Should romance be feminist? (Is romance inherently feminist III)

This is the third in a series of AWW discussions about feminism and the romance genre. Louise Cusack kicked off with her post, In defence of books written by women for women. Kat Mayo followed it up with her discussion. Today, blogger Kate Cuthbert adds her thoughts. 

Note: References to Australian women romance authors and their books are given in footnotes.

Kate Cuthbert writes:

This is in response to both Kat Mayo’s excellent thought-piece and a twitter discussion that came up after I posted a review of Robyn Carr’s Redwood Bend over at the New York Journal of Books.

In the review, I mentioned a level of frustration that the heroine – a widowed, unemployed, new-to-town mother of five-year-old twins – falls unexpectedly pregnant to a man she never expects to see again. I’d like to say that the heroine decides to keep and raise the baby, but in reality, there is no evidence of a decision-making process at all. No exploration of the heroine’s choices, her faith, her experience, her situation, her own belief system. There is nothing but an automatic assumption that she will increase her family by one.

Of course this review was written of a piece of fiction. And, being a piece of romance fiction, there is never any doubt in the reader’s mind that the hero will come riding back (on a motorcycle – contemporary heroes very rarely have gallant steeds), he and the heroine will declare their mutual love, and the baby will be born into a loving, solid family with few economic hardships, societal judgments, awkward questions re: parentage, or any of the other trappings of being in a single-parent family in today’s society.

But life is not romance fiction. And perhaps more importantly, romance readers do not live in romance fiction. There is no guaranteed happy-ever-after ending, no twist waiting around the bend to make everything turn out okay. This becomes more important when it’s reiterated that the vast majority of romance readers are women – as are the authors, publishers, editors, and agents. Romance may be the last great feminine space where men may sometimes enter, but rarely have the influence to alter.

So, how are we using it?

While reading Robyn Carr, I was incensed that she – as a contemporary author writing about contemporary people – should ignore the many options available to women in the circumstances that Katie finds herself. The issue is not in the final decision that Katie makes – feminism is, after all, about the right to choose – but the fact that Katie doesn’t make a decision. However, Carr is hardly the only one. It is only in the past two decades that contraception has become common place in romance novels – and even now it isn’t pervasive. Unexpected pregnancies are as common as, well, sex in romance novels [1], but informed discussions on a woman’s options in this situation are decidedly not. I’m aware I’m speaking in generalities here, and there are examples [2], of course, but those examples are not the norm [3].

Romance has long positioned itself as a feminist literature: in the 50s women had jobs, in the 60s careers. The 70s saw them have sex, and then the 80s saw them in charge. But the 90s heralded the arrival of the alpha male and the millennium a surge of inspirational (ie. Christian-faith) romances. Instead of continuing to forge a path, is it possible that romances have taken a step backwards, hidden behind immortal men on the one hand and traditionalist relationships on the other? I’d argue no – certainly for every alpha male, there’s a counterpoint kick-ass female [4]. And feminism and Christianity are not dichotomous states of being [5]. And, again, feminism is the inherent power to choose the way you live – and knowing that your choice will be respected.

But when it comes to women’s options and control over her sexuality and her body, I’m just not seeing the light. Women in romance novels can have sex now, but what is that freedom if they are not doing so in a responsible, controlled manner that protects themselves, emotionally and physically? Does the hero really respect her if he’s not protecting them both? Is the heroine intelligent and self-respecting if she doesn’t protect them both? If contraception isn’t mentioned, can a reader assume that it’s being used? Should a reader assume? Or is this another lesson in what assuming means?

Romance occupies a unique position within the literary world. It has already proven itself a subversive genre in many ways, and as the world watches in horror as members of power in the US wage a war on women’s rights over their own bodies, maybe it’s time to step up again. It’s not fair to hold one genre of literature to a standard that is not inflicted on others. But life isn’t fair. Certainly the war of the sexes has never been fair. Maybe this is an argument that goes beyond fairness.

Should romance be a feminist genre? I think the answer is too murky to define, and I’m certainly in no position to dictate. But the bottom line is this: if a genre by women, produced by women, edited by women, published by women with an express purpose of being read by women doesn’t deliver frank, honest, and open debate about women’s health, their bodies, their sexuality, and their choices…in short, if romance doesn’t step up into the vacuum that currently exists, who will?

