Showing posts with label romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label romance. Show all posts

28 April 2008

Romancing the Drone



My friend Georgie sent me this link because she knew I'd get riled up and blog about it. She was right.


Romancing the Blog: Purple Prose: A Bum Rap

A blog by Rebecca Brandewyne, the romance writer. She should have named herself Rebecca From Sunnybrook Farm. She's delusional. One look at her absurd photo tells you all you need to know about her writing. She looks like Dolly Parton's illegitimate daughter. Can you say Glamour Shots?

I have written romance before. But i quickly outgrew the sort of romance to be had gushing from the pen of Ms. Brandewyne. I used to believe in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, too, but again...I grew up.

My main problem with romance novels in general, is that they perpetuate a naiveté about how people really are, and how relationships really go. Yes, yes, i know, it's about ESCAPE. Romance readers want to be taken to another place that is idyllic so they can escape their mundane lives filled with mundane or non-existent romance. I get that. But how are these readers going to change the nature of their lives unless they stop living in a dream world? And what of the unrealistic expectations they place on every potential suitor? Ignorance and delusion is never a solution to the ills we face in this world.

All that aside, I was struck by Brandewyne's ridiculous justifications for her brand of idiocy. Here's a prime example from the blog link above:

"So-called clean writing actually has very little to do with good writing—and a great deal to do with saving on paper costs."

Dumbass. Yes, she does have a "following" and if you are the least bit schooled and practiced in quality writing, you know who those followers are. I mean, Charles Manson had followers too. So did Liberace, and Zsa-Zsa Gabor and Marie Antoinette; and currently, there's the Paris Hilton bunch.

"Clean writing" for the fiction author has NOTHING to do with saving paper, and EVERYTHING to do with good writing. But i wouldn't expect anyone with only half a brain cell to understand this. There will always be, as my friend Georgie says, "straight women who don't have lives, hate their husbands and kids and can only find entertainment in romance novels." Odds are, these women are also uneducated, quixotic and delusional, like Brandy Wine, or Brandewyne. Why am i so caustic? Because i feel that bad writing reflects on writers everywhere. And for those of us who care about the quality of our work, born of many years of learning and striving and making hard choices, it's insulting to the nth degree.

She mentions in this blog that she was a journalism student, as well, and this is her excuse for her bad writing. Half my major was journalism, too, but i understand the distinction between journalistic writing and fiction writing. Trimming, in journalism, is often about what she said--fitting the words on a page--but it's also about being succinct and concise so that people can get on with their lives while keeping up with all the news. In the case of fiction, however, it's about quality, not quantity. She's too thick to even understand that.

To make her ignorance more stark, she says, "So, now, you know the etymology of the phrase. Purple prose was originally brilliant, effective prose." Yeah, and now it's been reduced to what SHE writes. If she's going to speak of etymology, she ought to learn that etymology is as much about the CHANGES in a word's meaning, as it is about the ORIGINAL meaning of a word. I don't care if she is published--there's always an audience for insipid, vacuous drivel. There will always be plenty of stupid people to write for. Just because they can read, it doesn't mean they are sources of validation or wisdom. You can stand for hours in a garage, but that doesn't mean you're a car.

Think I'm exaggerating? Here's and excerpt, i found at random, first try, from one of her books:

"It was time.
Storm gazed lovingly at the man who lay sleeping so peacefully by her side, there was no need of words between them, no need to tell him of her decision. He would know she had made it the moment he awakened and looked into her eyes. He would know too how very painful it had been and how much it had cost her. Yes, he would understand all that-- and more.

She reached out one hand to gently brush away a strand of hair that caressed his cheek. He was here. He was real. He was hers, this man, forever. Only death could separate then now, and they had lived with death too long to fear it. It was as much a part of them as the shadows they cast beneath the fierce Texas sun."

Someone, hand me a pail, quickly, before i hurl on the floor.


Throughout her writing, she also liberally sprinkles every cliché known to humankind, and breaks every rule of intelligent, poignant and meaningful prose, character development, plotting, and verisimilitude.

