Out of the Ghetto, Into the Sneetches
Apr. 5th, 2006 09:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lydamorehouseSometimes I forget how stupid people are.
Nah, that’s not fair. It’s more a problem of the fact that a lot of people seem to want to compartmentalize things and then assign some kind of value based on, I don’t know, the color of the damn box you’ve been shoved into. It’s the whole star-belly sneetches problem.
I was reminded of this last night when I went to the science fiction writers meet-up in Minneapolis. I was invited to talk about my life as a writer and the whole issue of changing names and genres came up. Given that that’s the major event in my life as a writer, it’s not terribly surprising. Still. What frustrated me last night is everyone’s absolute INSISTENCE that romance writers write to a formula.
Of course, when asked, no one read romances regularly. Or, at best, they’d skimmed through a Harlequin twenty years ago.
But, they continued to inform me, you know, of course, that there’s an ACTUAL formula sent out from the publisher to each and every romance writer which explains the plot in detail – on what page the hero should fall for the heroine, when they should have sex, what kind, etc.
Oh, well, if it’s not like that they said to my protests, certainly the plots are formulaic – boy meets girl, they fall in love, and there’s a happy ending. Well, duh. Romances are about romance. To claim that’s some kind of derivative formula is like saying all science fiction is the same because every science fiction story has to have science in it.
I find this whole argument particularly tiring because I’ve always believed that at the base of it is sexism. The subtext in these conversations seems to me to be that stories about women (by women and for women) and their relationships (and their senses of self) are simply not worthy stories to tell – they’re fluff, barely worth the paper they’re printed on. Ironically, people take even larger umbrage with romances because they are simply the best-selling genre fiction in the world. Somewhere in the range of 56% of all paperback novel sales are romances. Somehow, for many people, simply hearing that the genre is popular makes its worthiness all the more suspect. Apparently, quality and quantity are mutually exclusive (but that’s another whole argument for another day, and a complaint I’ve heard applied to every genre. Oh, science fiction must be crap, look how well it sells! Oh, mysteries must be crap, look how well they sell! Oh, look, your grapes are sour, Madame Literary Novelist!)
Perhaps, I might suggest, romances sell well because being in (or out of) a relationship is a universal problem.
Also, do me a favor, okay? Get Brent Dashingly and Vivian Hotcakes out of your head. Romance novels in the twenty-first century are not always about super-buff guys who look startlingly like Fabio and their wilting, wall-flower doormats (and when they are they’re more often than not INTENDED to be mocked. Yes, Virginia, romance writers understand the concept of ironic meta fiction as well as the next bloke.) There are all sorts of romances out there. Yes, when you pick one up, the romance relationship is going to be the focus of the story, but, some of them tell excellent stories above and beyond that.
You don’t believe me?
Try one. Get yourself an issue of Romantic Times/Bookclub and scan the reviews for something you think might tickle your fancy.
Nah, that’s not fair. It’s more a problem of the fact that a lot of people seem to want to compartmentalize things and then assign some kind of value based on, I don’t know, the color of the damn box you’ve been shoved into. It’s the whole star-belly sneetches problem.
I was reminded of this last night when I went to the science fiction writers meet-up in Minneapolis. I was invited to talk about my life as a writer and the whole issue of changing names and genres came up. Given that that’s the major event in my life as a writer, it’s not terribly surprising. Still. What frustrated me last night is everyone’s absolute INSISTENCE that romance writers write to a formula.
Of course, when asked, no one read romances regularly. Or, at best, they’d skimmed through a Harlequin twenty years ago.
But, they continued to inform me, you know, of course, that there’s an ACTUAL formula sent out from the publisher to each and every romance writer which explains the plot in detail – on what page the hero should fall for the heroine, when they should have sex, what kind, etc.
Oh, well, if it’s not like that they said to my protests, certainly the plots are formulaic – boy meets girl, they fall in love, and there’s a happy ending. Well, duh. Romances are about romance. To claim that’s some kind of derivative formula is like saying all science fiction is the same because every science fiction story has to have science in it.
I find this whole argument particularly tiring because I’ve always believed that at the base of it is sexism. The subtext in these conversations seems to me to be that stories about women (by women and for women) and their relationships (and their senses of self) are simply not worthy stories to tell – they’re fluff, barely worth the paper they’re printed on. Ironically, people take even larger umbrage with romances because they are simply the best-selling genre fiction in the world. Somewhere in the range of 56% of all paperback novel sales are romances. Somehow, for many people, simply hearing that the genre is popular makes its worthiness all the more suspect. Apparently, quality and quantity are mutually exclusive (but that’s another whole argument for another day, and a complaint I’ve heard applied to every genre. Oh, science fiction must be crap, look how well it sells! Oh, mysteries must be crap, look how well they sell! Oh, look, your grapes are sour, Madame Literary Novelist!)
Perhaps, I might suggest, romances sell well because being in (or out of) a relationship is a universal problem.
Also, do me a favor, okay? Get Brent Dashingly and Vivian Hotcakes out of your head. Romance novels in the twenty-first century are not always about super-buff guys who look startlingly like Fabio and their wilting, wall-flower doormats (and when they are they’re more often than not INTENDED to be mocked. Yes, Virginia, romance writers understand the concept of ironic meta fiction as well as the next bloke.) There are all sorts of romances out there. Yes, when you pick one up, the romance relationship is going to be the focus of the story, but, some of them tell excellent stories above and beyond that.
You don’t believe me?
Try one. Get yourself an issue of Romantic Times/Bookclub and scan the reviews for something you think might tickle your fancy.
