Yesterday I got on a mild kerfuffle on Twitter-X, henceforth Twitx. I’ll pause here so you can gasp in astonishment that mild mannered, gentle me could fly off the handle on a misunderstanding. I know. I’d never believe it. I mean normally when this happens it’s a barn burner not a mild kerfuffle.

Anyway, this one wasn’t political but it was something near and dear to my heart. To wit, fiction publishing and the assumptions people make.

In this case, I misinterpreted (almost for sure) the quip with which someone responded to my promo post (this week on Monday because these last two weeks have been funny, though not funny ahah) by telling me I’d forgotten a book, and linking a guy making fun of a book (obviously Indie, also obviously erotica).

And perhaps I was just a wee bit touchy, but you know, I’m getting sick and tired of people — usually people who either HOPE to some day be published traditional, or people who are published traditional with one or two books that are succès d’estime — listen people, it takes one to know one, and my first six books were precisely that and no more — but have very few readers — snotting it up at indie and particularly indie romance of erotica.

This guy thought he was making fun of the book by saying “Not everyone can be Hemingway”. For which I gave thanks fasting, as I heartily disliked Hemingway when I was forced to read him. If he was going to do depressive quasi socialist propaganda, he could at least have made it more textured. But I particularly dislike his imitators whose “spare” style is like an arid landscape in which neither imagination nor sensory delight flourish.

I grant you I COULD be more spare, but probably not today, since I have a fever and you know what that does to me.

But moving right along, since I’m not at all testy today, the assumption that someone writing erotica was TRYING to be Hemingway, the assumption that because the book was indie it must be someone who was rejected by traditional, the assumption that therefore it was somehow inferior and had fallen short of the one true path that MUST be what it was trying for: all of it combined to setting my hair on fire.

Or if you prefer, I got on my broom and flew several times around Twitx terrorizing the natives.

Afterwards it occurred to me that there was something there more important than merely taking a baseball bat and applying it to people who’d pissed me off, an activity that — while letting off stress — is ultimately largely unproductive.

Among other things, I pointed out to the person echoing the post at me (who immediately apologized, because I can be somewhat terrifying, you know? I know. Who’d believe it?) that if he thought indie was bad he must not have been paying attention to trad pub. And if he thought erotica was bad he must not have been reading trad pub “romance.”

So, to begin with, we might as well exclude Baen from what follows. I do not always appreciate, like, or care for what Baen publishes, but no one can accuse them of this process. While they don’t publish Romance, (yet) they are a broad church when it comes to politics, and rarely publish just-so political tales or dictate to the author what to write. Note, I’m no longer publishing with them, and it’s sort of mutual because at this point I would not go back if invited, but that’s a “I’d rather not go back to being traditionally published, because the life I save might be my own” not Baen specifically. This exempts situations in which I have to sign a traditional contract to survive, which I hope doesn’t happen. But what I mean is I have no issues with Baen, beyond “I’d rather not be traditionally published again.” (Note this excludes short stories and novels, which I write for them when invited. But that’s different.)

What follows is why we have Indie publishing at all.

Traditional publishing, over my aware-time which is the last 38 years — (my time as an adult in the US) give or take five, as I was green as leaks and twice as unaware of subtlety when I first landed so I’m sure I missed stuff — has been on a path of caring less and less for actually selling the books and more and more for signaling the things they believe will make the editors “admired.”

Since, like most skilled professions in the US, they hire college graduates, and in their case usually from prestigious North Eastern Universities, they also tend to a narrow band of opinions to “admire.” Which means well, they virtue signal Marx as hard as they can. Or the aberrant side-shoots of Marx that sprouted after the fall of the USSR put pay to their beau ideal: Environmentalism (anyone else remembers how everything in the seventies had the future in ice age. Now it’s all burning. I loved the idiots who had the 90s with unbreathable air. Never go full Ehrlich.) Feminism (It’s almost impossible to trad pub a heroic male outside Baen, much less a heroic white male.) Queerish BS (This comes from someone who writes gay characters for the same reason the curtains are blue. The characters are gay. But I remember when it was all about having one or two gay characters — usually secondary and ooh, so brave, so transgressive — now you have to pick from a menu of boutique designer sexualities and have them all represented, or you’re a terrible ist. It sounds exhausting. My characters still insist on being what they are. TBF I only ever had two who were attracted to dragons preferentially.)