      

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Notes
[1] A good recent example of this situation is in Rachel Johns’ One Perfect Night where the heroine finds herself unexpectedly pregnant from a casual relationship, but a solid, developing back story creates a believable framework for her decision.

[2] Marion Lennox, in particular, is careful about contraception. In a workshop in 2007, she shared a story wherein she was writing a love scene in a novel and happened to look up and see her two young children. It was with their future in mind that she had her hero quietly leave the room to put on contraception.

[3] Paranormal and historical romances often get a by here: in historical romance, contraception is a novelty at best (much as we’d like to have all those rakes scanned for disease!), whereas paranormals often have an inbuilt barrier: vampires can hardly produce children, werewolves are immune to disease, etc. Keri Arthur handled this in an interesting manner in her Riley Jenson novels, where vampires can reproduce, but only within the first 24 hours after being ‘turned’. In Nicole Murphy’s Gadda trilogy, the magic-using characters were able to say a post-coital spell to prevent pregnancy.

[4] See Keri Arthur, Tracey O’Hara, and Lexxie Couper for examples

[5] Furthermore, sexuality within inspirational romances is muted, something to be explored after marriage, thus negating some (but not all) of the concerns. For an Australian inspirational author, try Mary Hawkins.

Kate Cuthbert describes herself on Twitter as "reader, writer, reviewer, Canadian-Australian and opinionated". She tweets as @katydidinoz.

'For women, by women': Is romance writing inherently feminist? II

Kat Mayo from Book Thingo blog answered a call on Twitter to extend the discussion on feminism and romance. She writes:

I'm excited about this series of posts because—yay!—discussions around romance.

In Elizabeth's introduction to Louise Cusack's post, In defence of books written by women for women, she asks: In what sense, if any, can [romance books] be considered “feminist”?

Recently, I have leaned in favour of the ‘written for women, by women’ proof of romance’s feminist sensibilities. I particularly love author Jennifer Crusie’s passionate defence of the genre, where she points out that, among other things, ‘romance fiction says that women are primary not supporting characters, equal to men in power, intelligence, and ability.’

But Keziah Hills's tweets (quoted by Elizabeth in the post above) have me re-examining my position that the genre is inherently feminist.

I'm looking forward to more posts—and your comments—on the subject to help me clarify my thinking.

At the moment, I think what I want to say is that the genre, as a whole, tends to be reflective rather than progressive. This is a factor of many things, not the least of which is a publishing model that requires books to have broad appeal.

At the same time, I believe that most romance books have a subversive element that speaks to feminism—usually but not always to do with women’s sexuality or the way in which the heroine negotiates power with the hero—but that genre conventions (such as page count), traditions (such as category lines) or assumptions about reader expectations don't always allow for a full exploration of feminist values in every single book.

In some ways, this is part of the strength of romance books—that they can present stories familiar to many women and overlay them with questions about what we expect or should expect from our families, our partners and ourselves. A great romance book, for me, is familiar yet unpredictable.

I agree with Louise that there's a problem around the perception of romance as a genre—the assumption that all romance writing has less literary worth than other genres or works. I also believe there is a lack of consideration for the reasons why women read in the genre so extensively.

In response to Louise’s post, Marilyn (Anonymous) commented that ‘romances…play into the narrative of a woman's life is all about having the right man to depend on. They do not challenge this dangerous assumption either for individual women or for society as a whole.’

On the surface, this seems fair enough for those who don’t read romance books or who don’t understand why women read so widely and so passionately in the genre. But I challenge this assertion on two fronts.

Released: April 2012

First, this type of narrative does not define the genre. To me, the narrative described assumes something about the happy ending—that it’s a means by which the heroine’s problem is solved. I’d argue that in a well-crafted romance, a credible happy ending is only possible because the heroine and hero are now on an equal emotional footing. As Australian romantic suspense author Brownyn Parry writes, ‘[romance novels] recognise that a real love connects us with what is deepest within ourselves, and that a lasting relationship needs equal partners’. Getting this balance of power right is at the core of most of my favourite romance books.

The narrative described by the comment also assumes something about the reader—that the heroine represents us. Any feminist who has read and enjoyed Twilight would know this cannot be true, and this assumption leads to a profound misunderstanding of romance fiction (note 1). And besides, romance readers read other books, too.

The assumption also ignores the popularity among female readers of romance featuring two men (note 2)—so much so that m/m romance written for women seems to be evolving into a genre separate from gay romance written for men.

