Tag Archives: romance novels

Announcing: At His Countess’ Pleasure

Did you enjoy Color Me Bad? You’ll be glad to hear there’s going to be a sequel! It’s an angsty little gem of a novelette and I’m absurdly delighted with it. Here is the blurb!

Scandal has a long life, and Miss Anne Pym is running out of patience. Her cousin’s shocking marriage to the Earl of Underwood’s brother and their subsequent entrance into trade is still a burden Anne and her sister Evangeline must bear. Their own social standing is not enough to repair the damage, so Anne boldly seeks restitution from the earl himself, whom she holds partially responsible for the disaster.
 
To her shock, the earl not only agrees he’s partly to blame, but offers to make Anne his countess. The title and the wealth that comes with it will help her mend the shattered reputation of her family — and marriage will also provide Anne with the children she desperately wants. Simon needs an heir, and for that he needs a wife, and Anne’s practicality and courage strike him as useful traits for a countess to have.
 
But marriage is a beginning rather than an ending, and Anne and Simon have much to learn about each other — and about their pasts. Old hurts and new scandals alike threaten their burgeoning passion, even as Simon finds himself more and more eager to obey his strong-willed wife’s every carnal command. When Anne’s bitterest secret emerges, destroying their hopes for the future, Simon must learn whether or not he himself is enough for a lifetime of happiness — and just how completely he is willing to submit.

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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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W is for the Other Woman

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

It’s impossible to write a month’s worth of posts on feminism in romance and not bring up the trope of the Other Woman.

She’s as old as the genre itself, and appears in many of the canonical works. The ur-example is probably Pride and Prejudice‘s Caroline Bingley, snobbish and catty and redolent with poisonous politeness. We have two Other Women in Jane Eyre: lovely and self-important Blanche Ingram, and monstrous, pitiable Bertha Rochester. These figures have countless echoes in romance, from the mad villainess in Julie Garwood’s The Bride to Julia Quinn’s Cressida Cowper to all the immoral, cheating, heartless first wives that have stomped on the hearts of angsty alpha heroes since time immemorial.

Screenshots from both the 1995 and the 2005 versions of Pride and Prejudice, showing heroine Elizabeth Bennett and rival Caroline Bingley standing side by side for comparison.At her most basic level, the Other Woman functions as a way to generate conflict by means of female competition. She battles the heroine for the hero’s affections/penis/hand in marriage (a typical shallow take: this evo-psych video which honestly I only made it halfway through on account of some predictably vapid statements about “Harlequin romances”). The symbolic function of the Other Woman is to demonstrate the distance between the heroine and herself — to the left you will see a pair of screenshots of Elizabeth Bennet and Caroline Bingley (from the 2005 Pride and Prejudice above and the classic 1995 Firth-tacular version below). Note how both Carolines have dresses of finer material, showier jewelry, and more artful hairdos than the Elizabeths. Note the posture, as well: the Elizabeths have their arms at their sides, approachable and vulnerable. The Carolines have their arms crossed in front of them — right in front of their ladyparts, in fact! — showing that they are essentially closed off, distant, and cold. Keira Knightley’s waifish Elizabeth Bennet is contrasted with a womanly, sultry Caroline, while Jennifer Ehle’s bouncy, bosomy Elizabeth is set off by a thin, birdlike Caroline (always the feathers! Anna Chancellor, I love you).

To go a bit further, the Other Woman is frequently a representative of hegemonic power: in historicals she commonly has birth, wealth, and a gift for adroit social backstabbery. She has beauty and knows how to use it, or she is more sexually available (the word “overblown” often marks this, especially in older historicals). Contemporary Other Women (Cin from Bet Me, or C. C. from modern sitcom classic The Nanny) are often portrayed as overly ambitious and career-focused, which are fiction-code for a woman who is cold and self-interested. To them the hero is a prize, an item they intend to acquire as an accessory to a life lived successfully. The most common Other Woman archetype in contemporary romance is not the rival, however, but the ex: the cheating first wife, the neglectful mother of the hero’s kids, the too-desperate former girlfriend who can’t accept that it’s over. These figures are the mirror image of ideal womanhood as embodied by the heroine, who is invariably contrasted as faithful, nurturing, and sexually resistant.

