Tag Archives: diversity in romance

Filthy Lucre and Laundered Souls

{Disclaimer: a copy of this book was provided me by the author for review. Ms. Cullars reached out after I discussed an earlier work of hers in my Feminism A-Z series on intersectionality in romance. It’s a brave author who looks at those posts and asks to run the gauntlet again. Especially since this review turned out to be extremely long. Spoilers will naturally abound, so be ye warned.

Also, this review series really does need a better title, so any suggestions will be most welcome.}

There’s an old joke that runs though literature departments: everything in fiction is a metaphor for sex — except sex, which is a metaphor for death.

Cover for Filthy Lucre by Sharon Cullars.

With money, it seems to go the other way. Money in fiction — literary, mystery, romance, sff, whatever — is always a stand-in for something else. Usually power, of course, but that begs the question: what kind of power precisely? In the case of Filthy Lucre by Sharon Cullars, money stands in for agency, for freedom, and for trust. Sometimes all at once, which makes my analytical brain rejoice.

Let’s get one thing out of the way first thing: this is a thoughtful and unusual romance — bank-robbing hero and black heroine in Missouri in 1933? AMBITIOUS — and it was really enjoyable. Definitely read it before continuing this post. There are mouth-watering food descriptions and richly drawn characters and real human conflict keeping the hero and heroine apart. Things like: he’s a bank robber who’s brought his fellow bank robbers into her home and they’ve taken her hostage and are probably going to kill her so they can make a clean getaway after the robbery. Also, those other bank robbers are Bonnie and Clyde. Yes, that Bonnie and Clyde.

I told you it was unusual. Continue reading Filthy Lucre and Laundered Souls

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A to Z Wrap-Up

1. I did it! I did it! *collapses into wild laughter and sobs* Thank you to everyone who commented, replied, and retweeted — the best part of this series was hearing other people’s thoughts, whether or not they aligned with mine. Authors, readers, and reviewers all care so deeply about what is going on in romance: it gives me hope in a world that so often seems unfixable.

2. It occurred to me around the letter D — for Tessa Dare — that this whole project could be considered a particularly exquisite and long-form instance of trolling. We have talked so much and at so many cross purposes about reviewing and readership and authorship in the genre lately, and here I was with twenty-six posts that question, criticize, analyze, and overthink romances by authors who are frequently friends or online acquaintances. There was the distinct feeling that I was angling for trouble. Especially since some of the books I took most to task were by big-name authors heavily laureled with industry awards and platinum sales figures. And some of the subjects I tackled were things I approach as an outsider. I’ll admit to no few qualms about this, despite all my grumpy defiance. But a lot of people seemed to be on the same page about problematic books, and many authors commented or tweeted in support as well. Best of all were the people who got excited and went out in search of the books I discussed — the whole point of this was to draw more attention to characters and authors from underrepresented groups, and if I’ve done even a little work to help that then this project counts as a success.

3. In fact, I liked doing this so much that I’m going to try and do at least one analytic post a month from now on. I might not always pick books with the criteria I’ve used here, but this is a part of my brain that I’m happy to have dusted off and put back to work. I think it’ll be good for my heart as well as for my fiction. Plus, I still owe you a Vorkosigan post, after all.

4. Around the letters M and N, I started to have more questions than answers about the books I was reading. Time was catching up to me and I refused to post something too half-baked just for the sake of posting, so I ended with questions. While this is not a strategy I intend to depend on entirely — unanswered questions are neither helpful in large doses nor do they generally make for good reading — I found it liberating to illustrate the net I was caught in, rather than trying to always cut myself free of threads that could ultimately prove useful or important. 

5. I made it onto Metafilter! Someone thinks my Sandra Hill post was a terrible review because I did not give a synopsis of the plot! Someone else thinks my writing style is like the Hairpin! It’s a pretty fun thread, with some really good points.

6. If you missed this stunning essay from Daniel José Older, “Diversity Is Not Enough,” then please click through and read the whole thing at once. It’s an excellent reminder that while talk is all well and good, the ultimate goal of such talk is to change the world. The real world, the one we’re living and breathing and eating and fucking and laughing and writing in.

