Lilith Saintcrow

Not so long ago (I think it may have been last week) Candy and Sarah (of Smart Bitches fame) and I were engaged in a furious round of emailing about misogyny in romance novels. It all started out with the news that Harlequin and NASCAR were getting into the same bed. (No crash, no drug, no alcohol romances. Whee.) I immediately choked on my Cheerios, screaming that an industry like NASCAR that portrays women as buxom hangers for skimpy wet t-shirts and very little else is not fit company for a business tailored to and driven by women.

Candy immediately pointed out the strain of misogyny in romance novels–let’s start with the proliferation of sheikhs in the eighties, not to mention the boardroom-secret-baby-millionaire flood. Oh, and who can forget the “forced seduction” of the seventies? (Still going on today, I might add.) Sarah chimed in with the point that misogynistic romance is “embracing old power structures and spinning them into sexual fantasy.” Sarah pointed out that choosing to follow traditional gender roles is no less of a free choice than choosing to abandon them or create new ones–with the important caveat from Candy that we’re not sure how much of a free choice it is, if women don’t know there are other choices available, or are raised to denigrate such other choices.

I decided to chew on this for a while, finding it juicy mental food. And this morning, as I was stumbling to the coffee maker, it occured to me that misogyny in romance novels could be part of the transformative nature of art.

Let’s face it, we live in a woman-hating society. It’s not conscious most of the time, but most of our social institutions and cultural weight is so steeped in patriarchy and the vision of women as broodmares or dangerous harlots that it’s very hard to escape. Case in point? I was watching America’s Most Wanted recently, a segment on an accused sexual predator in Texas. (He got national airtime because of his alleged habit of assaulting young men.) A woman onscreen made a statement to the effect of: well, when you’re a woman you expect to be assaulted, you learn to live with it. We just don’t ever think of men as victims.

Talk about choking on your Cheerios. You could have lit a bonfire with my fiery indignation. But she’s right. The fear of assault is pervasive, and if you’re female in this culture odds are you are subconsciously aware of this every moment of the day. Such a deep and wide shared experience, of course, bleeds over into art.

What if the misogyny in romance novels is a feminist statement?

No, really. Hang with me here. Remember in the Fifties, when there were things you just didn’t talk about? (Like incest? Peyton Place blew the lid off that one, didn’t it?) The Sixties were not just a revolution in social and sexual mores, they gave credence to the idea that you could speak about certain issues–war, women’s rights, sexual politics, drug use–openly. To name something is to claim power over it, and also to strip it of its power to hurt you. The unnamed monster is the most frightening. (Remember The Wizard of Earthsea? Man, I love that book.)

What if the misogyny in romance novels is the naming of the monster? What if it provides a framework for us to draw the teeth and analyze the venom of that particular one-eyed serpent? (Ha ha. Cheap shot, I know.) What if the HEAs of sheikh-secret baby-lonely millionaire-boardroom virgins are the equivalent of a binding spell? Which, whether or not you believe in spells, does provide a powerful psychological method for overcoming fear and finding a solution.

Art is first and foremost the act of transforming the world. When we look at a piece of art we are sharing the artist’s vision, delivered within the framework of material constraint the artist has chosen. (Painters are constrained by visual forms and the physical quality of paint and canvas, writers are constrained by grammar and convention. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.) This is a powerful act, no matter how small a place artists have in society. Art is explosive because the act of transforming the world spreads like a virus. That’s why fascist societies sooner or later starve and shoot their artists, even those who are loyal to the regime.

Romance novels are art, too. If men bought and read them they’d be considered more highbrow. But because it’s women shelling out their hard-earned cash, they’re considered plebian and lowbrow. Don’t get me started. Stay on target, Lili.

I am certain someone will say, if that’s the case, one should have no problem with NASCAR objectifying women. Isn’t it the same principle? No, it most emphatically isn’t, because first of all, rednecks making left turns all day ain’t art, and second, NASCAR is a boy’s game despite all its female fans. In romance novels the female’s sexual need and experience is central; another reason for its denigration as a bastard pink cousin of Real Literature. The romance novel states unequivocally that there is an alternative to lying back and thinking of England or of full quivers. *shiver* As a vehicle for feminine sexual liberation, it’s hard to get any more radical than the idea that a woman’s sexual enjoyment is not only pleasant but necessary in a happy relationship. Pursuant to this notion is the corollary that if a woman’s pleasure is a necessary part, the woman is responsible for it and therefore owns her body. If the woman owns her body…well, that’s an earthshaking revelation in a society built on the idea of women as just another type of property. Heady stuff.

I could just be over-analyzing, as I am wont to do. But I really think women are too smart to lick the boot on their necks. It seems to me that romance novels are popular for a reason, and the strain of misogyny in them is more properly a strain of discourse naming the monster of woman-hating in our society for what it is, and making it a toothless specter. Or at least taming it, as the temple harlot tamed Enki. (Then Gilgamesh had to go and get him killed. Sigh.)

What do you think?

* caught almost up on email
* done the newsletter just begging to be finished, with the news about the contests and Steelflower
* emailed the agent about Stuff
* read my flist
* almost had severe crying jag over page proofs
* had peanut-butter toast with a sliced banana
* wished I could crawl under a rock and sleep for at lease twelve more hours

Yesterday I finished the tweaking on Steelflower (again and hopefully for the last time). I ignored everything else that might get in the way of me FINISHING THAT BLOODY ROUND OF REVISIONS. The day before THAT (Saturday) I spent at the bookstore, mostly, then came home and was an absolute shambling bear (H and D were over, and had to put up with my bad temper. I hope it didn’t put them off.) before ducking out to run the Sullen Teen to a friend’s house, then meet the Kiwi for dinner (at the Jerusalem Cafe, no less. All hail hummus and Chicken on Fire) before we went and saw Factory Girl. Which I liked–Guy Pearce as Andy Warhol? Dude, sign me up. Hayden Christensen as the thinly-veiled Bob Dylan was so, so wrong, mostly because Sienna Miller can make even Christensen look sexy and that is JUST PLAIN WRONG WRONG WRONG after he couldn’t even work up enough juice to seem interested in Natalie Portman. But maybe that was George Lucas’s fault, not his. We all know my views on the last three Star Wars movies filmed.

