By
Rosalie Stanton
I
have only recently become open about what I write with people who
aren’t in my immediate circle. Previously, the getting-to-know-you
conversations with friends, coworkers, and pretty much anyone I met
consisted of a painful dance around the topic. I didn’t want to
feel flushed or apologetic when I mentioned I write paranormal
romance, never mind erotic romance. My genre of choice has never been
a matter of shame for me—I love what I write, and I’m proud of
it. But the opinion of others, particularly people who don’t know
me, has long been something I’ve worried about. Be it in the way I
look, the way I dress, my makeup, my hair, or my weight. I know I’m
not alone in this. People—and women in particular—are guilty of
overestimating the importance of a perfect stranger’s good opinion.
Granted,
not caring what people think isn’t license to be an asshole. And
there are some core truths in society that remain unimpeachable, no
matter our small protests. One being that women are taken more
seriously if their hair is flawless, their skin unblemished, their
eyes painted and their lips red. Some women really enjoy this, and I
don’t fault them in that one bit. However, as someone who more or
less grew up a tomboy and later caved to the cultural norm of how
respectable women looked, I’ve somewhat rebelled against the
establishment. On the weekends, even if I’m going out, I have to
really be in the mood to slap on makeup. During the week, I’m
mostly sequestered to an office and out of the public eye, so my
makeup is sparing and rarely touched up throughout the day. Those
times when I do worry about how I look, I remind myself I shouldn’t
have to. I dress well (four years working in a clothing department
store gave me that), I’m friendly, my hair isn’t a mess, and I
practice regular hygiene. In essence, I do everything a guy does,
only I still spend more time in front of the mirror.
Admittedly,
I’m at a point in life where I have nothing to lose by playing the
“screw it” game. I’m happily married, and my husband is almost
more of a feminist than I am. I also have achieved my professional
goals—I work remotely for a publisher, in-office for an advertising
agency and with people who have much more important things to worry
about than how much foundation I applied that morning. On the rare
occasion I get in front of clients, I do make an effort to not wear
off my makeup quite so much, but those instances are few and far
between.
Women
are pressured by any number of variables to behave and appear certain
ways. I once couldn’t fathom going to get the mail in anything less
than my absolute best. My tomboy ways began to waver around the
puberty point, and my obsession with my appearance instigated any
number of unhealthy behaviors I have since decided were not only a
waste of time, but damaging in the hands of someone else.
Appearance
is one thing. Writing is something else entirely, though for many
female authors, it does reside in the same school of thought where we
find society’s expectations for women as a whole. Women are
supposed to be passive, demure, visually pleasing, sexually
stimulating but mostly virginal. Letting go of my visual hang-ups was
a lot easier, in that regard, than letting go of the fear of judgment
that came with every answer to the dreaded, “What do you write?”
question. Romance novels, independent of erotica, have been many a
punch line for many people for a long time. And when you’re the
author of erotic romance, allowing someone the license to potentially
judge you on a level so inherently personal is a very frightening
thing.
But
here’s the kicker: you can only be embarrassed if you feel you have
something to be embarrassed about. Any reply you receive after you
announce you write “erotic romance” is a comment on the person
saying it, not you. It occurred to me a few weeks ago that since I
have no shame in what I do, it was time to pony up and stop
apologizing preemptively. Stop omitting the “erotic” part of
“paranormal romance” or devaluing my own work by calling it smut.
I don’t know about other erotic romance authors, but a lot more
goes into each work than just the sex. There’s characterization,
development, a grueling plot, life-or-death stakes, an emotional
journey, heartbreak, healing, loss, acceptance, occasional
existential questions, a blackest-of-all-black moments, and the much
deserved HEA or HFN. And, yes, there are some naked sweaty scenes
with characters engaging in the COMPLETELY HUMAN act of lovemaking.
To call all of that smut is a disservice, and if you’re speaking
specifically about my work, I consider it insulting. So imagine how
pissed I was with myself for allowing my work to be branded “smut”
for so long.
No
more.
On
Friday, my mother called my work “vampire smut” in front of
someone I’d only known for five minutes.
“Actually,”
I said, “I write paranormal erotic romance.”
She
replied with, “Well, but it’s so much more fun to say vampire
smut.”
I
can be annoyed, sure…but more with myself than her. That’s what I
built because I wasn’t woman enough to be loud and proud sooner
than a few weeks ago. I denigrated my own work to in order to, what,
save face? Avoid a blush? Why the hell should I be self-conscious?
I’m damn proud of what I do.
I
know this fight is only beginning. I imagine I’ll have many more
moments where I’ll need to correct someone when they describe my
work as “smut”…but I did the crime, so I’ll do that other
thing. When something is important to you, you show up. Writing is
incredibly important to me. Always has been. And I’m not
apologizing anymore—not to strangers, not to my mother, and
especially not to myself.