7. I rarely tagged an author while sharing these posts, so I was surprised and delighted by the wealth of positive author response, even from authors whose books I had given less than glowing assessments of. Taking texts seriously as texts, even to disagree with, bears fruit, and that’s something I’m going to hold close against my heart to warm me during the cold, rainy winter of the soul. And the times I did really get down and dirty with righteous wrath (ahem) so far have not risen up to crush me. Exciting! Though ask me again after the RT Convention I’m attending in May, where it’s possible someone will give me the cut direct! Whereupon I’m sure I will weep bitter tears into my lemonade. Or, more probably, quote to myself a comforting snippet of Dorothy Parker:

And sweet’s the air with curly smoke

From all my burning bridges.

Memorizing Dorothy Parker poems by reading them too many times is definitely one of the happiest accidents of my life.

In case anyone wants to go back and read past entries, I’ve made a complete page for just the alphabet without all the introductory paragraphs.

And in the immortal words of Strong Bad, now it is my intention to sit down and play video games for several hours.

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Z is for Zoe Archer

{Content note: the following post contains brief mentions of rape and nonconsensual attitudes in romance.

Click here for the complete — actually complete! — alphabet of intersectional feminism in romance.}

This post is both an ending and a beginning: an ending, because we have reached the letter Z, and after tomorrow’s brief wrap-up of the whole series I am going to explore the exciting new field of Shutting The Hell Up; a beginning, because Zoe Archer’s books were the ones that first got me really looking for more varied representation in romance all those (five) years ago. Rebel is the third book in Ms. Archer’s Blades of the Rose series, which I thoroughly enjoy for their mix of magic, historical romance, and adventure. (I’m several books behind in terms of keeping up with her many series — the curse of being a slow reader!)

Cover image for Rebel by Zoe Archer. Background of snowy peaks and high alpine forest. In the foreground a sharp-faced, dark-haired, tan-skinned man kneels, looking around observantly. He wears trousers, boots, a pale coat, and a fancy gold waistcoat. One arm is thrown out protectively to the woman who stands behind him, looking off in the opposite direction. She has pale skin and blond hair in a long braid down one shoulder. She wears goggles, trousers, a belted overshirt, and a long duster coat. A long knife is tied to the belt at her waist. One hand holds a pair of binoculars, and the other rests lightly on the man's shoulder. The premise of this series is an explicit treatise on the ethical and unethical uses of power. The Blades of the Rose (as in compass rose) are a group of fighters, spies, and scientists who travel the world to protect magical artifacts from being exploited. Their nemeses are a group known as the Heirs of Albion, whose purpose is to collect as many magical artifacts as they can for the purposes of elevating England above all other nations: “If the Heirs had their desire, Britain’s empire would see no limits” (Kindle location 13015). The contest is perennially uneven: the Heirs are aristocratic and wealthy, central figures of the real-world British Empire, and they do not scruple to use every means available to achieve their goal. Our heroes, in contrast, only use magic “that is theirs by right or gift” (15869). It leaves them perpetually outgunned and outmanned, forced to rely on their wits and strategy rather than brute force — ripe terrain for anyone who likes rooting for the underdog.

It’s been a while since I read the whole series, but in broad strokes the Blades’ own structure unfortunately replicates the pattern of imperial power, where the center is located in England (Southampton) and agents are dispatched out to the margins (Mongolia, Greece, Africa, Canada) on limited-time missions. I chose Rebel to discuss not only because it has a Native Canadian hero, but because the colonial themes of the series are brought out most vividly in this particular installment. Unfortunately, just as the Blades’ resistance to imperialism takes an imperial form, the resistances to oppression and colonial power in Rebel often replicate the patterns that sustain those systems.

