WARNING: GRAPHIC LANGUAGE IS HEREIN
I’m a Gemini, which if I believed in astrology would mean that I believe that it’s so true that I have two sides to my personality. I mean, I know that I do but I don’t know if that’s because I was born at the end of May or because I’m just nuts. Either way, it’s dratted inconvenient at times.
Like this morning. I started writing a serious blog entry about Christian Mysticism to answer questions that Jessica Thomas had over at Mike Duran’s and then I realised that my brain can’t parse those thoughts successfully. So I’m back to writing a blog entry that is far less deep but far easier to crank out in my present state.
Right now I have some words to say about Christmas novels. I never used to read Christmas-themed literature because back in the day when reading books meant trips to a store and browsing the stacks there just weren’t that many Christmas novels shelved in the areas I tended to go. Then I got a Kindle and spur-of-the-moment book purchases were a lot easier and a lot cheaper. If I’m in a Christmas mood I darn well WILL spend a buck or two for an afternoon’s worth of Christmas romance reading. Thanks to the library, this year my Christmas reading has been even cheaper, as in most of it has been subsidized by my homeowner’s taxes. (I hate when people say Libraries are free. Even when I say it, as I do.)
This year, though, we’ve got a problem brewing in the Christmas novel world. It’s my third year of this style of reading and before now it’s been relatively easy* to tell the difference between the Christmas stories where angels help widowers find love at Christmas time while simultaneously whipping their motherless young into acceptable, mannerly shape and the the Christmas stories where people get drunk at Christmas parties and have gynecological exams casual sex under the tree. The covers were different, the titles were different, the blurbs were different.
This year, though, thanks to 50 Shades of Gray and the new passion for erotica someone has gotten their pornut butter in my chocolate. And it’s not the good combo you’d think. I like romance. I like the nurse realising that she and the doctor have always been in love but didn’t know how to say it without the help of the tearstained orphan who showed up at the clinic the day after Thanksgiving.
I don’t like crude sex. For me nothing is a bigger turn off in any book than the word “dick” used in a sexual sense. I can put up with stirring loins and even erections. But “he felt his dick get hard as he watched her tight ass away” doesn’t say Romance to me. It says “rutting”. And for some reason the marketing teams at various publishers have been camouflaging Rutting books as Romances. I don’t understand it. People want erotica. Why not just say “this is an erotic novel”? I keep getting this coal on my Kindle. Bah humbug.
*with one exception. Back when the pictures weren’t as clear on the Kindle I downloaded a freebie called “Bound For Christmas” that I assumed was about traveling home for the holidays. It was about traveling to bondage and S&M sex for the holidays. Oops. I deleted that one tout de suit.
Just Another Pretty Farce 