Gloves Off
Every now and again we get another round of
“Waaah! Women authors hijacked gay literature! They dumbed it down to m/m
romance! Waaah! It’s all rainbows and kissing and happy ever after! Get off my
lawn, you people with uterii!”
Gay literature vs m/m romance. Is it really
a thing, do you think?
Gay literature seems to claim some sort of
ground that is more highbrow than romance. It claims a cultural significance.
And here I’m looking at you, Alan Hollinghurst, because you were the first gay
writer whose work I found and you’re literary enough to win Booker prizes. That
sort of writing would scorn to be characterised as romance. It’s intellectual,
innit? Educated and all that. I bet it went to Oxford. (And having said that,
The Line of Beauty is still one of my favourite books. Not in the top ten,
maybe, but certainly up there in the top twenty.)
The m/m romance genre doesn’t have
pretensions of grandeur. It doesn’t claim intellectual and cultural
superiority. It claims ‘good storytelling’ and ‘strong characters’ and ‘lose
yourself for an hour here’. And it is *burgeoning*. It covers every sub-genre
you can think of: scifi, westerns, mystery, paranormal, detective fiction,
crime procedurals... the lot. Every single genre is written, rewritten and
reclaimed through the lens of two male protagonists and the relationship
between them. Maybe not with the philosophical significance that the literary
people claim, but with all the trappings of a romance story—heartfelt emotion and
drama, eroticism, sex scenes in which the feelings and the relationship matter
as much (more?) than the physical gymnastics, a happy ending but with him and
him holding hands, not him and her. Stories about love. Sometimes about loss.
But ultimately uplifting stories that leave you feeling good.
There has to be room for both. There has to
be room for *more*. Such as stories that are about love and drama and conflict
and yet don’t meet the expectations of the romance readers in terms of that
happy ever after, but which are still gay fiction and about gay characters.
They’re in there too, and the flourishing of m/m romance has opened up the door
for them.
A good story is a good story. That’s the
lesson of m/m romance. So yes. Maybe all the women reading and writing m/m
romance have cranked open the doors of gay literature and allowed in a whole
host of new ideas, new challenges, new approaches and brought with them a whole
new audience and a new experience. Maybe they did come and trample over gay
literature’s lawns.
But you know, I can’t think that’s a bad
thing. What do you think?
BLURB:
The Gilded Scarab
When
Captain Rafe Lancaster is invalided out of the Britannic Imperium’s Aero Corps
after crashing his aerofighter during the Second Boer War, his eyesight is
damaged permanently, and his career as a fighter pilot is over. Returning to
Londinium in late November 1899, he’s lost the skies he loved, has no place in
a society ruled by an elite oligarchy of powerful Houses, and is hard up,
homeless, and in desperate need of a new direction in life.
Everything changes when he buys a coffeehouse near the Britannic
Imperium Museum in Bloomsbury, the haunt of Aegyptologists. For the first time
in years, Rafe is free to be himself. In a city powered by luminiferous aether
and phlogiston, and where powerful men use House assassins to target their
rivals, Rafe must navigate dangerous politics, deal with a jealous and
possessive ex-lover, learn to make the best coffee in Londinium, and fend off
murder and kidnap attempts before he can find happiness with the man he loves.
(Cover by Reese Dante)
EXCERPT
The
lounge was crowded that evening. The pre-Christmas rush, I assumed, when
gentlemen made merry before being clasped to the bosom of their families, when
they would infinitely prefer the bosom of the handsome waiter at their club. I
didn’t begrudge the festive cheer, but had to push my way through to the bar.
Really. In any well-ordered universe, the crowd would have noticed me and my
fine clothes at the door and parted to make way for me, like the Red Sea.
A
scotch and soda did a great deal to restore my equanimity. Indeed, I grew a
trifle beatific, since all I’d had to eat since breakfast had been some of Will
Somers’s pastries, and the scotch didn’t have a lot of insulation to work on. I
wasn’t festive, you realize, merely a little mellow. So when the tall man in
natty evening dress bumped shoulders with me, I merely moved to get out of
range rather than apostrophize him as the clumsiest oaf in Christendom.
“I beg
your pardon!” He glanced at me and then again, more slowly the second time. He
looked me up and down and smiled. “It’s an unholy crush in here tonight.”