Hero Nathan Lesperance is part Cowichan and part Stoney, but he’s never really known either tribe. Like many Native Canadian children, Nathan was taken from his parents at a young age and raised to be assimilated into white Christian culture. It’s a particularly cruel piece of North American history whose present ramifications include dying languages, broken traditions, lost cultures, and traumatic isolation for many First Nations people. Nathan’s determination to resist the colonial pressure that attempts to erase his history and his personhood has led him to become a lawyer on Vancouver Island, doing pro bono work to ease the burdens of injustice on Chinese and Native populations: “From the inside out, he’d smash apart the edifices of their prejudice, and the victory would be all the sweeter because they’d put the hammer in his hands” (12464). I was reminded of heroine Starbride from Barbara Ann Wright’s Pyramid Waltz, who also hopes to use the law as a means of fighting imperialism. I was also very strongly reminded of Audre Lord’s famous essay, “The Master’s Tools Cannot Dismantle the Master’s House” (PDF). In this light, Nathan’s project is doomed to fail because he cannot see that the very foundations of the edifice are stacked against him. The law is created by imperial minds, with racist biases, and backed by prejudice at every level. A system that encourages settler colonialism through land grants, broken treaties, and military action cannot be used to dismantle imperialism: it would be like trying to use a hammer to smash itself.

Nathan, moreover, is not even truly within the system. One of the first descriptions we get of him explicitly marks out his difference through the eyes of a local Mountie:

“I’m not your typical lawyer,” said Lesperance, dry.

On that, the sergeant had to agree. For one thing, most lawyers resembled prosperous bankers, their soft stomachs gently filling out their waistcoats, hands soft and manicured, a look of self-satisfaction in their fleshy, middle-aged faces. Nathan Lesperance looked hard as granite, hale, barely thirty, and more suited for a tough life in the wilderness than arguing the finer points of law in court or from behind a desk. (12231)

This description is a typical hero’s look — “hard as granite” in particular is one of romance’s more often-applied phrases. But we’re still gazing at Nathan through the imperial lens here: the definition of banker or lawyer implies male, middle-aged (well, yeah, after all those years of schooling!), soft and white. By invoking Nathan’s difference from this type, the text reiterates his marginalization.

Soon after this, Nathan discovers an ability to shapeshift into a large grey wolf. Our Native hero quite literally has a beast inside him, one which matches faintly remembered stories told to him by his dead mother: “A legendary race of changers lived in the sacred mountains” (12811). But our white heroine has to fill in the gaps in his knowledge: “The race of changers are called Earth Spirits … I have heard the legends, too. But I learned long ago that there is much more truth to legends than society would have us believe … You are an Earth Spirit.” The colonialist rupture of tribal tradition means Nathan now has to learn about his innermost self from a woman who comes from that same colonizing culture. When Nathan objects, as this seems to confirm every bigoted thing that’s ever been said about him — and he’s not really wrong, is he? — Astrid qualifies her statement:

“I did not say you were a man-beast. A man who can change into an animal. That is different.”

His bark of laughter held no humor. “Stupid of me not to see the difference.” (12847)

Bark of laughter — again, a common romance turn of phrase that in context proves rather infelicitous. The problem of where Nathan’s self as man begins and where his self as wolf begins (or later bear or hawk — spoilers! he has three beasts in there!) troubles the text. As is common in paranormal romance, strong emotions tend to bring out Nathan’s bestial form, especially anger, arousal, and fear. I am increasingly uncomfortable with the way these emotions are elided into one another in romance generally and paranormal romance most of all; I get that it’s all connected to self-control but as someone who can’t help flinching at loud noises I get uncomfortable at the thought of a partner who’s one inciting incident away from literally turning into a slavering monster with sharp teeth and claws. Nathan can change shape at will and is able to understand speech in his animal forms, but this comforting sentience disappears when he changes under the pressure of emotional impulses. And the way this ties back into the stereotypes of Natives as bestial only compounds my discomfort:

An animal within himself. He’d always felt it, fought it down every day. White men thought Indians were animals. He would prove them wrong, even if it meant brutally tethering a part of himself. But that hidden beast recognized her [Astrid], saw its like within her. And demanded. (12313)

The existence of Nathan’s beast-form here is a literal proof that white prejudice against Native peoples has some basis in fact in the world of the text. Some Native people are literally, not figuratively, animals. And the bestial nature is brought out by contact with (and attraction to) our white, blonde heroine.

