the characters, but in the character of the writing. Using words like “cock,” “cunt” and “puckered seam,” and dialog like, “I’m going to fuck you hard,” it sounds like the kind of writing that, thirty years ago, was aimed exclusively at men with the exclusive goal of causing arousal. So now I wonder, when did the kind of writing that was universally regarded as porn for men become don’t-you-dare-call-it-porn for women?
I’m hesitant to say it’s a simple case of hypocrisy or double standard. But according to ABC News, “about one in three women now admit that they watch porn.” So why should it surprise anyone that they’re also reading it?
Or offend anyone?
Angie Rowntree, whose sssh.com specializes in erotica, told ABC that the fair sex’s demand for sexy material is growing. What women want is passionate love scenes “filled with chemistry and sensuality.” And a storyline.
Oh, yeah. The storyline. Comedian Ritch Shydner said about men and shopping in an HBO special twenty years ago that “most guys don’t like to shop. We’ll buy it, but the process throws us off. We don’t have the patience. There’s something prehistoric in our makeup. We have to bag it and drag it back to the cave as quickly as possible.”
I say that’s our attitude about erotic material, too. Story? It’s about sex—get to the point already.
Of course, I had to subdue those primal urges when I was writing Fast Lane. While Fast Lane has sex scenes, there’s more to the story than sex. After 142 pages, I’m not sure that’s the case with Fifty Shades of Grey. Sex has been the only topic on the agenda, and it’s got me thinking “get to the point already.”
For the last 141 pages.
Maybe the real question, though, is what constitutes porn. A female friend said she’d never read Fifty Shades because she’s not interested in “anything to do with that sickness.” But a million readers can’t all be perverts. Right?
Maybe what all the fuss is about is that while there may be fifty shades of James’ hero Christian Grey, the number of shades of grey in the area of erotic literature may just equal the number of people living on planet Earth.
I’ve heard it gets kinky, and that’s what made some reviewers call it “mommy porn.”
Or maybe the sentence should be written this way: I’ve heard it gets kinky, and that’s what’s made some reviewers call it “mommy porn”???
Some people don’t like Fifty Shades being referred to as porn. Some people don’t like any erotic material written by and/or for women to be referred to as porn. I don’t know if Fifty Shades is porn, so I turned to someone who’s pondered the distinctions between porn and other types of erotic material, author Sylvia Day. In her blog, Day says porn is “stories written for the express purpose of causing sexual titillation.” Plot, character development and romance are optional. Erotica, on the other hand, is “about the sexual journey of the characters.” Emotion and character growth are important, but erotica need not show the development of a romantic relationship.
In erotic romance, Day says, “sex is an inherent part of the story, character growth, and relationship development, and couldn’t be removed without damaging the storyline. Happily Ever After is a REQUIREMENT.”
Since I haven’t finished Fifty Shades, I don’t know if it meets the definition of erotic romance. But by Day’s definitions, I think can I say it’s not porn.
On the other hand, I have read a few novels and short stories that purport to be erotic romance, but are really as porny and porn can be. A woman douses herself with a hose in the backyard on a hot day; the hot guy in the house behind her comes outside with an erection; they have hot sex in several orifices.
The biggest development here is not in the characters, but in the character of the writing. Using words like “cock,” “cunt” and “puckered seam,” and dialog like, “I’m going to fuck you hard,” it sounds like the kind of writing that, thirty years ago, was aimed exclusively at men with the exclusive goal of causing arousal. So now I wonder, when did the kind of writing that was universally regarded as porn for men become don’t-you-dare-call-it-porn for women?
I’m hesitant to say it’s a simple case of hypocrisy or double standard. But according to ABC News, “about one in three women now admit that they watch porn.” So why should it surprise anyone that they’re also reading it?
Or offend anyone?
Angie Rowntree, whose sssh.com specializes in erotica, told ABC that the fair sex’s demand for sexy material is growing. What women want is passionate love scenes “filled with chemistry and sensuality.” And a storyline.
