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

Most, if not all, vanity presses make the vast majority of their profits on fees collected from writers.

(Money flows to the author.)

Very few writers end up recouping their investment on vanity-press published projects.

(Money flows to the author.)

No matter what they tell you, if you pay up front to hold a copy of your book in your hand, you’re not published — you’re PRINTED. “Publishing” implies a vetting process and some sort of editing FOR WHICH YOU DO NOT PAY.

(Money flows to the author.)

Yes, even if you are traditionally published by a major house, you may pay to promote your book beyond whatever promotional support your publisher offers. That’s not the same thing as paying to have your book copy edited, printed and offered for sale. You can say, “Yes it is,” as many times as you like, but… it’s not. It’s really, really not.

And so my power ballad becomes a dirge. Hum along if the spirit moves you.

(MONEY FLOWS TO THE AUTHOR.)

Coda:

As to the issue of the RWA in this brand, spanking new venture of Harlequin’s… Well. I’m not a member. No dog in that particular fight. But given that approximately 70% of the RWA membership is comprised of unpublished authors, I think the organization has a responsibility to make sure its members know the difference between being “published” and paying to be “printed,” and to take a strong position in this matter according to their own, much touted, standards. It will be fascinating to see if this Board of Directors has the balls to put their money — and their relationship with the largest publisher of romance — where their mouths are.

Other blogs on this subject:

TeddyPig,  EREC,   SmartBitches (scroll thru comments for the good stuff)

Anne Aguirre, Barb Ferrer

So I got an email over the weekend from an acquaintance asking me why I hadn’t blogged about the current farcockteh mishuggenah between epubbed authors and the RWA.

Meh. I don’t have much to say. It’s not my fight. Epubbed I am (and epubbed I will likely always be, whether I sell to New York next week or not, because I’m always going to write some stuff that’s too outré for NY) but RWA quit being relevant to my career a long while before I finally let my membership lapse. While I sympathize with my epubbed friends and colleagues who are members and who want to see change in how the BoD approaches different modes of publishing, I just can’t work up a head of steam about an organization that lags further behind the industry with every passing year.

There are those who are organizing under the battle cry, “Change comes from within!” and to them I say, “You go, grrrrrrrls!” I wish you much luck. I discovered early that I have neither the time nor the patience for windmill-tilting at this level. Bone-deep resistance to change is one of the most difficult human characteristics to overcome, and the RWA is nothing if not hidebound at the highest levels. (And I’m not necessarily talking about the president or the board of directors. Make of that what you will.)

The best argument I’ve heard for membership in the RWA is that the “amazing” networking opportunities will help an otherwise unpublished writer transform herself into a published author. And that’s fine…except the thing I keep hearing over and over again from editors and agents is, “It’s not who you know, or even how well you write, but the salability of your current project.”

In other words, no matter how many Sooper Sekrit Squirrel email loops and retreats the RWA holds for those members who’ve attained the holy grail of earning $1000 for a single publication, and no matter how many ribbons and pins and badges and charms the RWA gives out to its unpubbed members indicating various accomplishments on the road to being published* the bottom line will always be, “What have you written lately, and is it good enough to convince the editor of your choice that readers will buy it?”

Maybe it’s hubris – and it’s certainly not ladylike by the standards of RWA to say so out loud, in front of God and everyone – but I can do that. By myself. Without paying hundreds of dollars for face-to-face pitches at conferences or a cheerleading section beyond what I’ve got in my current crit partners, heaven bless their patient souls. I can write the book, build the synopsis, craft the query, get the agent and sell the project using my brain and my own two hands, just like many, many other authors have done and continue to do. And I’ll do it without paying dues to be condescended to or told my books aren’t “romance” or that the industry model I choose to distribute my work is an “author mill.” **