It must be confessed: I love Astrid as a character. She’s lonely and standoffish and deeply wounded in ways that usually only the hero is allowed to be. I love a prickly heroine, and she’s a top-notch example. Astrid is frequently characterized, like Nathan, as beast-like or having a hidden beast that matches his. Astrid’s beast, however, is metaphorical: Nathan’s is literal. I cannot read this as an even distribution of power — unless her position as a white colonizer with greater knowledge (of magic, of his own people, of the threats posed by the Heir) compensates for the fact that Nathan is constantly fighting the urge to — if you’ll allow me a mild euphemism — disregard her sexual non-consent:

Nathan lowered back down to sitting, though he grimaced in pain from his aching cock. He breathed in hard, forcing himself and the beast back under control but having a hell of a time. The beast demanded more. He never took an unwilling women — even if the woman’s body was so damned willing she could start a firestorm with her heat … He clenched his jaw so tightly it throbbed, felt the animal in him growl, demanding to be set free. But he was more than animal. He had to prove that to her, and to himself. (13959)

“He never took an unwilling woman” — the pronoun’s most immediate antecedent is the beast, not Nathan, but both are active so both are mingled here. Normally such language is an externalization of a purely interior struggle — the classical example is Athena grabbing Achilles by the hair in the Iliad to prevent him from striking Agamemnon. But Nathan’s inner beast is frighteningly, fatally real. He never for one moment accepts that Astrid might honestly, truly reject him: all her denials are ascribed to fear, or avoidance of pain, or her desire to hide from complicated emotions. Their bond is presented in the text as something diegetically real and palpable even before they have exchanged more than three sentences: it is not quite a fated mate scenario, but it is close. The problem with this is that, like Nathan’s beast, the ethical landscape changes when what is usually a metaphor becomes factual. If you meet someone and the two of you have an instantaneous, real bond that happens because of magic, then it is accurate to say that rejecting that must be immoral or deluded, just like denying climate change or the benefit of vaccination is deluded (note: there will be no arguing about those statements in comments). But in real life, such palpable bonds are not scientific, they are not demonstrable by any outside measure, they are not objectively true — they are, however, frequently used as justifications for sexual assault and abuse. A brief tour through the many blog posts about the Jamie-Cersei rape scene from the recent Game of Thrones episode “Breaker of Chains” (this one from the Mary Sue is my favorite) will provide ample parallels for why this is an important sticking point.

This tension between threat and desire is resolved in the plot when Astrid yields her consent, as often happens in romance, whereupon Nathan’s beast of course turns protective instead of ominous. And to the text’s credit, Nathan’s change is not purely presented as an increase in power. It unsettles him, disturbs the course of his life, and makes him vulnerable in new ways. In fact, he way Astrid and Nathan progress from shame about the change/looking away, to watching the change as though watching is a gift, becomes highly sexually charged: “‘We shared something before,’ he nodded toward the direction from which they’d come, the riverbank on which they’d made love. ‘We’ll share this now.’ He pulled off his boots with hands that shook slightly with the intimacy of what he was about to do. A greater intimacy than the joining of their bodies in sex. They both knew that no one had ever seen him so unguarded, so truly exposed as he would be in a moment” (27211). This further complicates the interplay of violence and sexuality, and strikes me an unsatisfactory answer to the questions raised by the text. More and more, I am unsettled by the idea of romances whose erotic charge is He could hurt you, but he doesn’t. That is not a fun fantasy for me; that is not an escape; that is far too close to real life and my nightmares. You’re special: you’re the only one he shows the monster to. <– A horrible pun I could not resist.

If Nathan’s sexualized shapeshifting is a vulnerability, it is one that makes him and the other Earth Spirits a target for the Heirs, who want to colonize tribal powers the way the British colonized tribal lands: “Captive breeding … They will force you into captive breeding and create their own army of shape changers” (14754). The Heirs will do this by using three totems — a bear, an eagle, and a hawk — that each give them the power to control that animal’s shifters. There are repeated statements that the tribes can do nothing to resist the Heirs. There are repeated statements that the power of the Heirs is generally irresistible. It is hard to discern which of these statements are textual (setting us up for the eventual triumph of our heroes) and which of these statements are interacting with real-world historical narratives, which holds that all Native cultures eventually fall beneath the onslaught of white settlement and militarism. Similarly, Astrid’s eventual sexual submission is never really in doubt in the text — this is romance, where we know our hero and heroine will get together, so all her protestations are mere bumps in the road. Nathan has been colonized and is under the threat of an even more terrifying colonization by the Heirs — at the same time, his determined sexual pursuit of Astrid bears a strong resemblance to the forward movement of an irresistible, implacable enemy. At one point when Nathan is explaining why it’s particularly hard for men to watch the women they love take risks, Astrid says, “I thought that, rebel that you are, you’d have a bit more progressive attitude.” Nathan’s reply: “Some things are carved into a man’s blood and bones” (15520).