As for Guy Pearce–he can make the line “You’re the boss, applesauce” hawt. This is wrong and sad and bad and so, so good. If loving Guy Pearce onscreen is wrong, I don’t want to be right. He’s like Adrien Brody or Daniel Craig. Just sign me up and watch me drool.

Ahem. Well, about the movie: weird camera angles, turned into a morality play, heavily fictionalized, of course the sexually-active and independent girl has to be Punished, and poor poor Edie was messed-up, we all knew that. On the other hand, Sienna Miller is gorgeous, and Pearce is a believable Warhol. As I remarked coming out of the theater, “Warhol was a great, absolutely marvy artist. But I am so glad I didn’t know him.”

The Kiwi snorted and replied, “Yeah. A few decades of gladness.” Referring to the fact that I couldn’t have known him even if I tried, being of a Totally Different Generation.

The rest of today will be spent hopefully getting some sanity back. You know it’s bad when I choose a Monday to relax after the weekend. Argh.

Oh, and Selkie? You know that shortie that’s trying to be a novel?

Told you so.

*ducks thrown object and scampers*

Hee.

My weekly post at the Midnight Hour is up. It’s ten things I wish someone would have told me before they set me loose as a writer. Yes, I am in a mood. No, it’s not anyone’s fault. I just woke up with a flaming plot bunny rolling around in my head and I need another plot bunny like I need rectal polyps. In other words, not at all.

I’m listening to one Tears For Fears song over and over again. You keep your distance with a system of touch/ And gentle persuasion. I love that line. It speaks to me. And it keeps the plot bunny at bay. Back, foul beast! I will not approach thee until I have finished this book! You may not even have a hundred words of info-dump, for that will mushroom.

I can feel the pressure building. Sparks snap off my fingertips. I am ready to close the circle and finish this bloody book. It’s a feeling of high nerves, like a racehorse just before the gate opens, knowing neither victory nor defeat, only the urge to RUN to beat the devil.

Last night I went with the Selkie, and spent a while roaming Powells on my own while she visited a meeting. I scored a Dylan Thomas and a Duras I didn’t own. I also scored, from A Store That Shall Remain Nameless, a Leadbelly CD for six bucks. Dude. Leadbelly rules.

All right. The gate’s open. The hooves are thundering.

See you soon.

So another 5-6K of Valentine decided it wanted out yesterday. I’m now up over 70K and preparing to trash a major landmark. Thos eof you who love cathedrals, prepare to weep. Bwahahahaha!

But seriously, folks. No sleep last night. (Or so little as to prove worthless.) Mostly because Danny and Japh were careening around inside my head. I swear, when a pissed-off, trigger-happy, half-insane Necromance and her lying hunk of demon boyfriend get in a fight, it’s ENDLESS. The bickering just DOES NOT STOP, and both of them quote the classics at each other while glaring. I am half tempted to write an alternate ending where I KILLKILLKILL them both just to get some peace. Grrrr.

In other news, everyone seems to be doing well. The house is simmering down after recent upheavals, which is nice except for the mountain of work that has piled up. Oh well. If I’m not busy I don’t know who I am anymore. Go figure.

For those of you curious about the detox, it is this brand. It’s been…interesting. I wasn’t aware I was so toxic. *grin* Of course, the glass of wine t’other night while out with the Selkie probably didn’t help. And this is my first experience with a detox. I imagine my liver coming in the front door and eyeing me, then yelling “LILI! YOU GOT SOME SPLAININ’ TO DO!”

To which I’d whine, “Ooooooh, Livvveeeerrrrr!”

No, I’m not on crack. I just feel more like Lucille Ball at the chocolate factory than a fully-adult writer in her prime.

Is it my prime yet? The funny thing is, I won’t know until it’s over…

So the fifth Valentine book? 4K words yesterday, most of them good. I got to do the hovertrain fight scene and break McKinley’s ribs. (I love hurting my characters so good.) Today we’re up for betrayal, more betrayal, blackmail…and possibly, just possibly, the Last Showdown. Or I might write the Showdown tomorrow.

All of which is wonderful, except a certain demon keeps whispering inside my head. Steak. Raw, very raw. And you want to listen to flamenco music and sappy love songs. You know you do. Let me tell you about Hell.

Shut up, Japhrimel.

It’s sometimes annoying, having a character in one’s head. One of my writing buddies used to write fanfic, and she would take Severus Snape with her to the grocery store. Another gets awakened by her characters pacing. We regularly bemoan characters interfering with our mental space. I play music for mine, interview them, block out fight scenes with them. They tend to take on a life of their own, these little people in our heads.

I sincerely hope I am not crazy. I don’t feel truly crazy, but I do feel sometimes not-quite-right, especially when a character is Demanding Things and I step back, taking a look at this mad woman with her tangled hair, talking in a low tone to someone nobody else can see, obsessively playing music with themes of love and loss, and occasionally laughing maniacally while she hunches over a keyboard, moving lives on the chessboard of the page.

Okay. So I do feel crazy. So what? It’s a good crazy. There are people who share it, and if the result is a novel or two, I’m happy.

So. Steak, raw. And flamenco music.

Come on, demon. Tell me what happens next. I dare you.