So, yeah. I guess I had more to say than I thought I did.  ~iz sheepish~

* The first time I attended a chapter meeting and the president pulled out a Ziploc baggie full of little brass charms and pins and started handing them out for “finishing your first manuscript” or “sending your first query” or “receiving your first rejection” or “just showing up and looking pretty” I almost fell off my chair. What the hell, people? Is this an organization for professional writers or the fucking Girls Scouts? Name one pro organization run by men that would indulge in this kind of trivial hand-patting and cheek-pinching for every small accomplishment. On second thought, don’t, because I’m sure they exist. It’s bad enough that grown women need to play these bogus self-esteem-bolstering games with each other. Leave me my illusions about the menfolk, if you please. In the words of the inestimable Dean Winchester, “Participation trophies suck ass.”

** Note to President Pershing: You really screwed the pooch with that one, honey. That’s right up there with “Mission Accomplished!” and “Heckuva job, Brownie.” Seriously. Rescind that comment and apologize profusely. Claim temporary insanity or possession by reptile alien demons or something. But take it back and say you’re sorry, because that was not only beneath you and the board you claim to speak for, it was so far over the line, the line is a DOT to you. And while you’re at it? Educate yourself on the reality of “author mills” – for they do exist – and why reputable, royalty-paying epubs and small presses are NOT. THAT.

~~~

And because I’m on a ranty kind of roll and should probably get it out of my system while I can, what is UP with middle-school parents who dawdle in the drop-off circle, choosing that moment to strike up conversations with their children while cars line up behind them and block traffic all the way back to the main road? Shit or get off the pot, people. Are you really so fucking busy you can’t find the time for a face-to-face with your twelve-year-old that doesn’t involve inconveniencing twenty other families? And if you are, may I suggest a shift in priorities? Because I know how much that shiny new Expedition cost, and maybe if you didn’t have to pay for the full sports package, you’d have that ten extra minutes to discover why Junior’s lacrosse practice is running late tonight without fucking with everybody else’s morning schedule, hmmm?  Get the FUCK outta my way.

~satisfied sigh~

I feel SO much better.

**UPDATE THE SECOND: 12-12-05
Again, please check the Haloscan comments for two separate posts by author/editor Terese Ramin on this issue. Ms. Ramin makes some good points, asks some good questions, and makes a few exceedingly reasonable requests.

Thanks to her for commenting.
~Selah

*UPDATE: 12-9-05
Check out the Haloscan comments (as in, NOT Blogger comments) below for a note from Gail Northman, Executive Editor at Triskelion. She clarifies some details of the arrangement between the publishing company and the authors of BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEVAMPYRED.

Thank you, Ms. Northman, for taking the time to comment.
~Selah

I’m sure there are two sides to the story. There always are, right?

And there are so many other, more important things about which to feel weary and sickened and angry. People dying, children hungry, families torn apart by a stupid, meaningless war…

But I’d hoped for better.

Triskelion Publishing, a small press and electronic publisher, put out a book called BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEVAMPYRED. Some of the authors contributing to the book — and remember, this is just a partial list — were Mary Jo Putney, MaryJanice Davidson, Alesia Holliday, Vicki Lewis Thompson, Gena Showalter.

The book did well. So well, in fact, that Triskelion was able to apply for RWA recognition based on its sales numbers.

The results of this application can be found here and here and here, on author Ellen Fischer’s blog.

There was an initial tussle over “but…but…it’s not really ROMANCE!” that was effectively squelched when the Board was reminded that a Chick Lit novel won the RITA this year.

Then there was something iffy about how maybe BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEVAMPYRED isn’t really a novel, or even an anthology of novellas, but merely a grouping of short stories because of the length of each offering by the different authors. And yet each section in the book is delineated as a “chapter” and NOT a separate story, which, to me, would indicate that the book IS a novel written by all the authors listed, much like a book written by two authors — like, for instance, the upcoming release from Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer.