Typically, the Other Woman has obviously put effort into the work of being beautiful: she has elegant clothing, wears visible makeup (rouge in Regencies, blood-red lipstick in contemporaries), carefully coiffed hair, and a figure on deliberate display (daring decollétage, fake boobs). She is using femininity as power, and it’s often presented as artificial in some way, particularly in contrast with the heroine’s innocence/earnestness/virginity. The heroine feels; the Other Woman calculates. The Other Woman is usually snobbish and elitist — she treats servants poorly, while the heroine is democratically friendly and un-self-important.

The difference between the two figures adds a moral aspect to the romance plot. The hero is not choosing between two women so much as he is choosing between two models of womanhood: the question needing an answer is not Which woman will he choose? but rather How should a woman be? The Other Woman’s inability to snare the hero is often read as a punishment — she shouldn’t have been so self-involved/aggressive/sexually available/shallow/etc. — as though the hero’s romantic choice constitutes a moral judgment, rather than a personal attraction or a choice about mutual compatibility. All the Other Woman’s social privilege crumbles beneath the heroine’s genuine affection and lack of agenda. Caroline Bingley’s pursuit of Darcy is rebuffed and shut down at every turn, while Elizabeth Bennet’s success with him is marked at first by a powerful (and deserved!) refusal of his suit. Later, when she does love him, she does not say so openly, but instead declares that she will not say she will not marry him — a positive expressed in a double negative, a deferral rather than a statement of desire. Darcy correctly interprets this, but it’s always struck me as a bit of a reach: I knew you loved me because you didn’t say you didn’t!

Unfortunately, the way this trope rewards the heroine who earns love/sex without actively seeking it tends to reinforce patriarchal narratives about women’s sexual expression and passivity. It’s the classic femininity trap: you have to be pretty but not work at it, thin but not too thin, have boobs but not big boobs, be available but not too available. Plus, you are expected to guard against the negative agency of brazen hussies without actually becoming one yourself — and if all your interactions with other women take the form of competition over men, it’s unlikely you’ll have time or energy for things like calling out sexism or dismantling systemic discrimination or figuring out how to articulate what you actually want instead of falling in line with a dominant cultural narrative about what you should want.

The Other Woman is a symptom: she is the deliberate embodiment of the negative aspects of femininity, a challenge to the heroine’s approved goodness. She destabilizes the text’s tight focus on the hero and heroine’s bond, and threatens that narrative throughline. She is a reminder, also, that there is a wider world outside two people’s romance. I’ve found it a useful exercise in feminist praxis to root for the Other Woman whenever I encounter her. So Caroline Bingley pursues Darcy obviously and aggressively — but what the hell else is she supposed to do with her life? Get a job? Oh, now I want to write about Caroline Bingley getting a job — perhaps a banker like Lady Sally Jersey. I’ve even thought about writing her love story (exciting discovery: someone already has!). Blanche Ingram is fairly uninteresting, but Jean Rhys has received great critical acclaim for telling Bertha Rochester’s story in her anti-colonial Wide Sargasso Sea. (Much as I kind of hate that book, I’m glad it exists. The response was necessary; I just get irritated with the prose style.) One of the greatest moves Margaret Mitchell makes in Gone With the Wind is that Scarlett basically is the Other Woman, a desirous, scheming mischief-maker contrasted with the sweetness, self-abnegation, and porcelain-fragile goodness of Melanie Wilkes. Tessa Dare’s Wanton Dairymaid trilogy also plays with this trope: the Other Woman of the first book is the heroine of the second, and neither she nor the first book’s heroine end up with the man they’re rivals for. (Side note: the plot structure of that trilogy is one of my favorite things ever, and I really need to reread it.)

