My disillusionment, let me show you it.

My first romance novel was a Betty Neels-penned Harlequin titled BRITANNIA ALL AT SEA. My second, also by revered Harl author Neels, was called RING IN A TEACUP. I don’t remember a lot of titles after that, but I do recall buying Harlequin romances like bags of corn chips and enjoying them with just as much gusto.

As I matured into a snotty adolescent pursuing a degree in English Lit and an elitist attitude, I considered my own addiction to romance novels a sort of guilty secret. My friends read Angelou and Cather and Atwood. I snuck Harlequin novels under the covers in my dorm room.

In the last several years, I’ve made plenty of jokes — here and elsewhere — about the ludicrous titles to be found in the Harlequin Presents line, as well as the antiquated and misogynistic values they too often represent (particularly the fetishizing of female virginity).

But never — no, not EVER — did I disparage the IDEA of the largest, most respected publisher of romance in the world. A company run primarily by women, for women, catering to the reading needs of the average woman who wants to lose herself in the fantasy of love conquering all, in all its many flavors.

Indeed, there abides on my hard drive even today a half-finished manuscript I’d planned to submit to Harlequin (Blaze? Superromance, maybe?) sometime in the near future, plus another intended for Spice Briefs. I observed the opening of Carina Press with interest and anticipation, and wondered how big the slushpile would grow before I felt comfortable subbing a manuscript to an untested publisher (especially in the wake of the crash and burn of Quartet Press, the revolutionary new epub that never was).

Unless I can figure out how to restructure that unfinished manuscript to single title length, it will likely never see the light of day. The story meant for Spice Briefs will go elsewhere. I will delete my links to the eHarlequin site, where I shopped at least a few times a year and frequented the boards as a lurker.

In one fell swoop — by the simple expedient of opening a vanity press branded with the Harlequin name and using deceptive, insulting language to offer services of suspect value at exorbitant prices to rejected writers and whatever other gullible souls they can lure into their shell game — Harlequin has re-positioned itself as the antithesis of a respected publisher in my eyes and those of many others.

Apparently, the RWA feels much the same — and hallelujah for that. Yes, their removal of Harlequin from the list of eligible publishers and their branding of the company as a vanity press has the potential to hurt their members who are also Harlequin authors, but rumor has it that most Harl authors have come down squarely on the side of RWA’s decision. This action alone has restored a chunk of my faith in RWA. They’ve done nothing more or less than told the truth, and then acted according to their own, much debated bylaws. If I were a member, I’d be proud.

There are those who say the confusion over this new venture of Harlequin’s will not dilute their brand. To them I say, “Have you seen The New Yorker today?” Oh, it’s elitist? An organ of East Coast snobbery, and never supportive of genre fiction anyway? And therefore doesn’t matter? Was it also elitist several months ago when it did that glowing piece on Nora Roberts? Can’t have it both ways, folks. The brand dilution has begun, and with it another round of ghettoizing romance as a genre.

How did Harlequin/Torstar fail to see see this coming? The loss of stature, the loss of respect? The derision flung by those both in the industry and outside of it? The reader confusion, the author betrayal? The rejection by the largest professional literary organization in the world?

Were they truly so blinded by the prospect of making money by selling a vanity press option to rejected authors? And through the owners of Author House, no less — one of the very least respected vanity press operations in business? How lamentably short-sighted.

It will be interesting to see if they continue to send their mouthpiece around to the blogs to defend this shameful endeavor. She’s been called a liar and worse. (Offering bound copies of vanity-pubbed books to authors for delivery to agents? ARE YOU KIDDING?? Way to completely discredit yourself as a knowledgable industry insider. Agents are pointing and laughing as we speak.) Will she show up again to try to sell this original sow’s ear as a silk purse of inestimable value?

Only The Shadow knows, and he ain’t talkin’.

In the meantime, here’s a fresh and growing list of links on the topic:

Author Barbara Caridad Ferrer

Author Jackie Kessler

Agent Ashley Grayson (He’s a MAN, baby! /austin powers)

Author Allison Brennan