But, apparently, what it finally comes down to is that because Triskelion chose to give away the proceeds from BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEVAMPYRED to charity, the book is ineligible for recognition. At least, that’s the case according to someone or a group of someones at RWA.

And I can TOTALLY see the logic behind that. Because…you know…you let ONE small press/epublisher get away with giving away profits to the less fortunate among us and reaping the reward of the coveted RWA Recognition, and soon ALL the small press/epubs will just be THROWING cash at the Red Cross…the Salvation Army…criminy, AIDSWork won’t know what to DO with all the money…the Children’s Defense Fund will be sending the cash BACK…

Like I said, I’d hoped for better from the new RWA Board of Directors. In this case, holding to the letter of the law instead of its spirit seems, at best, short-sighted and stupid. At worst? Punitive. Spiteful. More concerned with looking good than doing good.

And heaven knows, the RWA is looking SO good these days, aren’t we?

God bless us, every one.

So, about that conference…

Orchestrated by the Southern Tier Authors of Romance (STAR) chapter of the RWA, it was held at the Holiday Inn in Ithaca, New York. The gathering was small–around fifty attendees, I believe, not counting speakers, editors and agents–which allowed a casual, “we’re all in this together” kind of atmosphere not found as often at larger cons.

The highlights:

Friday night kicked off with a lecture at the Lost Dog Café in which I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the Romanov murders–where and how the various members of the last Czar’s family were shot, bayoneted and bludgeoned, how exactly the bodies were disposed of, why acid was used to burn away their facial features, why the four daughters didn’t die as quickly as their parents, and how long it takes to burn a human body as it lies stiffening in the mud. Fascinating, every bit of it, but I was glad I hadn’t overdone on dinner, because I’m a HUGE wussy about that stuff unless I’m the one who’s making it up. We also heard all about the unsolved murder of William Desmond Taylor, a famous 1920s film director, which was somewhat lighter on the gore, but included a reference to one of my favorite movies of all time: WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? (pic)

Saturday morning began with a talk by NYT bestseller MaryJanice Davidson on “The Knockout Punch.” Basically, MJD promotes the idea that you need a fantastic, hooky, grab-’em-by-the-throat-and-don’t-let-go opening line that will insure your manuscript/book gets read by an editor or agent or bookstore browser, and not tossed back into the pile or onto the shelf. You could practically hear the wheels spinning as every member of the audience recalled their various opening lines and cringed. I know I did. My first lines tend to be…uh…less than unforgettable. But I think it’s good advice, so when I got home, I did what I could to punch up the opening line of book I’m prepping to submit.

A lovely lunch was accented by NYT bestseller Sherrilyn Kenyon’s keynote speech, “There Will Be Pork In The Trees By Morning.” (Original quote: The Lion In Winter. When Richard says to Eleanor “When pigs have wings!” she replies, “There will be pork in the trees by morning.”)

Lordy, was Ms. Kenyon’s tale one of ultimate triumph in the face of endless woe. Seriously, if you tried to make this woman’s experiences into a book, an editor would tell you that you were over-selling the pathos–suspension of disbelief only gets you so far, and nobody’s life sucks that hard. When Ms. Kenyon could not get a new contract to save her soul, and had lost pretty much everything but her will to write, and her RWA membership was about to expire, and she had to borrow money to buy paper for that last proposal…and her father was dead of cancer…and she lived a roach-infested apartment from which she was about to be evicted…and her agent had dumped her…and Christ, the baby had COLIC…

And folks, this was AFTER she was already a multi-published author.

I dunno about anybody else, but I was worried about the state of my mascara. Who knew I’d have to go the waterproof route for a romance con?

Take home message? PERSEVERE. No matter what, keep going. And when they scoff and say you’ll make it when pigs sprout wings? Tell ‘em you spy a flock of Bacon Bits on yonder horizon. Thank you, Ms. Kenyon.