It’s easy to reduce conflicts between women to catfights and an inborn female viciousness — but this not only minimizes women individually, but leaves no room to discuss the meaningful divisions in women’s agendas that shape our daily lives and stories. In particular, I’m thinking of the the well-documented conflicts within feminism — not only the movement’s long history of white supremacy, which spurred black women to create and foster womanism, but also feminism’s history with class bias, which privileges discussion of the problems of white upper- and middle-class women (stay-at-home-mothers a la Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique) over issues facing working- and lower-class women (domestic service workers, sex workers, immigrant women, etc.), to say nothing of the specific challenges faced by gay women and trans women and disabled women. These disagreements are important and worthy of debate, but the figure of the Other Woman and the pervasive specter of Cattiness often serves to shut down otherwise useful conversations. We are afraid to play into the stereotype, so we keep silent and let harmful things slide (or are urged to do so in the name of solidarity). It reminds me of the way we minimize feminine-coded activities in the name of equality: women are just as good as men, we’ll say, because we like whiskey and climbing trees and hunting and being physically strong. And by saying that we’ve ceded the ground that masculine-coded things are good and admirable and feminine-coded things are backward and inferior. We’ve mistaken the limits of patriarchy (for instance, the idea that women do/should wear pink) for the marks of patriarchy (feminism means never wearing pink!). With the Other Woman, the defensiveness is identical: Don’t punish us, the Good Women, the heroines — we’re Not Like Her at all.

The Other Woman is a symptom of patriarchy, but she is also a victim of it. She too must be humanized and defended. Because as soon as we start making a list of Women We Don’t Need To Listen To, Women We Can Discard, Women Who Are Less Human — we all lose.

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Justine Larbalestier unpacks the idea of Scarlett O’Hara as a feminist icon/feminist target in a truly incisive piece.

Last year Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar received the National Book Critics Circle’s Lifetime Achievement Award, in no small part for their masterwork The Madwoman in the Attic. Maureen Corrigan at NPR describes the revolution inspired by this book and its continuing relevance.

Here is an old but excellent post from The Book Riot about the “for women, by women” tagline used to defend romance and why it ought to be retired. I’m not sure I entirely agree, but it’s a debate I’m really eager to participate in!

The Toast once again knocks it out of the damn park with Suffragettes Who Sucked: White Supremacy and Women’s Rights.

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P is for Cathy Pegau

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

Cathy Pegau’s sci-fi heist romance Rulebreaker has one of the most on-point titles I’ve seen in some time. From the con-artist heroine to her executive lesbian love interest to the giant mining company determined to cover up a sinister corporate secret, it feels as though rules and the law are created only to be broken, bent, flouted, or twisted. What’s more, the way the book unfolds treats the usual turns and tropes of romance the same way, playing with reader expectations in a way not unlike a good con.

Cover image for Cathy Pegau's Rulebreaker. Vaguely futuristic metallic background. One woman with pale skin and short dark hair stands facing the reader. One hand is on her hip and the other rests casually on her head, holding a sci-fi looking pistol. She wears a dark blue strapless garment and her expression is cool and challenging. Behind her is a second dark-haired woman with pale skin, looking down demurely as though hiding something.Bisexual con artist and occasional thief  Liv has a whole set of rules for appropriate criminal behavior: “Felon’s Rule Number One: Don’t get emotionally involved” (87). Of course she’s going to break this rule: she’s going to get involved, and hard. It’s one of the strongest types of what TV Tropes calls Tempting Fate — similar examples include the cop who mentions he’s two days away from retirement (and you instantly know he’s going to be killed), or the computer geek who declares himself invincible (only to be immediately drenched in liquid nitrogen). They’re practically prophecies in fiction and film. So when Liv’s hot ex-husband Tonio reappears to ask for her help with an absurdly lucrative new heist, the reader is primed to expect a classic reunion story about a couple of exes rediscovering how to be together.

And it looks for a while as though that’s what we’re getting. Liv and Tonio have chemistry that is off the charts. Liv is intensely, frankly sexual and Tonio pushes all her buttons — but they both keep pulling back, trying to keep things simple and uncomplicated because they knew that as a couple they were something of a disaster. And this would all seem very cliché and expected except that the astute reader (read: me) has read the blurb and noticed that we are to have a lady love interest at some point.