Oh, yeah. The storyline. Comedian Ritch Shydner said about men and shopping in an HBO special twenty years ago that “most guys don’t like to shop. We’ll buy it, but the process throws us off. We don’t have the patience. There’s something prehistoric in our makeup. We have to bag it and drag it back to the cave as quickly as possible.”
I say that’s our attitude about erotic material, too. Story? It’s about sex—get to the point already.
Of course, I had to subdue those primal urges when I was writing Fast Lane. While Fast Lane has sex scenes, there’s more to the story than sex. After 142 pages, I’m not sure that’s the case with Fifty Shades of Grey. Sex has been the only topic on the agenda, and it’s got me thinking “get to the point already.”
For the last 141 pages.
Maybe the real question, though, is what constitutes porn. A female friend said she’d never read Fifty Shades because she’s not interested in “anything to do with that sickness.” But a million readers can’t all be perverts. Right?
Maybe what all the fuss is about is that while there may be fifty shades of James’ hero Christian Grey, the number of shades of grey in the area of erotic literature may just equal the number of people living on planet Earth.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Guy talk
One time after my dad took some heat for dropping a few F-bombs, he turned to me and said, “That’s how men talk.”
It was probably in 1976, and in 1976, men dropped F-bombs while, as a rule, women didn’t. We all know what happened to that rule.
So I was a little surprised when a female colleague I asked to read one of my works in progress objected to the following conversation between men in a bar:
“The hell are they supposed to be?” Steve asked, motioning with his drink.
“Volleyball team, I guess,” Danny said.
Steve sized them up and grunted. “Not a lotta T’s in that group.”
“Get out of here! There’s at least a couple of twos. Maybe a three. The one with the really short black hair.”
“Eh. Too scrawny. They’re all too fuckin’ scrawny. Except number seven. Two T’s for her. Otherwise…eh. I like ’em to have something I can grab onto.”
The T-scale is a hotness rating. A good-looking woman would be hot, but a better-looking one would be hott. Hottt would, of course, be even better. What the critiquer said was, “I liked men better before I got to hear these guys talk.”
This woman is married. How does she think men talk when they’re with other men?
Speaking from fifty-two years of experience, I can tell you that this is what men talk about:
Work.
Sports.
Women.
And when they talk about women, they talk about how hot they are.
Some women are bothered by that and seem to think men should think like they do, talk like they do, act like they do. Kind of like the ideal man would be like their best girlfriend. Only with a penis. I’ve read books like that. Hell, I know women like that.
Not every woman wants a man like that, though. I just saw Othello set in the world of outlaw bikers. Hard to find men who are stereotypically more badassedly manly than bikers, right? Then how to explain a biker chick who puts up with—welcomes even—a man making her his “old lady” and requiring her to wear a patch on her jacket that says she’s his “property”?
Or this story, shared online by author Toni McGee Causey:
I was sitting with my husband, having a nice leisurely lunch. We fell quiet for a bit. After a few minutes, he asked me, "What are you thinking about?"
I said, “I noticed that woman's hat over there. It's really cute and I wished I had the kind of style that could wear really cute hats. I love hats, but I always feel like a dork whenever I wear them.
He was silent for a couple of minutes, and just as I was taking the next bite of food, he said, low, wicked, “I was thinking of boobies.”
That drew 32 comments—all along the lines of “typical guy—how cute.” Because all those commenters knew thinking about titties doesn’t make him a bad guy. Just a guy. A heterosexual man thinks about titties all the time. Unless he’s thinking about ass.
The guy’s guy, a.k.a. the alpha male, abounds in romance fiction specifically because a significant number of women prefer a man who is not like their girlfriends. But still has the penis.
The idea that women don’t know what men think about isn’t that rare. The Chicago Reader recently reported that the four female editors of the fiction anthology Men Undressed: Women Writers and the Male Sexual Experience argue that “while male authors have traditionally felt comfortable writing about sex from a woman's point of view, the cross-gender imagining hasn't gone the other way. Women don't as often write about sex from the point of view of male characters.”