Let us have rebellion, this book says, but not too much.

___

Snarky Cake’s post Multicultural Tokenism in Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy has informed much of my analysis in this post, and aligns with many of my own observations of the genre.

I really wish I had had the time to read Stranger as well for this post, since black English genius inventor and waistcoat enthusiast Catullus Graves is the closest I’ve ever come to having a real-life crush on a romance hero. And Ms. Archer pairs him with a buxom, redheaded writer, so the self-identification for me there is off the charts.

Now added to my impossibly long reading list: Werewolves and Other Shapeshifters in Popular Culture.

Definitely worth checking though it may not be still trending when this post hits: the hashtag #DiversityIsNot. Those who devalue Twitter as a means of amplifying decentered voices are talking out of their (frequently centered) ass.

This Goodreads thread about abuse red flags, sexual violence, and paranormal and erotic romance (and a bit of romantic suspense) is full of food for thought. I don’t necessarily endorse every comment in here, but I do endorse having the discussion. This post asking whether we give paranormal heroes a pass on abusive behavior is also important.

___

Archer, Zoe. Blades of the Rose bundle. New York: Zebra Books, December 1, 2010. Ebook.

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Y is for Y Chromosomes: Gender Binary (Part 2)

{Click here for the full alphabet of intersectional feminism in romance.}

Yesterday I talked about the gender binary in mainstream romance; today’s post is all about m/m and f/f romance. I’m a mere dabbler in each of these deep pools, with much of my knowledge gleaned second-hand from scurrilous if entertaining places like Tumblr, so I hope there will be experts around to chime in with points I may not have considered or come across. None of the below comments will have anything to do with the writing quality of either subgenre — instead I’d like to explore the various intersections that crop up around the reading culture and reception of m/m and f/f separately within the broader mainstream culture of romance.

Sharp-eyed readers may have noticed that this month’s posts have not featured a romance with two male leads (though we have seen gay secondary characters). As I mentioned in comments to the Evangeline Parsons Yazzie post, I tend to give m/m romance a heavy side-eye: although I’ve read quite a few m/m fics and fanfics as a youth on the internet, my early experiences with m/m romance as a genre came when I started publishing erotic romance and joined my first author loops. (Oh, author loops, those gutters of self-promo and tone policing — it’s like being in a cutthroat high school clique with your mom.) <– Statement that may ensure I’ll never be in another author loop ever again?

The m/m authors I learned about on the loops were primarily straight women. They were upbeat, self-consciously naughty, and self-described allies of gay men. Note: gay men. A standard example comes from author Tara Lain (screencap), who writes m/m and the occasional m/m/f menage: “I love the intensity, passion, lack of gender roles, diversity, and innate drama that accompany two men in love.”

LACK OF GENDER ROLES COMMA DIVERSITY. This right here could easily fuel a two-thousand word post about privilege and appropriation and the way political theory devolves into marketing buzzwords. Limiting gender to one half of the binary is not compatible with diversity as a value. For one thing, despite the many parallel comments in this Goodreads thread on m/m romance, erasing the presence of women is not an acceptable solution to the problems that gender inequality presents. Not even in fiction. Because simply erasing one gender from a text does not erase capital-G-Gender from the text. A post at Vacuous Minx puts it most succinctly:

Let’s be honest and acknowledge that m/m provides a respite from what women’s gendered roles in romance novels make us confront, not from “gendered power relationships” more generally.

For another thing, “diversity” here is a feel-good term and an emotional manipulation: it aligns the straight author and her books with the morality of tolerance even as she makes money from the appropriated lives of marginalized identities. This is the very definition of fetishization.