But where I think the comment truly missed the point was addressed by the next commenter, Shellyrae. Our emotional response is intrinsic to how readers of romance enjoy our Mills and Boons, our vampires and werewolves, and our reformed Regency rakes. Yes, the story must be written competently, but how the characters’ emotional turmoil speak to my own life is why I go back for more.

You see, romance books often do challenge assumptions about how women should feel or react or enjoy themselves in relationships—with men as well as with friends and family, who may feature as secondary characters with their own subplots and emotional conflicts. As Australian sff romance author Nicole Murphy writes, romance fiction provides ‘stories that speak to the truth of being a woman in this world and the specific struggles and issues that we deal with that men do not.’

And even if one argues that romance fiction is wholly escapist fiction—which, I should stress, is not a position that many romance readers take—I don’t believe that necessarily devalues the genre. Ye olde bodice rippers, some would argue, can provide an emotionally safe way for women to explore rape fantasy. We don’t assume that readers of crime fiction harbour murderous tendencies, so why would we assume that women who love The Flame and the Flower want to be mistaken for a prostitute and raped on a ship? (Note 3)

Paranormal romance—those cruel, befanged undead or those ferociously aggressive and possessive half-animals—provide a palatable way to present ‘shameful’ fantasies, including rape, BDSM, multiple partners and even double-pronged heroes. (And yes, I have that book.)

Finally, I think it’s also very important to keep in mind that romance books—even those primarily written for a Western audience—are sold and bought across different cultures and generations of women. These subversive elements, mild though they might seem to some of us, may be incredibly empowering to women who have very few other channels by which to receive these ideas. The romance reader's desire for emotional justice at the end of each story resonates, I think, with women who have felt that lack of justice and power through their own life experiences.

The virgin amnesiac mistress bride with a secret baby story can be escapism or an exploration of any number of themes around sexuality, gender politics and reproductive rights. It all depends on a combination of the author and their writing as well as the reader and their personal reflections on what they're reading.

Do I think romance authors and readers need to challenge genre assumptions more? Yes, especially in areas of contraception and abortion. Romance as a genre is still fairly conservative here.

Do I think these issues make the genre inherently not feminist? I’m not sure.

Because I think where I’m up to is this: When we consider what romance fiction brings to feminism, it's not enough to talk about what we as individuals get out of romance fiction or how we interpret this book or that. Knowing the genre's popularity among female readers, we should also be asking: How do women read romance and why do they love these books so much? Only then, I think, will we have a better understanding of the genre's importance and influence in women's lives.

Kat Mayo has been reading romance books since she was ten, when she discovered an abandoned Mills & Boon book in her grandmother’s garage. She runs Book Thingo, an Australian blog for readers of (mostly) romance fiction, and tweets as @BookThingo.

Additional notes

(A more comprehensive discussion of each of these references will appear here: Feminism in romance – annotated notes at Book Thingo.)

1. Reader point of view in romance

The Androgynous Reader: Point of View in the Romance (in Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writer on the Appeal of Romance, edited by Jayne Ann Krentz), Laura Kinsale argues that passive heroines are placeholders and that romance readers identify with the hero as much as—or sometimes more than—with the heroine.

2. Popularity of m/m romance with female readers

Why do women read M/M romance/erotica? by J. Leigh Bailey

All m/m fiction is not created equal by Sunita

An angle on slash and the appropriation debate by Kivitasku

Yaoi: What makes the yaoi genre appealing to women? (Response by Erica Friedman)

3. Rape fantasy in romance fiction – This issue is much discussed in the romance reading community. Here are some excellent discussions, and in most cases the comments are just as thought-provoking as the original posts:

Sexual Force and Reader Consent in Romance by Robin Reader argues that consent to the rape fantasy is in the hands of the reader.

Rape and Romance Reader by Laura Vivanco, who was a guest poster here at Australian Women Writer’s Challenge in February

Talking about the R Word by Candy Tan

When is rape fantasy acceptable or at least tolerable? by Mrs Giggles: ‘the rape fantasy is popular in fiction because it allows the heroine to have sex and experience pleasure without having to take any accountability for it’.

Women’s Rape Fantasies: How Common? What Do They Mean? by Michael Castleman: ‘[rape fantasies] imply nothing about one’s mental health or real-life sexual inclinations.’