As mentioned in my previous post, I also attended a workshop with a lovely agent who did, in fact, have a lot of good things to say about author promotion. I don’t even necessarily disagree with her about the whole “don’t be controversial on your blog” thing–I’m sure what I say here will, in the end, lose readers. And the fact that I don’t care more about that may make it harder for me to find an agent or even an editor who’s willing to work with me. I don’t think it’s bad advice. I just don’t think it’s the right advice for me.

And now, because I simply can’t let a day go by without stirring the shit, my quote and links for the day:

“You could say the new Iraqi Constitution is going to be a bit short on rights for women. You could also say the Arctic in January is brisk.” Will Durst

“Between 2001 and 2004, 4.1 million more Americans slipped into poverty while the upper 2% of the country’s richest became 55% wealthier. So, say what you will about Bush’s policies. They’re working.” Will Durst

And finally:

GRANDMA GOT RUN OVER BY INJUSTICE

UPDATE: link to official letter from RWA Board of Directors. Please note that this letter was sent WITH PERMISSION TO FORWARD. Also, please note that the AWARDS CEREMONY BOARD LIAISON referenced in the letter is RWA President Tara Taylor Quinn.

And check out Jenny Crusie’s take on the sitch. I should’ve shut up and let her say it. She does it so much better.

(8/6/05 at 11:30 AM EST)

*******

“Blame it all on my roots…I showed up in boots…and ruined your black tie affair…”

The backlash has begun, as we knew it would. I, and others like me–we bloggers in the romance community who just couldn’t keep our mouths shut in public–are being told we’ve betrayed our sisters with our candor. We’re being called disloyal. Unladylike. SHRILL.

Is this the part where I’m supposed to apologize for possessing both an opinion AND the temerity to express it where I believed it would do the most good?

“Keep it private.”

“Don’t air our dirty laundry in public.”

“…for the good of the organization…”

“Protect the image of romance fiction…”

I’ve heard this before. Every product of every dysfunctional family in the world has heard some form of it.

“If anybody asks, your father is out of town on business.”

“Tell Grandma/your teacher/your best friend that you fell down the stairs.”

“If the people from the electric company call, tell them I’m not home.”

“Shhh…nice girls don’t tell.” Not even when the guidance counselor keeps them late after school and sticks his hand down the fronts of their shirts and his tongue down their throats? Really?

Really. Four different nice girls in my high school graduating class didn’t tell. And believe me when I say we were ALL “nice” girls. He knew how to pick ‘em. We were the ones who knew our place, and knew how to keep it.

I quit being a nice girl the day I ratted him out. I took quite a bit of shit for that, too. Our small town didn’t know too much about sexual abuse or harassment in 1983, so we played a few rounds of “blame the victim,” and then I graduated and went on to college and never looked back.

I haven’t been very nice ever since. And I’ve learned to despise the tea party politics that allow shit like the Graphical Standards mess, the Definition of Romance gibberish, and now the 2005 GH/RITA Awards Ceremony disaster to fester.

People are saying we shouldn’t be talking about it off the RWA loops. They’re saying we shouldn’t be pointing fingers and asking for explanations and demanding that the guilty parties stand up and take responsibility for their screw-ups–not even ON the private loops. Because what good will it do? Why hurt people’s feelings? Can’t we just move on?

(Ken Starr didn’t seem to think so. But that’s different, of course. TOTALLY different.)

Who’s afraid of the light of day? If we have to protect the image of the RWA from the truth, then is that image worth protecting? How about if we start from scratch, right out here in front of God and everybody, and build a new image? One that doesn’t include the panicked secrecy and furtive machinations that have so obviously been a part of the most recent incarnation?

This will be my last post on this subject, unless something else of significance happens. There are more important matters to talk about, like the tragic loss of author Marianne Mancusi’s home to fire while she was at the national conference. You can find out more and discover how you can help rebuild Marianne’s lost library, or make other donations HERE and HERE.