One of the editors of Men Undressed, Cris Mazza, tried it in her 2001 novel, Girl Beside Him, “a book-length attempt to write from a man's perspective,” and got this comment: “Men don't think about their erections like this.”
I couldn’t tell you what other men think about their erections. It’s not on the list of approved topics. But about this I am pretty sure: If you want to spend your life with a man who’s just like one of the gals, great. Go find one. They’re there. But when you do find him, don’t assume he’s thinking about women the way you do. And don’t be upset if you find out he’s been talking to the boys about tits and ass when you’re not around. Or even, sometimes, when you are.
That’s how men talk.
It was probably in 1976, and in 1976, men dropped F-bombs while, as a rule, women didn’t. We all know what happened to that rule.
So I was a little surprised when a female colleague I asked to read one of my works in progress objected to the following conversation between men in a bar:
“The hell are they supposed to be?” Steve asked, motioning with his drink.
“Volleyball team, I guess,” Danny said.
Steve sized them up and grunted. “Not a lotta T’s in that group.”
“Get out of here! There’s at least a couple of twos. Maybe a three. The one with the really short black hair.”
“Eh. Too scrawny. They’re all too fuckin’ scrawny. Except number seven. Two T’s for her. Otherwise…eh. I like ’em to have something I can grab onto.”
The T-scale is a hotness rating. A good-looking woman would be hot, but a better-looking one would be hott. Hottt would, of course, be even better. What the critiquer said was, “I liked men better before I got to hear these guys talk.”
This woman is married. How does she think men talk when they’re with other men?
Speaking from fifty-two years of experience, I can tell you that this is what men talk about:
Work.
Sports.
Women.
And when they talk about women, they talk about how hot they are.
Some women are bothered by that and seem to think men should think like they do, talk like they do, act like they do. Kind of like the ideal man would be like their best girlfriend. Only with a penis. I’ve read books like that. Hell, I know women like that.
Not every woman wants a man like that, though. I just saw Othello set in the world of outlaw bikers. Hard to find men who are stereotypically more badassedly manly than bikers, right? Then how to explain a biker chick who puts up with—welcomes even—a man making her his “old lady” and requiring her to wear a patch on her jacket that says she’s his “property”?
Or this story, shared online by author Toni McGee Causey:
I was sitting with my husband, having a nice leisurely lunch. We fell quiet for a bit. After a few minutes, he asked me, "What are you thinking about?"
I said, “I noticed that woman's hat over there. It's really cute and I wished I had the kind of style that could wear really cute hats. I love hats, but I always feel like a dork whenever I wear them.
He was silent for a couple of minutes, and just as I was taking the next bite of food, he said, low, wicked, “I was thinking of boobies.”
That drew 32 comments—all along the lines of “typical guy—how cute.” Because all those commenters knew thinking about titties doesn’t make him a bad guy. Just a guy. A heterosexual man thinks about titties all the time. Unless he’s thinking about ass.
The guy’s guy, a.k.a. the alpha male, abounds in romance fiction specifically because a significant number of women prefer a man who is not like their girlfriends. But still has the penis.
The idea that women don’t know what men think about isn’t that rare. The Chicago Reader recently reported that the four female editors of the fiction anthology Men Undressed: Women Writers and the Male Sexual Experience argue that “while male authors have traditionally felt comfortable writing about sex from a woman's point of view, the cross-gender imagining hasn't gone the other way. Women don't as often write about sex from the point of view of male characters.”
One of the editors of Men Undressed, Cris Mazza, tried it in her 2001 novel, Girl Beside Him, “a book-length attempt to write from a man's perspective,” and got this comment: “Men don't think about their erections like this.”
I couldn’t tell you what other men think about their erections. It’s not on the list of approved topics. But about this I am pretty sure: If you want to spend your life with a man who’s just like one of the gals, great. Go find one. They’re there. But when you do find him, don’t assume he’s thinking about women the way you do. And don’t be upset if you find out he’s been talking to the boys about tits and ass when you’re not around. Or even, sometimes, when you are.
That’s how men talk.
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