Anyway, the preaching (Imagine this in a Joseph Conrad tone: “The Preaching, The Preaching!”) has become increasingly the point of the books. It used to be whatever the left thought was vital be pushed for the glory of the revolution was in every book, but the story was still pretty good around it. (Seriously, if you read old books, you’ll see it: when eugenics was a lefty cause; when abortion was the thing that must be secured at federal level; when we were all going to freeze over unless we socialisted (totally a word, shut up) as hard as we could, etc. etc, etc. Now it could be a coincidence, but I kind of hard doubt that. Because Journolist, that’s why.) But now there is no story. You can’t roll your eyes and read around it, like I read around the grosses of the sex.

And that brings us to sex. I have nothing against sex. (Well, it would be embarrassing right now, considering I’m in my office, facing the window and the neighbors.) In fact, I rather approve of the activity. And I’ve been known to read the occasional erotica, or even spicy romance, some very good, some well, passable. The execrable and close with a snap and send back to Amazon to fester in their typo-iness.

Anyway, I don’t often read erotica. Like I don’t often read Amish Romance. As those who know me know, I mostly read by mood, which must be my excuse for years of Jane Austen fanfic, not to mention the years of paleontology or anthropology. And I read a lot stranger stuff than that, too, if the mood strikes me, including but not limited to the insert papers into medicines I’ve never taken and don’t intend to take.

What I’m trying to get across is that I read erotica when in the mood for erotica, and romance when in the mood for romance. And science fiction when the mood for science fiction. And science fiction romance when in the mood for science fiction romance. Etc. Ad Nauseum.

It might help the gentle reader understand my problem if he or she knows that my in laws, years ago, gave me and my husband divided dinner plates, to mock the fact we don’t like our food to touch. They, of course, immediately became our favorites, because WE DON’T LIKE OUR FOOD TO TOUCH. Why they never saw that coming, I don’t know.

In my case it’s more that I don’t like what I’m counting on to turn into something quite different. I have read with remarkable pleasure some paranormal murder mysteries, but if you lead me to believe I’m reading a normal Agatha-Christie-style mystery and you reveal the demons I didn’t know were permissible in universe did it all, I’m going to be really upset.

So…. I really disliked when all my stories slowly turned into political screeds. It’s not even that I didn’t agree with the screeds. By and large I didn’t because they were all left and lefter (totally a word.) But to be fair, right wing screeds if very well done might hold my attention for the first few, just on the novelty, but after that I wouldn’t want to read them either. (Make note of this. There’s an equal and opposite reaction as right wing authors hit indie.) Because if I want to read politics I read politics. If I’m reading fiction, it should allow me to have fun, okay?

So, back in the nineties I was chased from genre to genre as the stories became “just the politics, ma’am”. And I landed in Romance, which I didn’t even read till Dave Freer forced me to read Heyer when I was 33.

I had a lot of back stuff to read, but inevitably I landed with both feet on the “new stuff” and realized romance had dual problems.

First, every MC at least back then (I haven’t read trad romance in a looooong time. Like ten years) was both a social activist and feminist (regardless of era. This applied to regency women, too) and they had sex ALL THE TIME. No-consequence sex, which was pretty amazing for historical. But to be fair, no one was taking any precautions even in current day. And there were no consequences. None.

If I read it sequentially by when they were published — look, I have weird hobbies — I could see the importance of relationships receding, until it was ALL SEX ALL THE TIME and love could be told because the sex was REALLY GOOD.

When I realized the book I was reading had maybe 20 of 300 pages when the characters weren’t doing what my best friend growing up called rolling the melons and hiding the probe, I bailed from trad published romance.

Which is what this post is about (you knew we’d get there eventually): the road to hell.

Oh, not because it’s sex. Note I have nothing against sex as sex. Though I confess reading it is not as much fun as being a participant.

It’s the road to hell for a writer — or publisher — when you push out everything else for this one thing that you are really passionate (snicker) about.

Look, it’s not just politics and sex, though those tend to overshadow others for most humans, for various reasons. And it’s not all the writers’ fault, because I can tell you from personal experience that some publishers demand you add sex to some books. But the writer has to be willing, instead of inviting the editor to write it herself. (What? Did I say I was sane?)

