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morrigirlDespite my intense desire to throw that horrible paranormal romance that was posing as urban fantasy across the room, I soldiered on because as soon as the hero and heroine quit making-out shit started to explode, and I firmly believe that any story in which shit explodes is worth pursuing. So, there was action, some more explosions, a little spirit possession, but none of it saved the book. It was all followed by a sex scene that went on for two entire chapters, and a hatchet job of an ending that was obviously thrown together because the author had no idea how to push the climactic battle scene she'd written into the resolution she wanted. So rather than change either the climactic battle or her expectations, she decided to end with a cop out. That is when the book finally hit the wall. I think I shall use that as my own personal slang for referring to lousy books. Yes, from now on when a book "hits the wall" that means it sucked big floppy donkey dick.
After writing the aforementioned rant about romance novels I realized that, having only willing read one romance novel in the twenty-nine years I've been alive, I don't know much about them. All I know for sure is that I buy into the popular view that they are nothing more than unpolished fluff written by substandard writers; the stereotypical porn for bored housewives. Of course, I used to think the same thing about fantasy and sc-fi, (well, not the part about porn and housewives,) but ever since daring to actually read books in those genres I've discovered they are home to many smart and talented storytellers. Being a person who likes her prejudices to be based on proof rather than stereotype, I decided to launch a study of the romance novel to see if my assumptions had any basis in reality.
I read two romances in a row last week. I'm currently taking a break because if I read romance non-stop for the next month I'm fairly certain my brain will explode. Explosions are fun, just not when they happen to me. So far the genre has proven every bit as unstomachable as I anticipated. Even so, I've got a few more uncracked books sitting next to my bed, and I will continue my forward march in hopes that one of them will prove to be, if not spectacular, at least bearable. I'm keeping a list of all the things I like and do not like about the genre, and that list will be the foundation of a much longer and more comprehensive post on romance novels some time in the future.
Having spent a little time with romance I started getting curious about another form of genre fiction, erotica. Considering the fact that sex is currently my favorite subject to write about and that erotica tends to overlap with romance, I decided erotica was going to be the genre I'd tackle next after returning from my sojourn into romance.
Not anymore.
Though I haven't launched a full fledged attack on the genre, I've been reading a short story here and a poem there for a couple of days now, and have found nothing but page after page of compelling evidence for my theory that it is virtually impossible to write a good sex scene. Whereas romance writing causes me actual physical pain, erotica just makes me feel embarrassed for the writers. They try so hard to write something original, coming up with these elaborate and completely impossible sexual scenarios, and they come off sounding so silly. The hyper sexualized people and locations, not to mention the adverb and adjective ridden descriptions that are so ridiculous they make me cringe, are totally inauthentic. Real sex isn't always beautiful, passionate, fierce, or sensual. Sometimes it's just, eh, and we all know I have a real problem with writing that strikes me as unrealistic. I understand the purpose of writing fantasy, I just can't get into the fantasies depicted in erotic writing. Maybe it's the style, maybe it's the subject matter, or maybe it's the handling of the subject matter that turns me off. More likely, it's all three combined with my contradictory nature of being a very sexual person for whom sex isn't all that important.
The erotica I've read has sent my inner poet screaming and running for cover. There is no way she will survive a survey of the genre, so I'm aborting the mission. It's back to skimming and skipping sex scenes for me!
After writing the aforementioned rant about romance novels I realized that, having only willing read one romance novel in the twenty-nine years I've been alive, I don't know much about them. All I know for sure is that I buy into the popular view that they are nothing more than unpolished fluff written by substandard writers; the stereotypical porn for bored housewives. Of course, I used to think the same thing about fantasy and sc-fi, (well, not the part about porn and housewives,) but ever since daring to actually read books in those genres I've discovered they are home to many smart and talented storytellers. Being a person who likes her prejudices to be based on proof rather than stereotype, I decided to launch a study of the romance novel to see if my assumptions had any basis in reality.
I read two romances in a row last week. I'm currently taking a break because if I read romance non-stop for the next month I'm fairly certain my brain will explode. Explosions are fun, just not when they happen to me. So far the genre has proven every bit as unstomachable as I anticipated. Even so, I've got a few more uncracked books sitting next to my bed, and I will continue my forward march in hopes that one of them will prove to be, if not spectacular, at least bearable. I'm keeping a list of all the things I like and do not like about the genre, and that list will be the foundation of a much longer and more comprehensive post on romance novels some time in the future.
Having spent a little time with romance I started getting curious about another form of genre fiction, erotica. Considering the fact that sex is currently my favorite subject to write about and that erotica tends to overlap with romance, I decided erotica was going to be the genre I'd tackle next after returning from my sojourn into romance.
Not anymore.
Though I haven't launched a full fledged attack on the genre, I've been reading a short story here and a poem there for a couple of days now, and have found nothing but page after page of compelling evidence for my theory that it is virtually impossible to write a good sex scene. Whereas romance writing causes me actual physical pain, erotica just makes me feel embarrassed for the writers. They try so hard to write something original, coming up with these elaborate and completely impossible sexual scenarios, and they come off sounding so silly. The hyper sexualized people and locations, not to mention the adverb and adjective ridden descriptions that are so ridiculous they make me cringe, are totally inauthentic. Real sex isn't always beautiful, passionate, fierce, or sensual. Sometimes it's just, eh, and we all know I have a real problem with writing that strikes me as unrealistic. I understand the purpose of writing fantasy, I just can't get into the fantasies depicted in erotic writing. Maybe it's the style, maybe it's the subject matter, or maybe it's the handling of the subject matter that turns me off. More likely, it's all three combined with my contradictory nature of being a very sexual person for whom sex isn't all that important.
The erotica I've read has sent my inner poet screaming and running for cover. There is no way she will survive a survey of the genre, so I'm aborting the mission. It's back to skimming and skipping sex scenes for me!