Romance novels in The Journal of Sex Research by Jessica Tripler

Is The Getting of Wisdom anti-feminist? Virginia Lloyd thinks so.

While Miles Franklin tends to get a lot of attention because of the literary award, another prominent Australian who chose to publish under a male pseudonym may not be so well known. That author is Ethel Florence Lindsay Richardson, better known as Henry Handel Richardson. Richardson, a talented musician, was born in East Melbourne in 1870, but moved with her mother to Europe in 1888 so she could study at the Leipzig Conservatorium. She published several books, including Maurice Guest and the trilogy, The Fortunes of Richard Mahony.

This year, The Henry Handel Richardson Society is running the Henry Handel Richardson Centenary Writing Competition to celebrate the ex-pat author's only return to Australia in 1912. (Entries don't close till August 31, so there's plenty of time to enter.) Here author, editor and agent, Virgina Lloyd, reviews another of Richardson's novels, The Getting of Wisdom.

Virginia Lloyd writes:
 

The Brooklyn Public Library, a brisk ten-minute walk from my apartment, holds one copy of Henry Handel Richardson’s The Getting of Wisdom (1910). It is a Dial Press tie-in edition to the 1977 film adaptation. The cover features a still photograph of Sigrid Thornton as the central character, Laura Tweedle Rambotham.

As the library’s holdings of Australian fiction are sparse, I was surprised but glad to find a copy locally. I’m researching musically trained women writers – of whom there are many – and I needed to read it: Henry Handel Richardson was a gifted pianist whose family travelled to Leipzig, Germany, in 1888 so she could pursue her studies. Her experiences as a student there led her to write her first novel, Maurice Guest (1908). Happily The Getting of Wisdom, Richardson’s second novel, is not only shorter but also a far more enjoyable reading experience - at least for this reader.

The ghost of Jane Eyre’s school, Lowood, haunts the pages of The Getting of Wisdom, which is primarily a coming of age story told through Laura’s eyes. In the opening pages of the novel we see Laura clash with her mother and feel stifled by the cloying attention of her younger sister, who goes by the nickname Pin. Laura feels more than ready for boarding school but is shocked and disoriented by the factional behaviour of the other girls once she gets there. Richardson vividly draws Laura’s horribly awkward first day at school and her inept efforts at trying to make friends. As an outgoing but poor student whose mother works for a living - a secret Laura tries hard to keep - she fails repeatedly to fit in to a culture that rejects idiosyncrasy. Richardson writes: Laura “suffered …and it was suffering; for her schoolfellows were cruel with that intolerance, that unimaginative dullness, which makes a woman’s cruelty so hard to bear.” Unfortunately most women have experienced just this sort of thing at one time or another. My own experiences of being ostracized at school made these passages spring brilliantly to life.

My biggest disappointment with reading this 1910 novel in 2012 was that it struck me as anti-feminist. This is not just about the pseudonym that Ethel Florence Lindesay Richardson chose to wear like a coat throughout her writing life. As Germaine Greer points out in the introduction to the Dial edition, the tradition of the pseudonymous woman writer had been well established by the Bronte sisters and numerous others over the 19^th century. Richardson claimed that she wanted to test the assertion that had been in the press at the time about how easy it was to distinguish a woman’s writing from a man’s. (Didn’t we just go through this with V. S. Naipaul’s sexist comments about being able to detect a women’s work within a couple of paragraphs - to smell, as Francine Prose put it in Harper’s, the estrogen in the ink? Plus ça change... .) As Greer says, “Why Henry Handel Richardson should have assumed her more ponderous male mask is not so readily apparent” when compared with someone like Marian Evans (George Eliot), whose books’ moral high ground would have been eroded by the revelation of her “scandalous private life”.

I suspect that the male pseudonym was for Richardson a more complicated issue than she would admit even to herself. On reading The Getting of Wisdom, I could not help but feel that Richardson had a great deal of ambivalence about being a woman.

In one early scene, an exasperated visiting teacher accuses Laura’s friend Inez  of having “a real woman’s brain: vague, slippery, inexact, interested only in the personal aspect of a thing.  You can’t concentrate your thoughts, and, worst of all, you’ve no curiosity – about anything that really matters. … It makes me ashamed to belong the same sex.” This condemnation of an entire sex on the basis of one lazy student seems extreme if not pathological. In terms of the plot, however, the teacher’s criticism provides Laura with the motivation she has lacked to now. The narrator writes of Laura: “[S]he did not want to have a woman’s brain, thank you; not one of that sort; and she smarted for the whole class.” From that moment on Laura applies herself to her studies and makes dramatic progress in all subjects except arithmetic.