When Victoria Brownworth wrote about m/m romance for Lambda Literary several years ago, including her own experience as a young lesbian reading f/f stroke fiction authored by men, it became A Huge Thing. [Updated to add: Victoria Brownworth has been active in TERF circles, which if I had known when I was writing this post would have made me pass her over in silence. Sometimes I get turned around by internet chronology. I stand by my citations below, mostly because they do not cite Ms. Brownworth.] One of the very first commenters was a female author of m/m who took issue with the terms:

[A] fetish by definition means to hold something in awe or in high regard. How does that jive with the hate-filled connotations that you want to associate with it? I also have a shoe fetish… does that mean I hate shoes?

Note: in her example, gay men = shoes. The definition of objectification. This is the facet of the m/m culture that always gives me the impression the (straight, female) author has taken two GI Joes and is mashing their faces together while saying, “Now kiss!” It gives me the heebie-jeebies and it means I hesitate to pick up an m/m romance that does not come with a recommendation from a trusted source. (Much more thoughtful responses to Brownworth’s argument can be found in this post by Sarah Frantz at Teach Me Tonight, and in comments. It’s a good old-fashioned internet clusterfuck and now my brain hurts so I’m moving on.) I know there are gay male authors of m/m and I know there are wonderful books out there — but the fetishizing gatekeepers have so far succeeded in scaring me away from nearly the entire subgenre.

Let’s revisit Tara Lain’s author page again, because it brings up another issue I’d like to develop more fully, and which I haven’t seen brought to the forefront of any mainstream m/m discussions in the past few years. Here is her front-page bio, in full, where I’ve added some crucial emphasis:

I’m Tara Lain and I write The Beautiful Boys of Romance. I love all my characters, but especially my unique heroes. I write mostly MM romance with some MMF as well. I love the intensity, passion, lack of gender roles, diversity, and innate drama that accompany two men in love. Giving my guys their happy ever after is my favorite thing. I write serious themes with a light touch and readers often call my books “sweet” despite all the hot sex!  I believe in love and enjoy giving more of it to the world! Please say hi, ask questions, and make yourself at home!  : )

The theme here is of ownership and control: the author is explicitly foregrounding her authority in the world of her texts, not only in regard to “her” boys but in regard to the shape of their (fictional) lives. The issue of control is also what makes discussions of m/m so quickly vitriolic on both sides: lgbt people object to feeling not in control of the bulk of fictional depictions of their own lives (and have been systemically erased from history and literature), and m/m authors and readers object to the idea that their own creative endeavors must be limited by considerations outside themselves (especially volatile for romance authors/readers, who are routinely pushed outside the literary tradition).

The idea of control helps explain why the same kind of rhetorical turns and attitudes that put my hackles up in professional publishing tend to merely (or sometimes profoundly) amuse me when I see them on Tumblr and in fan spaces. For instance: the Science Boyfriends fandom, which imagines that Bruce Banner and Tony Stark are in a romantic relationship and/or like to hang out and do lab work and experiments and make inventions together. It tends to be pretty cute, with a sweet rom-com vibe in both art and fic. Like many popular fan and slash pairings — the Winchesters, every Sherlock/Watson iteration, the original Kirk/Spock — these stories and artworks are a response, a reframing of an original work that is both culturally resonant and light on female characters or straight romantic relationships. Fanfic/slash is often deeply personal, experimental, self-aware, allusive, complex, and vivid. It is also mostly read and written by young women. In a world where young women’s own bodies and sexuality are constantly policed, scrutinized, and appropriated by everyone else, I suspect the way slash takes control back from creators (generally also men) is profoundly therapeutic: These are the characters you’ve given us, but we are reclaiming them as our own. Or else it’s an echo of the way young women feel appropriated by media? Taking the image or depiction of someone and putting that to your own use: if this is how value is created for young women, perhaps it also can become how young women create value? (See yesterday’s thought about authors swapping beefcake photos.) Remember the Creamsicle fandom? That time when a cartoon pointing out sexist depictions of girls on social media became a sweet lesbian romance between two characters who hadn’t even existed twenty-four hours earlier? God, that made me so happy. Young women (and some of them young queer women!) working together to create something positive out of misogyny and systemic erasure. I tear up just thinking about it.