The fact that Brandewyne is on the NY Times Bestseller list is inconsequential. Every good writer understands that being good is not always the criteria by which a book winds up on that dubious success list--it's about how many people want to read that kind of thing; and as we all know, far more people fall into the "simple" category, than into the category of complex and erudite. Seasoned, quality writers also know that if they want to make some easy money, all they have to do is come up with some breezy, romantical pen name, and crank out a bunch of maudlin purple prose, and they get a check. That's because of all those aforementioned uneducated, puerile individuals who populate our census data. The same can be said for other industries like music, art, fashion and paddle-ball.

I'm only just now seeking a mainstream publisher, after over 20 years of writing, because i felt i needed to polish my craft enough to be proud to have my name on it, and to be able to compete with authentic authors of meaningful fiction.

I'll take that, any day, over publishing the cheap, childish fare she does.



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17 March 2008

As You Were (Novel Excerpt)




As You Were
(Lesbian Romantic Suspense novel)


(c)Kelli Jae Baeli







Beth and Brittany shared a beautiful home on Red Mountain in Colorado, enjoyed self-employment, horseback riding in the snow-laden hills, and romantic nights in front of the fireplace. But when an average day leads to a tragic accident, and traumatic amnesia, Brittany must return to a life she neither remembers nor approves of. Yearning, revelations, and lurking danger pull at the threads of their once-idyllic life. As You Were is a romantic story driven by mystery and suspense.

EXCERPT:

A swath of morning sunshine fell across Tru's eyes, and she came awake, aware of the sharp pounding in her head, and the television which sat silent, bolted to a steel pole extending from floor to ceiling. She vaguely remembered her decision to get a motel the night before, and wasn't sure whether she had been too drunk to remember to call Brittany and let her know. She pressed both hands against her head, wishing for ibuprofen.

Tru blinked her eyes into painful focus and saw her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Her appearance told her more than she wanted to know about how much she had had to drink the night before. Also in the reflection, a lump under the blanket next to her, and she turned quickly to find the lump was a leg, and that the leg belonged to Travis. His chest was bare, and she immediately discovered that hers was, too. Tru jerked the sheet up under her arms and stared at him, horrified. "Travis?"

He stirred, his eyes fluttered open, and he smiled warmly. "Morning, Sugar." He ran his hand down her arm.

Tru jerked away, grabbing the blanket and drawing it around her as she got up. "What the hell are you doing here?" she rasped, swallowing the cotton that seemed to be growing abundantly on her tongue.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face filled with a boyish grin. "Enjoying the morning after, Sugar "

Tru coughed involuntarily and pressed a palm to her head. "Travis. . .we didn't. . .I mean, I don't--please tell me we didn't-- I don't remember what happened last night "

He lifted one eyebrow in a smirk. "I'll never forget it. I never suspected you of being such an animal in bed. You even--"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What have I done?!" Tru searched for and found her clothing heaped upon the floor by the bed, and began to dress beneath the blanket.

"Hey, why so uptight?"

"Why so uptight?" she squeaked. "Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what sort of mess this is? Oh, my God. . .she'll kill me, I am dead meat. She'll never understand this, I don't understand this--" Tru dropped the blanket and began to button her shirt. "Travis, you have to swear you'll never breathe a word of this. I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing--" she babbled.

"You most assuredly did know what you were doing. I can't remember the last time I stayed that har--"

"Travis!" she shouted, groaning and holding her head, then more softly.
"Spare me the sordid details."

"Don't worry, Tru. Your secret is safe with me. I wish you could stay a little longer " He reached toward her and she lurched away, grabbing her socks and shoes and making a quick visual sweep of the room, before she headed for the door, hopping in place as she shoved the sneakers onto her bare feet.

"Where's my Cherokee?" she asked, her hand on the doorknob. And where's my sense?

Travis folded his arms. "Still at the club."

Tru dug in her pockets and came up with twenty five dollars, lifting her eyes to him, quizzically.

"I paid for the room, Sugar," he admitted.

She slammed the door behind her, and hurried to the front office to call a cab.

Travis reclined, his fingers locked behind his head, admiring his reflection in the mirror. He flexed his pectorals and began to sing an old Carole King tune. "It's too late, Baby, now it's too late..." It had been remarkably easy. Remarkably. He checked his image in the mirror again, rubbing his chest with both hands, absently, and he began to whistle.


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13 March 2008

Interlude


She appeared in the doorway. "You asleep?"


"Nope." Still standing there. "What do you need? A drink of water? A blanket? Cuddles?"