The most independent woman in the novel is Laura’s financially independent aunt, who makes her own living, lives by herself, and helps Laura to get into the school and to keep her there. But Richardson describes her as “an independent, manly person”, which is a curious and pointed choice of adjective.

The logic of the novel seems to suggest that Laura’s striking independence of thought and behavior reflects the conscious turning away from the humiliation of having a “woman’s brain”. Perhaps in Richardson’s mind this includes being preoccupied with men and marriage. Laura’s lack of interest in these subjects for most of the novel is a refreshing change not only from the obsessions of her peers, but from the subject matter of much fiction both then and now.

In Laura, Richardson gives us a wonderfully complex character. She is willful and intelligent, if not terribly smart. Her lack of shyness causes her to leap into situations she lives to regret, such as when she plays the piano for the headmistress, who condemns her afterward for her “shameless” physical performance and her choice of repertoire (Thalberg instead of Mozart). Laura is vain, lonely, vulnerable, and prone to lying to impress friends. The hole she digs for herself over her stay at the house of the married curate, in which she invents an elaborate story about their wild romance, is hilarious.

I also loved the way Richardson draws this novel to a close. The final third is masterfully controlled in pacing and character development. For any other latecomers to the work I will not spoil it here. It is enough to say that Richardson takes Laura on an emotionally challenging journey towards the end of her school days, and is not afraid to make her heroine suffer.

Germaine Greer contended that The Getting of Wisdom is Richardson’s “only great book, precisely because the subject is like the rest of us, ordinary, and therefore deeply important.” I think Laura Rambotham is a character well worth getting to know. The novel is fascinating reading, if only to provoke a reader to think about how much, and how little, changes in the lives of women.

Viginia Lloyd is a Sydney-born Australian literary agent, editor and freelance writer who currently lives in Brooklyn, New York. Her memoir, The Young Widow’s Book of Home Improvement, was published in 2009 by Penguin and is available from a major international bookseller as an ebook.

 

"In defence of books written by women for women"

This week a Twitter discussion broke out as to whether romance, as a genre, is inherently feminist. The discussion was prompted by a review in which avid romance reader and blogger Kate Cuthbert took a respected romance author to task for not even considering her options when faced with an unplanned pregnancy.

On Twitter, Kate asked, "[W]hat obligations, if any, do romance novelists have to women's rights & feminism?" Aussie romance and erotica author, Keziah Hill, answered, "None, in the same way no novelist has an obligation to any social movement. However, novelists have to be prepared for readers to vote with their feet if idiots re social concerns." Hill followed this up with the statement that there is "nothing inherently feminist about romance".

The view that romance is inherently feminist is propounded by supporters of the genre; they regard the fact that romance is the one genre overwhelmingly written "for women, by women" as "proof" of its feminism. Yet, as Hill and others point out, the genre consistently fails to engage with issues of vital importance to many women, including, according to Hill, such issues as "Reproductive rights, the consequences of heterosexual hegemony" and the "power struggle with men over childcare and housework". Tweeter and blogger Kat (aka @BookThingo) remarked that the latter problem is often overcome in romance narrratives by having a hero rich enough to afford a housekeeper. Kat's comment was no doubt intended to be facetious, but what she says is right: wealth does equate with freedom from drudgery for many romance heroines, and love "earns" this freedom. That's the thing about romance: it's fantasy; it's aspirational, rather than realistic.  If it's going to be taken seriously, it has to be on other terms. But what other terms?

In what sense, if any, can it be considered "feminist"?

This question needs to be asked of romance precisely because the genre is so popular and written largely for woman and by women. It needs to be asked because the diversity of women's writing is often elided by its detractors, with few distinctions being made among different genres such as "romance", "chick lit" and "women's fiction", let alone more serious or ambitious writing by women. Writing by women is regarded (and often dismissed) as lightweight, domestic, focused on relationships, courtship, marriage and children. In addition, romance is particularly derided for supporting outdated and stereotypical gender roles. But as Sarah Wendell of Smart Bitches Trashy Books blog was quick to point out in the Twitter conversation with Keziah Hill, examples can be found of romance writing which both support and subvert the hegemony [of patriarchy]. Romance now has many subgenres and reflects many different values. So why is it still so easily dismissed?