I know how the road to hell happened for both writers and editors. The politics? Well, if you signaled right — and this got in your head, if you were even mildly aware, so it shaped your idea, and you might not be aware of it. More on that later — you’d get PUSHED harder. And had a better chance of making money and having a career which by the 90s was increasingly difficult. The temptation was great. And then the publishers, who got praised for publishing something “So stunning brave!” kept pushing for more, and next thing you know you’re just writing broad metaphors for whatever fascinates your publishers/reviewers.

Sex? Well, you know, they were putting all these politics in but they still must pay some attention to sales. Back in the nineties, a bit of sex in anything would sell better, because sex in genre books was RARE. (Now it’s not particularly well done.) I remember a young co-worker praising one of the Clan of the Cavebear books because of “What he does to her boobies.” I confess both that I’d read the book, and didn’t remember the series. (Or much of the book, but that’s because it didn’t do much for me. No disparagement intended. Just not my cuppa.) I remember staring at co-worker wondering what was wrong with her head, because if you’re reading for sex there’s better stuff.

However, unexpected sex sold books.

The problem with sex — or politics — is that what gives it frisson is the unexpected thrill. At least in books. (Grin.) So you have to put more and more of it in to get the same effect. And you have to get more and more transgressive.

(I’m mildly in awe waiting for what the next “big hit” based on sex will be after Fifty Shades.)

So, there is a road to hell, the skids are greased, and the basket keeps accelerating.

And the problem — mark my words — is that whatever it is you’re putting in other than what the people who buy the book want — in the case we’re discussing, romance, though you know, other genres have other expectations — pushes what people want out.

My joke (?) above about Amish romances isn’t quite, because as romance became erotica, people ran away to things that presumably had less sex all over them, and therefore more romance. And when Regency failed, we fell into Amish Romances or Mormon Romances, or whatever. I don’t know what the thing is now, because you can find sweet-romances (no or limited sex) on Amazon, and when in the mood that’s what I read.

But back to the point, and where this appeals also to indies: ANYTHING you put in that you find fascinating, and isn’t an integral part of the story/world/genre can end up killing your book and your readers’ interest.

Sex is particularly bad for this, particularly for newer authors, because of course all humans are interested, but if you’re so busy writing sex — which is very liberating the first time you do it, you know? — you might not notice that your book has nothing else, including interesting characters and plot. And while you might still hook some readers, you’ll be falling short of your own potential.

And the same if you finally can write YOUR politics. You’re obviously interested, but it risks pushing everything out. And shutting out readers who would otherwise enjoy your work. (Me? I actually don’t. Yeah, I know, if you’re a leftist my politics will seem in-your-face but honestly? Other than being part of who I am, I don’t put politics in. If you read A Few Good Men you might sputter about this, but honestly, it’s a story of revolution, and what comes through is what I believe worth rebelling and fighting for.)

I’m not suggesting you censor yourself. On the contrary. Just don’t let your obsessions blind you to what should be in the book.

But you shouldn’t censor yourself. Which now brings us back to why I won’t go back trad, if I can help it. (Who knows? The future presents turmoily.)

It’s not what the publisher demands. Baen made remarkably few “shaping requests” and never asked me to write either sex or politics, for the record. (Others did.)

It’s — as I described last week — that trad pub gets in your OODA loop. You’re chasing the elements that will lead the publisher to treat your book like a rare shining star. You read other books constantly and wonder if it’s this or that. And it gets in your idea generation. And there are things you wanted to write when you were (just) a fan that you don’t even form into ideas because the publishers will hate it. Etc.

It’s like having someone else in your head, all the time. Even if the poor creature doesn’t know a replica of him/her lives in your head.

Took me years after dropping out to understand that, and also why writing had become joyless and arid. A duty, much like “driving a truck” or “scrubbing toilets.” I was still giving it my all, but it’s like the difference between introvert and extrovert: you go to a party, and try your best, but the introvert comes home and sleeps for a day, while the extrovert comes from the party and wants to go out dancing.

If you’re writing because it’s a duty and you let someone else in your head, dictating what you should write — whether the someone is your publisher, your family, or even your readers (always remembering some of us do things our readers like because we like to eat, but still, you must learn not to do JUST that.) — it’s going to drain you, consume you, until soon enough you — or the part of you that creates — is all gone.

On the other hand, if you’re writing what you love or at least what’s genuinely yours and you REALLY want to write, it energizes you.

I do understand what you love might not sell (I have so far not experienced this, strangely) but then still make room in your writing schedule for it. Or transform what you must so you can write it with love.

Because otherwise you’re just greasing the skids on that broad and fast road to hell.