"Yes."

Laughing. "Yes, what?"

"Cuddles."

I peeled back the covers on the "passenger side" of the bed.

She came over and got in.

"Okay," I said, my arm cocked back. "Spoons, or cheek on chest?" She put her cheek on my chest, and I put my arm around her shoulders. In the ensuing silence, I felt her gears turning. "What's on your mind?"

"How do you know there's something on my mind?"

"There's always something on your mind."

She giggled. "You're right. . .I was thinking about something you said earlier. . .you said you think I'm beautiful. . .what did you mean?"

"Um. . .well. . .aesthetically pleasing, easy on the eyes, evolved on the inside. . .engaging, intelligent. . .a sexy heart-shaped mouth. . .all that is beautiful. . ."

"You think i have a heart-shaped mouth?"

I leaned back to look at it. "Yep. There it is. Heart-shaped." Settling back down on my chest, she turned contemplative again. I felt her thinking. I always feel her thinking. "What else?" I prodded, brushing my fingers through the tendrils of hair at her forehead.

"I like you."

"I like you, too."

"How much?"

I held up my fingers to about an inch, and she smacked me on the arm, as we both laughed.

"Seriously. Yes. I do like you. More than I should, probably."

"Why do you say that? "

"I just know you are very dangerous to me."

"I've never been accused of being dangerous."

"Well you are."

"How?"

Now it was my turn to squirm. I cleared my throat and tried to find the right words. "I had a very precise and thorough list of what I wanted to manifest in my life. . .romantically."

"And?"

"And you're it."

"Really?"

"Unless you have me fooled."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"I want you to kiss me like I'm the one you manifested. . ."

"Why?"

"So I can see if it's what I manifested."

"Oh, you've been manifesting, too, have you?"

"Yes I have."

I sighed. "Now I have performance anxiety."


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07 August 2007

Already (poem)

I already love her mind.
I already love her words.
I already love the parts of herself she reveals to me in herds
of raw, broken, struggling, yet
completely filled vessels of hope and
understanding. I'm not demanding
totally sodden with angst,
yet pure, unfettered, passionate, real.
A bargain on hearts, today, mine's a steal.

I don't know where this thing will go
knowing, yet knowing, I cannot know
wishing and hoping, that floating hope
I'm holding the wrong end of the rope
relating the angst of the things we do
feeling connection, connection anew
reaching for content, my spirit breaks through
I could fall for someone a lot like you.


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16 November 2001

A Proper Kiss (poem)

One might say she'd been around
the block a few times, while romance-bound
in search of an innocent charm she insists:
matching lips, for a proper kiss.

they had been short and tall and fat and slim
and she kissed every blessed one of them
but none of them offered her what she sought
the smooching seemed to be for naught

one was rough and one was wet
one was as sloppy as one could get
one was there and then was gone

one got worse as the kiss went on
another chapped her mouth and face
and pushed her pug nose out of place
and still another she'd have to say
was, "swab the deck and anchors away!"
but not a one was worthy, you see
to be what a proper kiss should be.

then thinking her quest to be fruitless and vain
she swore to never kiss again
and stopped in at a local pub
to toast her failure and in the club

was a young woman lounging at the bar,
seeking some solace, and not getting far,

a beer in her hand and a frown on her face,
saying, "Can i get a beer in this place?"
she sat down next to the frowning face.
A double-take, she took a look
And in her heart sank one big hook
The frown was melting as the barkeep served
the beer she needed to keep her nerve
and then she heard the frowner say
"It's on me" and the two shared a smile.
"Sit down, girlfriend, and stay awhile."
And so she did and halfway through the frosty brew

she found herself admitting to
a failure in finding one living soul
to kiss her proper, kiss her slow.
The other one held back a grin.
"I understand the dilemma you're in.
Forgive my boldness, dear,
but i have a solution, if you'd like to hear."

An answering nod gave her the nerve
and she said, "the reason those kisses don't serve,
is simple as this, i know we just met,
but you haven't kissed a woman yet."
And after the revelation sunk in,
she suggested the two of them go for a spin,
just a short ride
to a quiet place by the riverside
she sank into arms that held her fast and at last
as the sun was sinking low
A proper kiss was had by both.


Charcoal (c)Jae Baeli


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