Caught up in this debate is the question of "popularity" versus "literary merit". One persistent assumption has been that romance is cheap and nasty, mass-produced and lacking in literary merit, as well as likely to propound pernicious reactionary values. Its popularity among women readers and writers is not deemed sufficient for it to merit serious attention. As Helen of AlltheNewsthatMatters blog asked rhetorically recently of pornography, "How do we judge the worthiness of a particular form of popular culture? Is the entertainment legitimate just because consumers are buying?" 

Fans of the genre are likely to counter this view with the claim that there are many examples of fine writing within the bounds of the genre, merit reflected in the awards regularly given out by associations such as Romance Writers of Australia and the Australian Romance Readers Association. So is there something else about romance that irks people?

Recently on the AWW blog, feminist publisher Susan Hawthorne discussed books "that make you think" and asked, "What else is writing about?" For many champions of romance, this question is key. For these readers and writers, romance is about the body, about emotions, about the visceral response of women's lived experience of love, lust and longing for connection. This is the aspect of romance which is dismissed.

But, if they're right, why? In what way are visceral depictions of women's bodies and emotions anathema to literary merit?

Today's guest blogger, award-winning fantasy author Louise Cusack, doesn't offer answers, but her post does draw our attention to the questions.

Louise Cusack writes: "In defence of books written by women for women"

The first time I heard Nicholas Sparks (The Notebook, Nights in Rodanthe) described as a ‘romance genre writer’ I couldn’t help a quiver of “Damn right he is!”  I’d been sick of hearing about male authors writing love stories while female authors were said to have written romances, the inference being clear: love stories were important and life altering and powerful, while romances were more often described as frivolous and clichéd. 

Maybe this isn’t my argument to weigh into.  I am a published fantasy author after all – different genre – but I started my career trying to write romance and have stayed a member of Romance Writers of Australia for two decades.  I have a lot of friends there, some of whom are Harlequin Mills & Boon authors.  Thankfully the days of being slighted for writing “those silly little books” seems to be passing, which is just as well.  Romance Writers of America say on their website “More than a quarter of all books sold are romance. $1.36 billion in sales each year,” so I imagine those authors are laughing all the way to the bank, and caring less what their novels are categorised as by reviewers and critics.  Especially as the huge number of eReaders being purchased has created even more sales for romance publishers, with fans happily downloading novels so they don’t have to feel embarrassed about reading them on the train.

And there’s another problem.  I take issue with the fact that a woman should feel embarrassed to be seen reading a romance novel when no one blinks at a man reading a western or a crime thriller. What is it about women’s fiction that makes it less in the eyes of the literati, when as a genre it sells so much more?

Let me take you back a few years.  When I first started writing in the nineties I attended a “meet the authors” evening in Brisbane, hosted by the Queensland Writers Centre.  One of the speakers was an International best selling Mills & Boon author from the Gold Coast who’d written over thirty novels and had print runs in the hundreds of thousands, translated into several languages.  The other was a well respected Brisbane author of literary fiction whom I later found out had been given a print run of 500, many of which were still sitting in her garage.  That evening had a profound impact on me.  I’d grown up wanting to be a novelist, but I hadn’t given genre a thought.  That night I did think.  I realised I could either try for the approval of a marginal elite, which might get me into ‘the club’ and make awards and literary grants more likely.  Or I could write what I was convinced a great number of readers would love, and earn a living that way.  Of course there was no guarantee that I’d be good enough to get published in any form, but “commercial fiction” as my agent was later to call it, became my holy grail. 

To me, all books fit some genre, and Literary Fiction is just another genre beside Romance, Crime, Fantasy, Erotica and Young Adult.  Further, genre doesn’t dictate quality.  I’ve read some superlative fantasy (Kim Wilkins’ Giants of the Frost and The Autumn Castle are so achingly evocative they deserve to be Lit Fic) and I’ve also read some extremely boring literary fiction that wouldn’t have made it past the slush pile of a decent women’s fiction publishing house.