I’ll confess: I was intrigued. Zia — short for Jadzia — first shows up at the halfway point in the text. Remarkably late for a main character. In authorly circles I have seen people dinged in critiques or pitches for not introducing both protagonists in the first ten or so pages. But bending this particular rule really serves the story, because in the first half of the book we get plenty of time to learn about the sci-fi world of Nevarro, and thanks to Tonio we get to see how Liv behaves both when she trusts someone and when she does not. Tonio might be her ex and they might have some unresolved issues about their past, but he’s miles safer for Liz than Willem Grey or his son Christian, the two arch-criminals who have set up our blackmail heist.

[Author’s note: I only just realized that one of the cold-blooded killer characters in Rulebreaker is actually named Christian Grey. There’s a little one-off about his sexual preferences at the end of the novel that is suddenly a whole lot more hilarious.]

Liv’s job is to cozy up to hard-nosed executive Zia Talbot, who has hidden files about a piece of safety tech that would earn the company heavy fines if the Central Mining Authority learns about it. Seduction is implied, if not explicitly required, and Liv is slightly anxious about this: she has had crushes on women before, but she’s never slept with or dated one. I was worried we were in for a coming-out arc — which is fine, just not that exciting to me — but instead it turns out Liv is worried that she won’t be as successful in seducing a woman as she would be with a man. She’s anxious because of her inexperience, not because she’s questioning her same-sex attraction. And when she does meet Zia, the intensity of the blaze between them is not presented as qualitatively different from her attraction to Tonio. When they do eventually sleep together, she notices the different textures and responses of a woman’s body, but it’s not presented as somehow validating or confirming anything we didn’t already know about Liv. It’s emotionally transformative — but that’s because Liv and Zia have a much more sustainable romantic connection than Liv and Tonio ever did. It’s to the narrative’s credit that this isn’t presented as a competition, as though Zia is Liv’s Tru Lurrv while Tonio was a mistake — Liv and Tonio cared about each other but also hurt each other, while Liv and Zia bring out the best in each other. It’s sweet and realistic and doesn’t make anyone into the villain — this being one of my pet peeves about love triangles and why I generally avoid them. (I haven’t read much YA recently, as you can imagine.) A bisexual heroine is a rare enough thing in romance: a bisexual heroine who gets to actually display her attraction to both sexes on-page for reasons other than titillation is like some sort of romance unicorn.

Ah, Zia … She is intelligent, demanding, controlled, and lovely — a Harlequin Presents-type fantasy CEO who just happens to be female. No wonder Liv so quickly breaks that first felon’s rule by falling in love with the mark. This part of the text plays out another traditional romance narrative: Pining Secretary In Love With Sexy Boss. Zia responds to Liv’s flirtations the way any alpha would: knowing smiles, innuendo, seductive compliments, expensive gifts. She notices Liv’s hesitation and chalks it up to inexperience (Liv has told her this would be her first time with another woman), so she offers to go slow and do things right — again, all very classic protective alpha.

Only the reader knows that Liv is anxious not just because of romantic timidity or the newness of lesbian action, but because she’s dreading the moment when Zia learns Liv’s been conning her the whole time to break into her computer system. Moral twinges are read as virginal shyness — it’s a clever twist on an old trope and it makes for some nicely angsty reading. It also preserves the fantasy of the boss-secretary dynamic without undermining Liv’s agency as a character: one of my biggest problems with the alpha CEO hero is how often the heroine is made passive as a counterbalance or contrast (Christian Grey and Ana Steele being a fairly obvious example). Liv is an excellent assistant, due in no small part to the skills she’s honed on the shady side of the law, and it really is a pleasure to watch her blossom in the cutthroat corporate world. There are hints that she could easily transition into a permanent position in the company — a feint toward the well-trod redemption arc, where the thief goes straight because of love. A cop from the CMA appears to try and get Liv to turn on her fellow criminals: she has an opportunity here to get in good with the law, for possibly the first time in her life.