Lest I leave the impression that I’m being persecuted, my mail and blog comments are running about fifty to one in the “you go, girl” category. The Ladies Who Lunch may have no use for trash like me, but I’m pleased to note that I’ve got friends in low places.

Do you remember the scene from the show/movie CHICAGO, in which the character of Billy Flynn does a long, long, LONG-assed tap dance, moving faster and faster as the score speeds up behind him, ending up looking a little desperate and out-of-breath near the end?

Certain individuals closely associated with the recent RITA/GH awards debacle have that air of desperation about them now, as they dance as fast as they can away from any responsibility for the fiasco. I can’t quote what’s been said on RWA email loops, due to confidentiality agreements and such, but I can paraphrase.

*It’s not my fault. Yes, it’s true, I volunteered to head up the committee in charge of organizing the event, but I was so busy cleaning up the Graphical Standards mess and the Definition of Romance muddle, that I had no time to actually supervise…*(remember–paraphrased, not quoted)

Someone seems to have forgotten her history. Does “the buck stops HERE” ring any bells? It’s a motto that served at least one popular president well.

*I didn’t write it. [INSERT NAMES OF OTHER PEOPLE WHO MAY VERY WELL HAVE HAD A HAND IN CREATING THE DISASTER, BUT ARE NOT PRESENT TO DEFEND THEMSELVES] wrote it. It’s not my fault.*(again, paraphrased, not quoted)

Hmmm. Funny. That’s not what certain of your own board members recall as being the facts of the case. And they’re willing to call you on it, in public. That takes some balls, and kudos to them.

But who needs facts anyway, when we’ve got TAP DANCING??

As an aside, specifically for Kate Rothwell…the dirt on the AGM? A weird-ass speech from Madame President, referencing child molestation, adultery, and nasty language. Those with whom I’ve spoken didn’t get the point of it. But they DID get the part where a member stood up and asked if the board was considering implementing an erotic romance RITA/GH category, and was shot down, real quick-like.

Barb Ferrer’s description of that stellar moment on Smart Bitches:

“Someone got up to ask about possible future inclusion of an erotic romance category in the Ritas and GH and was shot down so harshly and coldly by Ms. Quinn, that I think they were still scraping the ice off walls some time later.

I don’t write within that particular genre, but I’ll be damned if I want one individual saying that our organization will not consider including it as part of its most prestigious contest.

What kind of message does that send? It’s okay to include the numbers for our percentage and marketing purposes? It’s okay to take their money for ads, but hey, when it comes to showcasing your ability… uh, no, sorry, go to the back of the bus and don’t dare speak up again.”

So, to recap…

NOT. HER. FAULT.

And NO, dammit. Erotic romance in the RITAS/GH is OFF THE TABLE FOR DISCUSSION. But if you’d like to chat about child molestation or adultery, she might pencil you in.

I’d like to believe we’re nearing the end of this reign of terror, and that those who have been responsible for the recent nonsense will, at some point, be held accountable for what they’ve wrought. (And by no means do I believe that Tara Taylor Quinn is the sole perpetrator here. The Intolerance League may not be a huge presence in the upper levels of RWA, but its numbers are larger than one.)

I’d like to believe it…like I like to believe in truth, justice, and the American Way.

But if you’ll recall, at the close of that tap dance scene, Billy Flynn was winded and perspiring, but unbroken. And in the end? He got Roxie off for murder, using pure, unadulterated deceit and bravado.

And we were glad, weren’t we? Because who wants to see the cute little blonde thing suffer?

Have I ever mentioned how much I love PBWriter, aka author Lynn Viehl, aka a host of other aliases? I don’t always agree with every word out of her fingers, but my affection and respect for her only grows as I watch her lay it on the line, day after day. (And her latest release, IF ANGELS BURN? Got me through one of the most difficult weeks in recent memory. Buy it. Read it, slowly. Savor every twisted little image.)

Yesterday, she linked to SquawkRadio, the which is ostensibly the home of a group of romance authors, but really…they come off as a tribe of Ladies Who Lunch and maybe write a little on the side. The post PBW linked to was…incendiary. And on my FAVORITE TOPIC, too–whether erotic romance IS romance, and whether, as authors of erotic romance, we have a right to belong to RWA.

