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lightreadsBooks 4-6 in the Eve Dallas “sci fi” romance mysteries, by one of Nora Roberts’s pseudonyms. It’s 2059, and our heroine continues to be a cop in the New York of the future. She also continues to have a traumatic past and a steamy marriage to the richest man on the planet, who continues to have no last name.
I picked these up because I vaguely enjoyed the first few, and I’m kind of desperately in need of books that don’t require much work on my part. How could I go wrong, I thought.
It took me three days to figure out that my escalating bad temper wasn’t traceable to lack of sleep or regular meals or any of the other usual culprits, but was in fact correlated with my pleasure reading. See, here’s the thing I’ve been trying to pin down for over a year now. I almost never read romance for a lot of the reasons that regularly get sporked by romance fans -- it’s generally brainless, ridiculous tripe. But I’ve been resisting that because I kept asking myself why it was tripe, and why this women’s literature in particular, and what precisely was coding my reactions and etc. etc. Insert the entire debate here.
And I think I finally got it. I would enjoy these books a lot more -- I would be able to tolerate them at all -- if they were honest and self-conscious. If they were like, hi, I’m a romance novel featuring a woman who has orgasms when her soulmate just blows on her right, and I guarantee you my emotional arc will never deviate more than half a degree off the mean, and I have this glittery skiffy-ish foil wrapping where I think I’m totally feminist and awesome but I’m actually deeply patriarchal, but really you’ll enjoy me anyway because everyone needs a book like me sometimes, I’d be on board. Because I do need a book like that sometimes. Instead, it’s all, hi, I’m a book about romance -- the great heart-stopping power of true love, and also the gritty romance of fighting the good fight on the mean cold streets. And that makes me laugh, and then I get cranky. Because . . . no.
I haven’t given up on the genre, obviously, but am chucking this series entirely.
I picked these up because I vaguely enjoyed the first few, and I’m kind of desperately in need of books that don’t require much work on my part. How could I go wrong, I thought.
It took me three days to figure out that my escalating bad temper wasn’t traceable to lack of sleep or regular meals or any of the other usual culprits, but was in fact correlated with my pleasure reading. See, here’s the thing I’ve been trying to pin down for over a year now. I almost never read romance for a lot of the reasons that regularly get sporked by romance fans -- it’s generally brainless, ridiculous tripe. But I’ve been resisting that because I kept asking myself why it was tripe, and why this women’s literature in particular, and what precisely was coding my reactions and etc. etc. Insert the entire debate here.
And I think I finally got it. I would enjoy these books a lot more -- I would be able to tolerate them at all -- if they were honest and self-conscious. If they were like, hi, I’m a romance novel featuring a woman who has orgasms when her soulmate just blows on her right, and I guarantee you my emotional arc will never deviate more than half a degree off the mean, and I have this glittery skiffy-ish foil wrapping where I think I’m totally feminist and awesome but I’m actually deeply patriarchal, but really you’ll enjoy me anyway because everyone needs a book like me sometimes, I’d be on board. Because I do need a book like that sometimes. Instead, it’s all, hi, I’m a book about romance -- the great heart-stopping power of true love, and also the gritty romance of fighting the good fight on the mean cold streets. And that makes me laugh, and then I get cranky. Because . . . no.
I haven’t given up on the genre, obviously, but am chucking this series entirely.
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Date: 2007-11-16 04:53 am (UTC)The first one comes out next year and is called Succubus in the City. I know, it sounds really corny, but I suspect it will actually be good.
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Date: 2007-11-16 10:24 am (UTC)Anyway, I think you should give Succubus Blues, the first book in the Georgina Kincaid series by Richelle Mead, a try. It's got the fantasy, comedy, and light romance that makes me anxious for the next installment (coming out in December!).
And just because I like to make my comments monstrous, here's the book description:
Succubus (n.) An alluring, shape-shifting demon who seduces and pleasures mortal men. Pathetic (adj.) A succubus with great shoes and no social life. See: Georgina Kincaid.
When it comes to jobs in hell, being a succubus seems pretty glamorous. A girl can be anything she wants, the wardrobe is killer, and mortal men will do anything just for a touch. Granted, they often pay with their souls, but why get technical?
But Seattle succubus Georgina Kincaid's life is far less exotic. Her boss is a middle-management demon with a thing for John Cusack movies. Her immortal best friends haven't stopped teasing her about the time she shape-shifted into the Demon Goddess getup complete with whip and wings. And she can't have a decent date without sucking away part of the guy's life. At least there's her day job at a local bookstore--free books; all the white chocolate mochas she can drink; and easy access to bestselling, sexy writer, Seth Mortensen, aka He Whom She Would Give Anything to Touch but Can't.
But dreaming about Seth will have to wait. Something wicked is at work in Seattle's demon underground. And for once, all of her hot charms and drop-dead one-liners won't help because Georgina's about to discover there are some creatures out there that both heaven and hell want to deny...