But Willem and Christian are growing impatient: the pressure is on for Liv to find the right files so the blackmail can begin. When she does, the discovery of what’s in them twists the usual tropes again: Zia is not innocent. She’s covered up deaths and allowed more deaths to happen just to preserve her career; the fact that the actual death rate is higher than she realized is not treated as a mitigating factor to absolve her of blame, but as a demonstration that she should have been asking better questions and made more ethical choices. It’s a bold move by the text — especially since the secret really is a plausibly dirty one, involving the forced labor of conscripted prisoners and faulty safety equipment — but it mens that Zia’s high-status position as a wealthy and successful woman is compromised. The fantasy is tempered by the truth. In many ways this revelation also makes Zia a better match for Liv — they both know how to hide their tracks from the inquisitive eyes of the law. Liv’s own past is far from pristine, so now they can move forward together on a more equal footing — or they could, if Liv still weren’t on the con. And if she didn’t know that turning evidence for the CMA would get Zia not only fired but imprisoned in the same prison mines Liv’s spent her whole life avoiding, and from which Zia picked people to die in the mines.

At this point, I had no idea where the text would go. My sense of the narrative direction had been twisted too many times — I was being conned, and I was delighted. Everything depended on the characters’ choices at this point: there was no one story shape (reunion story, Presents romance, redemption arc) that was controlling the narrative’s direction: “None of these choices ended with a happily ever after. In my world, what did I expect, roses and rainbows?” (2699). Things go merrily to hell in the manner of all the best heist stories (Sneakers being my perennial favorite). Liv confesses her hidden agenda to Zia. The Greys take Liv’s mom hostage. In the resulting shootout Tonio is killed and Zia is critically injured. It’s the rock-bottom black moment for our heroine:

Zia and Tonio were both gone because of things I’d done. Did I think I could get away with breaking all those rules? Who the hell was I that they didn’t apply? And now look what had happened. (3683)

I knew as a reader that Zia wasn’t going to die, but I couldn’t help worrying about it anyways. Tonio had died, after all, and up until that moment I’d thought we might also be in for a last-minute menage romance (I do like a good menage). It didn’t help that I was reading this book in the lead-up to the Purple Wedding on Game of Thrones and was having a week where every character felt vulnerable. Ms. Pegau’s text had shown itself so willing to play with genre tropes that my usual rock-hard certainty about the protagonist’s survival was ever so slightly shaken. I was impressed.

Liv ends up in a CMA holding facility, a place where nothing exists except rules. A mostly recovered Zia comes to find her, and the book ends with a new rule: “Find someone you love who loves you back, the job be damned” (3988). It’s a sweet yet plausible ending, not unmixed with difficulty — really very satisfying.

You may be wondering, in all this, where the feminist angle comes in. Partly it’s that this is a story about women with agency that isn’t based on violence or magical powers, but on intelligence, persuasion, perception, and guts. Much as I love a good fantasy premise, it’s refreshing to have people — especially women in fiction — who are strong because of purely human traits.

But also, I believe that stories can be either a way to keep the walls up or to tear them down, both in our individual lives and in our collective culture. We saw with Zen Cho‘s book how the (re)interpretation of the colonizers’ literary traditions helped people with colonized identities manage the oppressions and obstacles they faced. If the nature of oppression is restriction — through the law, through custom, through reductive stereotypes — then a plot about breaking rules and confounding expectations must be somewhat liberating. Liv and Zia go through a process of discovering which rules are solid and which rules deserve to be broken: they are more sensitive at the end of the book to each other and to the consequences of their own actions. The text’s meta-narrative at the same time shows us how flexible stories really are — it suggests that we can decide to some extent which story we’re living in, which set of rules we want to follow. Like Jade Temptress, this ending feels almost like a beginning, with two people who have a wider understanding of their own powers and a greater resistance to forces that would try to keep them from reaching their full potential of happiness and self-assertion.

Sounds pretty feminist to me.

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Sexism in SFF and geek culture is really having a moment lately — this post by Foz Meadows lays out some of the ways that women’s participation in the history and culture of geekdom has been consistently overlooked, tested, or erased entirely.

This older post from Tor.com is a recap of a WorldCon panel from 2010, and opens up some interesting questions about bisexuality in sff more specifically (especially: why is there not more of it?).

Romance Novels for Feminists has a great post on the interaction between heist plots and romance.

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Pegau, Cathy. Rulebreaker. Carina Press: August 8, 2011. Ebook.

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