Of course, if this is a major propellant of slashfic (hint: probably not entirely!), then it’s an impulse that must eventually need tempering with an eye toward other marginalized identities. No matter how many Science Boyfriend fics are written, Bruce Banner and Tony Stark will remain safely un-marginalized: actual gay men do not have this luxury. Making the switch to original characters transforms the writer’s ethical landscape — especially if this change happens to align with your own social privilege as a straight or straight-identified person in a homophobic culture. I’m starting to think this dynamic (a straight female writer progressing from slash fic to original fic to a career as an author of m/m romance) parallels one identified in this piece from Restructure, where geeky men redefine intelligence/math skills/computer savvy as masculine in response to jock bullying and identification of manliness with physical prowess. So when women claim to be intelligent/skilled in math/computer savvy in the same way, geek men push back out of ingrained self-defense. Similarly, slash writers potentially reclaim and reframe male relationships as a vital means of self-expression; when real-life gay men object, writers push back to defend themselves as a matter of course. I think this might explain certain common rhetorical moves in these debates — the description of m/m romance as works of respect and pure imagination, for instance, read very similarly to defenses of fan fiction against authors who object to it. You don’t own that, is the general refrain all around.

To get back on track … The money is, I realize now, a large part of what makes the m/m industry so distasteful to me on a grand scale. When the BBC Sherlock mocked fan culture in the Series Three premiere, I was appalled and put off. It was an inappropriate use of power: Moffatt and the producers of Sherlock were much more culturally and financially powerful than the fans they were poking at. In m/m, the existence of royalty relationships tends to amplify hegemonic power, so that straight women — Suzanne Brockman and J. R. Ward come to mind — reap the bulk of the attention and financial rewards in a subgenre centered on the love lives of gay men. Particularly when straight women can build entire careers and lengthy backlists on just books with m/m pairings. I can’t get past this as a sticking point, quite honestly. Not every m/m romance is automatically appropriative — but the structure of the industry itself deserves some sharp critique. So all this isn’t to say that I’m against m/m romance as a thing per se — merely that I’m going to be extra-careful about where my dollars go in an industry that feels so fundamentally imbalanced.

And now, for f/f fiction!

I’ve had incredible luck with f/f romance for this series. I’ve found wonderful new authors whose books I’m now itching to read more of, and I’ve found great resources like The Lesbrary which features lesbian-themed fiction both popular and literary (often reviewed by actual lesbians!). Not everything has been perfect, but nothing has made me feel as deeply uneasy as with m/m, either — not even the unabashedly pulpy ones like Rebekah Weatherspoon’s Better Off Red. There’s probably something about the intersections between straight women/queer women, as opposed to those between straight women/gay men, that has implications (but people smarter than me will have to work on this for the moment). When discussing f/f fiction, there are few genre-wide arguments to cite, few clusterfucks to dig up — but why? I can think of many reasons and all of them are depressing. Is it because:

  • Two women having sex is not as much of a social threat as two men (witness all the anti-marriage equality materials that featured scare grooms, and the way lesbian sex was never as thoroughly criminalized as gay sex between men).
  • If romance is “women writing about women,” then f/f romance is “women writing about women falling in love with other women.” That’s like a Double Romance. “Gross,” says Patriarchy.
  • The much lower revenue streams of f/f mean there are far fewer presses, authors, and readers with a financial stake in the subgenre. So there will be arguments, but they will rarely reach the heights of a debate that hits, for instance, a revered literary institution for gay lit, a top-notch romance review site, Gawker, and OUT Magazine.

F/f has yet to go mainstream in the way that m/m has/is about to — but I’m certainly going to be reading more of it. And that seems as good a place as any to call it a day.

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A Twitter-borne recommendation from queer gamer scholar Todd Harper has gotten me hooked on sci-fi gay romance animated webcomic Buying Time. I’m only a little ways in but I am thoroughly charmed. More like this, please.

Gay author of m/m romance Theo Fenraven has some thoughts on this issue, which do not entirely align with my own, but which are definitely worth bringing up for debate.

This year’s Lambda Literary Award winners were announced today! I freely admit this is just a coincidence, but it’s a pleasing one nonetheless.

Edited to add: An email remnded me of this thoughtful post from author E. E. Ottoman about the popularity of f/f versus m/m romance.

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