So
what am I not blushing about anymore? Well, this for starters, and a
whole lot more to come.
By the way, leave me a comment with your email, and I'll enter you in a drawing for a $10 Totally Bound gift voucher!
TITLE:
Lost Wages of Sin
LENGTH:
Super-plus novel
GENRE:
Erotic Paranormal Romance
THEME:
Angels and demons, vampires
Blurb
Working
for Lucifer is the best job in the universe, until the day it’s
not. Then you’re on your own, with Hell at your heels.
Ava,
Sin of Greed, has had a rough week. The angel she planned to make a
life with left her with nothing but a Dear Jane letter. Even worse,
Lucifer believes she spilled Hell’s secrets to her ex, and her
boss’s temper is notoriously apocalyptic.
For
centuries, Dante has kept his feelings for Ava under lock-and-key.
The one time he pursued something more, he nearly lost her for good.
Lesson learned. However, when he hears of her planned elopement, all
bets are off. Not having Ava was a reality he could have accepted.
Losing her to an angel is something else entirely.
Now,
Ava, once Hell’s golden child, is fleeing for her life. When her
old friend Dante shows up, her first instinct is to send him packing.
But Dante is more than a friend—he’s the only other man who
tempted her, and his fierce loyalty challenges everything she thought
she knew about him. As Ava prepares to battle the devil himself, she
can’t keep from getting closer to Dante…though given what
happened the last time, she doubts her heart can survive another
break.
Buy Links
Excerpt
When
he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, Dante cleared his throat
and shifted in his seat. “Ava?”
Her
head jerked up, hair flying out of her face. She blinked rapidly as
though trying to remember where she was. “Yeah. Did you decide what
you want?”
Dante
stared at her for a moment then lowered his gaze to the burger and
fries in front of him. “We already did that part.”
She
blinked again and shifted her attention to her own barely-touched
meal. “Oh, right.”
“So
are we gonna talk about it?”
“About
what?”
He
rolled his eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me. We’re here for a
reason, aren’t we? Thought you wanted to have the big talk.”
Ava
sighed, picked up a fry then munched. “I don’t even know where to
start.”
“How
about what you were doing with one of those oversized pigeons in the
first place.”
She
managed to look wounded, amused and irritated at the same time. A
look specific to Ava—one that told him she was still in there
somewhere. “Like that’s any of your business,” she replied
coolly, though her tone wasn’t sharp and her eyes weren’t
narrowed. Her protest seemed more out of habit than anything else.
“Come
on, love. We don’t need to dance around this. You already know I
know.”
“Yeah,”
she agreed softly, slumping farther into her seat. “My life just
keeps getting better.”
“So
what were you doing with him?” Dante cocked his head. “That
winged asshole?”
“Sebastian.
His name’s Sebastian.”
The
possessive beast in his chest roared with anger at the name, but
Dante washed it back with a mouthful of beer. It wasn’t as though
he had any claim on her, despite years of trying, despite
conversations that went on until dawn, despite a list of inside jokes
that had no end, despite surviving the bad times and celebrating the
good. And despite that one not-so-distant night when things might
have changed, Ava had never been his.
He’d
prepared himself for this. He’d thought he had, at least. Perhaps
he should have tried to go back to sleep after he’d rubbed one out
this afternoon—put some distance between his feelings and his job
here.
Still,
his feelings for Ava had never taken a back seat to anything, even
when they should have. And since Dante wasn’t one to start
sprouting sonnets, he forced himself to shove those feelings deep
into the recesses of never-going-to-happen and focus on being there
for her when he could.
He
hadn’t lacked female companionship, either. It was one of the
nightlife’s best perks. The women he chose were always warm and
receptive, and likewise left his bed a satisfied customer. He hadn’t
bothered developing a lasting relationship—hadn’t taken the steps
those of his kind took in order to ensure the path to eternity wasn’t
a lonely one.
The
only woman he wanted for keeps was unavailable, and currently sat
across the table with eyes so haunted he had a good mind to hitch the
next ride skyward and introduce a certain angel to his fist.
“Sebastian,”
he echoed at last. “Like the cartoon crab?”
About
Rosali
Rosalie
Stanton is a multi-published erotic romance author, with emphasis in
paranormal and urban fantasy. A lifelong enthusiast of larger than
life characters, Rosalie enjoys building worlds filled with strong
heroes and heroines of all backgrounds.
Rosalie
lives in Missouri with her husband. At an early age, she discovered a
talent for creating worlds, which evolved into a love of words and
storytelling. Rosalie graduated with a degree in English. As the
granddaughter of an evangelical minister, Rosalie applied herself
equally in school in the creative writing and religious studies
departments, which had an interesting impact on her writing. When her
attention is not engaged by writing or editing, she enjoys spending
time with close friends and family.
Rosalie
is represented by Tish Beaty at the L. Perkins Agency.