 

So why is there a literary cringe when women write and read stories that resonate with them emotionally?  Why should the intellectual experience of a story be considered more worthy?  These are all questions that deserve more considered answers than I have space for here, but as I see my fantasy romance trilogy, Shadow Through Time, digitally released this month by Pan Macmillan’s digital imprint Momentum Books, I don’t hope for the approval of critics or reviewers or government arts departments.  I care about readers.  I care about the women who are going to buy my story, who will hopefully thrill to the fantasy world I’ve created, who will be frightened, and saddened, and excited and delighted, and will ultimately fall head over heels for the champion who saves the princess’s life.  Because that’s what I dreamt of when I was reading Alice in Wonderland and Beauty and the Beast as a child, and I’ve never stopped wanting that emotional ride.

To those who would try and stifle or marginalise any form of women’s fiction, your days are numbered.  The eRevolution is making you redundant.  My readers don’t need your approval or your direction.  They’re getting their reviews from other readers on Goodreads and Amazon and Shelfari.  They’re deciding for themselves what’s ‘worthy’ and what’s not, and in this brave new world it’s not only publishers and agents who are wondering where they fit between reader and writer.

So while I started this blog with a dig at patronising attitudes, I’ll end it by proposing that those attitudes are far less relevant in a digital age.  Storytelling appears to have come full circle, and though our campfire is now called the Internet, its effect is the same.  Has the history of publishing reached a point where we simply let readers decide?  Perhaps their opinions and their economic power are ultimately all that counts.  What do you think?

Louise Cusack is an International award winning fantasy author whose best-selling Shadow through Time trilogy with Simon & Schuster Australia was selected by the Doubleday Book Club as their ‘Editors Choice’.  These novels have now been released as eBooks by Momentum Books.

"A book that makes you think... what else is writing about?" Spinifex Press turns 21

Over the past few years, I've corresponded intermittently with feminist publisher and author, Susan Hawthorne, of Spinifex Press, a publishing house which next week celebrates 21 years of operation. Ahead of its time, Spinifex was the first Australian publisher (to my knowledge) that produced ebooks.

To celebrate Spinifex's success and International Women's Day, Hawthorne agreed to write a summary of books published - in some cases, republished - recently by Spinifex. (Stay tuned for a book give-away.


Hawthorne writes:
As a publisher and a writer I always find these challenges difficult. Not because I don’t have ideas about what’s good or what’s a waste of time. As a publisher I read the books we at Spinifex publish well ahead of everyone else. It’s a solitary kind of thrill, but no one to talk to about the latest most exciting book, so exciting you are prepared to fork out money and time to ensure it gets onto the shelves.

Here are the Australian novels that we have published at Spinifex Press between September 2010 and March 2012. I’ll work backwards with a book that is just published.

Fish-Hair Woman by Merlinda Bobis is a book that I have wanted to see published for more than ten years. Based on a short story first published in Merlinda’s award-winning collection, The White Turtle, if you read one book in 2012, make it this one. Fish-Hair Woman is set in the Philippines in 1987 during the Marcos regime and the novel gives great insight into the political violence and kidnappings that have occurred in recent years. It is a complex novel in which the author asks awkward questions about violence, war, death but also about love, commitment and beauty. The title refers to the woman whose hair grows each time a body is found in the river. It grows and grows, and as the bodies wash downstream she walks into the river and gathers the latest body up in her hair.

Other books by Merlinda Bobis:              
White Turtle 

Summer was a Fast Train without Terminals 

Banana Heart Summer

The Solemn Lantern Maker

Bite Your Tongue by Francesca Rendle-Short is a book I first saw in a different form some years earlier. What I enjoy about the published version is the crossover of genres – from fiction to memoir back to fiction. I like the way that Francesca both separates and melds. For many writers, fiction becomes a way to explore experiences and ideas from the real world blurring their origins. Francesca explores her relationship with her mother – and mother daughter relationships are complex – as well as with the meta-mother, the mother who might have been. Through her fictional self, Glory, Francesca gets to speak the words she wished she’d said. This is an enticing read, one that pulls the read back and forth. But it is also a book that makes you think, and what else is writing about? 

Other books by Francesca Rendle-Short        
Imago

Remember the Tarantella by Finola Moorhead was first published in 1987 to great acclaim. Finola then went on to win the 1991 Vance Palmer Prize for Fiction in the Victoria Premier’s Awards for Still Murder and wrote the epic novel, Darkness More Visible. Remember the Tarantella has 26 characters – all women. She wrote the novel in response to a challenge from Christina Stead, and through the use of letters of the alphabet, astrology, tarot, colours and maps, as well as an extraordinary process of feedback from other writers (documented in the Afterword) Finola keeps her characters in hand. And they are a rebellious lot: they travel around the world, they shift allegiances and relationships, they talk endlessly and they dance. The dance is a key theme in this novel, whether it be the tarantella or the ancient dance of women. Once you’ve read this novel, you will want to go out and read other works by Finola Moorhead. 

