Just call me Chip

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.