I started up a review site (http://www.reviewsbyjaye.com/ if you’re curious) and so far it’s been fun. I review mostly romance, mostly LGBTQ+ books, just as you’d expect, and I enjoy it. Sometimes, though, I hit a wall. I either get frustrated with romance in general, or I get into one of those reading ruts everyone hits once in a while. I try not to review fiction if I hate the book; there’s enough negativity out there in the world and I don’t need to add to it. Recently, though, I read a book that was so antithetical to my very existence I feel the need to talk about it.
So, I’ll do it here.
I’m not going to name and shame the book or author. They worked hard on the book, and I’ll assume they believe in their work just like I believe in mine. My issues with the book were more systemic than that, and they play into some issues that have been discussed in the LGBTQ+ romance community (specifically the M/M romance community.) That’s the reason I feel it’s appropriate to bring it up here.
The book appealed to me because it was romantic suspense – the promise of murder was present, or at least heavily implied. (By the time I closed the book in disgust, no one had actually been murdered yet. Mayhem had happened, and that’s usually enough for me, but I already wanted to kill everyone on the page except maybe the wacky neighbor with the shotgun.)
So, you already know I’m bisexual. I’m married to a man. I have a child. I have no inherent moral problem with m/f relationships, m/f sexuality, or people choosing to have children. I don’t even have a problem with religion, although I avoid it myself. This needs to be stated clearly and up front because the book had a huge agenda that wasn’t clear when I bought the book.
The main character’s father is a pastor. Which is fine. He runs a charity that “helps” young women experiencing “crisis pregnancies,” which is language that makes my skin crawl. The charity is not specifically described as a crisis pregnancy center, but young women (and teenagers) are being moved around the country to give birth and surrender babies for adoption.
Is adoption a good thing? Sure. And if these young women are making choices in their own best interests, that’s awesome. Considering that at least one of the young women is being moved without her parents’ knowledge, we’re starting to get into some questionable territory. The language used is dangerously close to that used by real-world crisis pregnancy centers, which try to force the adoption decision on teens and young women through false information and high-pressure tactics.
It’s not the main point of the story, or at least it wasn’t by the time I closed the book, but it was enough to make me deeply uncomfortable every time we dealt with the church, the charity, or the pastor.
Another, even bigger issue was the relationship between the two main characters. In particular, the hero’s attitude toward the heroine was downright paternal. He makes decisions for her, because he knows what’s best for her, and that’s just how it is. And she finds it… endearing. This is a guy who’s hurt her twice in the past, showing his disdain for her, and she just thinks it’s great that he’s willing to go on and make choices for her because it shows he really cares.
I won’t even get into the sexual component, because I couldn’t stand to read any actual sex between them. The thought had me reaching for the gin, and not because it tastes good. (It does, but that’s beside the point. It was purely medicinal.)
I remember reading reviews for a book by a well-known m/f romance writer. She was well established in the field, and definitely on the conservative side of the writing spectrum. (I enjoy her work, but I don’t think of her work as breaking down any barriers if you know what I mean.) She’d written a book in which the heroine saved herself, and fans were having none of it. They were livid. They wanted to see the heroine “tamed,” “brought to heel by a strong, loving man.” They had paid to read a “proper romance, where the big strong man saves the innocent woman.” This author had not delivered.
Now I understand sometimes reading reviews in places like Goodreads or Amazon can be a little bit like reading the comment section on your favorite political page. It’s not going to lead anywhere good. There is m/f romance out there in which women do maintain some independence, and are not relegated to brood mares. (Man Hands by Sarina Bowen and Tanya Erby is a favorite, or just about anything by Beverly Jenkins.)
A lot of the time, though, I don’t want to do the work of wading through gender dynamics that don’t necessarily bother most readers in order to find something that satisfies me.
Which brings me to the other part of my issue. There have been some folks in the m/m romance community who would like to see women removed from this genre entirely. Removed as writers, removed as readers, simply removed.*
Personally, while the naked misogyny of this movement is repulsive, it also overlooks the reason many women avoid m/f romance. I want to avoid the ugly power dynamics often found there. Those dynamics aren’t found in every m/f book (see above), but it’s present in enough of them that I feel more comfortable with same-sex pairings.
It’s often said that the personal is political when writers are part of a marginalized group, or write about them. We’re in a highly polarized environment, all over the Western world right now. I’m in the United States, where the rights of women, ethnic minorities, and LGBTQ+ people are under overt attack in ways I haven’t seen in my lifetime. The simple act of writing about two women in love, going about their day, is a radical act. A story about a woman who defends her love interest from an abusive former lover is a radical tale in many eyes.
I can’t even look for DIY ideas on Pinterest without seeing “marriage advice” insisting on complete submission to my husband. After all, his needs come first. For many people in this country, even having a life outside of the husband and the home is a radical act.
No one approaches a book in a vacuum. We may not think we’re “being political” when we sit down to read, but we’re filtering those words through our experiences and beliefs. I read those words about “crisis pregnancies” and immediately recoiled. Someone who is not a feminist may read them and feel warm and fuzzy about it. I read those instances of the hero “knowing what’s best” for the heroine and wanted to pistol whip him with his own gun until he joined the twenty-first century. Someone who is less on board with women’s liberation is probably nodding with approval and thinking how protective the hero is, and what a great couple they’ll make.
They may be sitting down to review some of my work right now, horrified by the rampant insurrection against organized religion in Whirlwind or blatant disrespect for police in Rites of Spring.
The thing is, people are going to respond based on their own lives and their own experiences no matter what. And that’s politics, at the end of the day. Whether they just “want a nice romance story without all this ‘social justice’ nonsense,” or they’re writing about the challenges they and their friends face, it’s still a political decision.
Anyway, I couldn’t finish the book. It just made my skin crawl.
Your mileage may vary.
* This seems like a self-defeating desire as people who identify as women form the bulk of the romance-buying population, but maybe they’re not concerned with sales. And people of other genders are buying more romance now too, so whatever.