After I stopped wanting to claw someone’s eyes out…because, really…messy, and there’s that whole “orange jumpsuit, side-seam pocket” thing to consider again…I crafted a response. But the post is old, and they probably wouldn’t read it or respond to it, as the ladies in question are most assuredly off vacationing in the Hamptons or wherever women who think Blaze is pretty much as hot as RWA publishers and authors should be allowed to get go in the summertime. So I’m posting my response here, because only about six people read it anyway.

So… let me see if I’ve got this straight. Because ONE Ellora’s Cave author says she writes porn, that paints the entire company with that label? I’ve heard more than one romance author say she writes “trash”–shall I call my sisters in romance purveyors of garbage based on that? How many EC books have you read, yourself? Have you picked up Sarah McCarty’s PROMISES series? I dare you to read it and call it anything other than profound romance.

I wish I could say I’m surprised at the hypocrisy I’ve found here. Even so, it saddens me. You’re happy to have my dues, I suppose, as they fund your PAN retreats, even as you wonder how I dare write what I do and call it romance…because I use words YOU find offensive? Because I have six sex scenes per 100K words instead of the three YOU find adequate? Because some of us dabble in same-sex fictional relationships, or allow our characters to experience sexuality outside what YOU consider safe, clean and reasonable?

Who died and left YOU Queen of the Book-Nookie, hmmm?

This week, the Passionate Ink Chapter of the RWA was officially recognized. Although it doesn’t state so explicitly in the title–because it might scorch someone’s retinas I suppose–it was formed as the erotic romance special interest chapter. It boasts a hundred and fifty souls who were already members of RWA at the time of its formation–a record, or something close to one, I believe. So I’m guessing neither Ellora’s Cave, nor eroticism in romance, is going anywhere any time soon.

We’re here. Some of us are even queer.

Get used it.

As I mentioned in my follow-up comments to my Guest Bitchery on the Smart Bitches site, I’m a HUGE RWA slut. A member of no less than five chapters–six if they allow us smut-writers to join–and a supporter of the stated mission of the organization right down to my toes. But I have to say I’m not liking the vibe that’s coming out of the sitting administration much.

While I understand the need to craft a definition of romance in order to protect the integrity of the organization, I have a serious problem with using the crafting of that definition to exclude authors based on distaste for what they write.

And if the stated definition of romance is “a central love story [with] an emotionally satisfying ending”–a quote from the RWA website–then dammit, that’s what we’re writing. If our stories also happen to include buggery between humans and triple-dicked, four-tailed aliens riding seven-headed Hydras in a weightless atmosphere on the far side of Planet SuckItHarderBaby, then SO BE IT.

But as any good Republican will tell you, the market rules. If my story* about a human buggering or being buggered by a triple-dicked, four-tailed alien riding a seven-headed Hydra in a weightless atmosphere on the far side of Planet SuckItHarderBaby doesn’t sell, I’m SOL. And that’s the way it should be.

Right now, the market is clamoring for more of the coochie, the cock, the squish and wriggle and thump of a good, hard ride between its protagonists. Nearly every publisher is stepping up to feed the hunger. Those of us writing the stories will continue to sell them, with or without the support and guidance of the RWA. And with or without what WE could BRING to the RWA party–money, mostly, to be blunt.

But some will say they don’t want our money. As I mentioned in my inaugural post, there are folks who’d say I’m no better than a whore for writing and trying to sell sexy stories for cash. Maybe some will say our money’s tainted, and they don’t want it, especially if it comes with the price of having to sit with us, eat with us, talk to us, walk the halls with us.

Maybe. And maybe I’m being melodramatic and peevish and adolescent, with a totally unnecessary chip on my shoulder, as Kate (she’s so damned smart!) suggested. Maybe I need to back off and simmer down and let the grown-ups figure this out in their own, good, sweet time.

I guess we’ll see.

*I’m not really writing this book. At least, not this month.