Other novels by Finola Moorhead             
Still Murder  
Darkness More Visible 

Quilt

A Handwritten Modern Classic

My Sister Chaos by Lara Fergus is an outstanding book and in 25 years in publishing, I think it is the best first novel I have encountered and been able to publish. It tells the story of two sisters from an unnamed country who have escaped from a war, one is a cartographer, the other an artist. The cartographer and the artist in their own ways are trying to keep chaos at bay as they try to come to terms with what has happened to them and others close to them during the war. It is a book about what refugees go through, how people are silenced and the impact of brutality. The book is structurally satisfying as well as compelling in its narrative. As a reader you just have to finish it – and many do – in a single sitting. The book was one of three finalists in the Dobbie Literary Awards 2010. 

Publishing fiction is a joy. What I enjoy most is working with a writer through discussion about the shape of the novel, talking about structure, theme, metaphor, whether the characters are sufficiently delineated and whether the novel hangs together. I’ve lost count of how many works of fiction we have published, probably around 50 and we published authors from Australia, New Zealand, Botswana, South Africa, Nigeria, India and the UK. The media is not always interested in fiction in spite of the many good reviewers in the country who are keen to have good books to read, books that make a reader think.



Susan Hawthorne was born in Wagga Wagga and grew up on a farm near Ardlethan. She’s a poet, aerialist, publisher and academic. She is the co-founder with Renate Klein of Australia's feminist publishing house, Spinifex Press which turns 21 next week. She has lived for many years in Melbourne and now spends her time between Victoria and Far North Queensland. Hawthorne has five books of poetry published, a novel and several books of political theory.

 

Hawthorne has five books of poetry published, a novel and several books of political theory.

Poetry: 

• Cow (2011)
• Earth’s Breath (2009; also as eBook)
  
• Unsettling the Land (chapbook with artist Suzanne Bellamy, 2008; also as eBook)
  
• The Butterfly Effect (2005; also as eBook)
  
• Bird (1999; as eBook)

For a review of Hawthorne's latest collection, Cow, see Robyn Cadwallader's "The playful provocation of a complex tapestry" in this week's Verity La.


Spinifex Press has an outstanding record of publishing books by Australian women. Here is a list of their authors (with links to their biographies on the Spinifex website):

·      Carol Bacchi
·      Judy Horacek
·      Betty McLellan
·      Rose Zwi
·      Robyn Rowland
·      Jocelynne Scutt
·      Sandy Jeffs
·      Jean Taylor
·      Laurene Kelly
·      Francesca Rendle-Short
·      Deborah Staines
·      Sheila Jeffreys
·      Suzanne Bellamy
·      Dale Spender
·      Zohl de Ishtar
·      Diane Bell
·      Patricia Easteal
·      Finola Moorhead
·      Rye Senjen
·      Denise Thompson
·      Jordie Albiston
·      Zelda D’Aprano
·      Lin Van Hek
·      Lizz Murphy
·      Lucy Sussex
·      Bronwyn Whitlocke
·      Anne Thacker
·      Louise Crisp
·      Patricia Sykes
·      Miriel Lenore
·      Susan Hawthorne
·      Lariane Fonseca
·      Margaret Somerville
·      Kerryn Higgs
·      Doris Kartinyeri
·      Erika Kimpton
·      Merrilee Moss
·      Jenny Kelly
·      Debra Adelaide
·      Sue Hardisty
·      Gina Mercer
·      Beth Shelton
·      Sarah Brill
·      Judi Fisher
·      Patricia Hughes
·      Munya Andrews
·      Diane Fahey
·      Felicity Jack
·      Lara Fergus
·      Mary Sullivan
·      Lynette Dumble
·      Judy Atkinson
·      Melinda Tankard Reist
·      Abigail Bray

AWW writes:
March is "think" month for the National Year of Reading. Have you read and/or reviewed any of Spinifex's books? Can you recommend any other books by Australian women that make you think? What else is writing about?