He was
older than me. A good ten years at least, but his brown hair, brushed back from
his brow in true aesthete style, was untouched by gray. His eyes were the
bright mauvish-blue of flax flowers, framed by eyelashes of extraordinary
length and thickness. I suspected him of some sort of artifice there. Those
eyelashes didn’t strike me as quite natural. But everything else appeared to be
the genuine article, and if he were indeed in his early forties, as he
appeared, he had worn well. He wore his daisy on the left of his lapel and
perhaps his acquaintanceship would be worth cultivating.
I
smiled. “I should have remembered everyone comes here at Christmas. I think
it’s to immunize themselves against the shock of festive family life.”
He
threw back his head and laughed. Mmmn. It hadn’t been that amusing, but
perhaps it passed for wit where this man normally existed.
“I
could wish there were a vaccine for it,” he said, sounding heartfelt. “In lieu
of it, I shall try to sate myself in a more satisfactory sort of life to build
up my immunity.” He gestured to my glass. “May I refresh that?”
Did he
think he might have the opportunity to sate himself in me, then? We’d see.
“Scotch and soda, thank you…?” I allowed my voice to lift and trail away on an
interrogative note.
“Daniel
Meredith,” he supplied, half turning away to try and catch a waiter’s eye.
“Rafe
Lancaster.” I held out my hand for him to shake. “I’m pleased to meet you,
Meredith.”
He
turned back to me and smiled, and suddenly it wasn’t merely a polite platitude
to ease along society’s wheels. I was rather pleased to meet him. I
could have done a lot worse.
WHERE
TO BUY THE GILDED SCARAB
BLURB:
Gyrfalcon
Earth’s last known colony, Albion, is fighting an alien
enemy. In the first of the Taking Shield series, Shield Captain Bennet is
dropped behind the lines to steal priceless intelligence. A dangerous job, and
Bennet doesn’t need the distractions of changing relationships with his
long-term partner, Joss, or with his father—or with Flynn, the new lover who
will turn his world upside-down. He expects to risk his life. He expects the
data will alter the course of the war. What he doesn’t expect is that it will
change his life or that Flynn will be impossible to forget.
(Cover by Adrian Nicholas)
EXCERPT
As
advertised, the Shield officer was proving to be the enigma that everyone had
expected.
Flynn
had worked it that first briefing so he got a good look before anyone else. He
liked what he saw. In his black uniform, the Shield captain stood out in the
crowd of Fleet pale grey. Everything about the Shield rig was plain. The rank
pips in the stand-up collar of the tunic under his flight jacket were a dull
silver, and only about half the size of the ones Simonitz wore. There wasn't a
medal ribbon in sight. Only the tiny, ornate Shield badge at his throat was a
bright silver.
The
monochromatic look suited the Shield captain, matching his black hair and the
pale grey eyes. The captain's hair had more cowlicks than a field full of
heifers, spiking up despite it being worn longer than was strictly regulation.
Flynn took note, too, of cheekbones so sharply defined that they looked like
they'd been machine cut, and a strong mouth. The face was youthful, except for
the eyes. They'd seen a lot. Altogether, the Shield captain was definitely one
of the pretty people in life. Almost as pretty as Flynn himself.
Cruz,
to whom he imparted this insight in the OC after Bennet's first visit, rolled
her eyes so hard it was a wonder the girl didn't have to grope about on the
deck for them. She had never appreciated his true worth. He had to guilt her
into buying him a beer in reparation.
He
sipped his beer appreciatively. It always tasted better when someone else was
paying. “What d'you think of him?”
“Seems
pleasant enough.” Cruz shrugged. “He didn't tell us much, though. I didn't
think he would.”
“No.
And that first briefing was a bit basic. Wonder what he was fishing for there.”
“We'll
likely find out in time,” said Cruz.
“I'd
rather know now.” Flynn took a pull on his beer. “Simonitz doesn't like him.”
“Did
Sim ever apply for Shield?”
“You
picked up on that too, did you? I don't know, but there were a few hints there.
I thought the Shield was pretty gracious about it, with Sim sitting there
glowering all night.”
Cruz
nodded. After a minute, she said, “He was good with Nairn, taking him
seriously. Some people might have laughed or slapped the kid down.”
“Nairn's
a question mark on legs, some days.”
“He's
young for his age.”
“And
getting a severe case of hero worship,” Flynn said, laughing.
Cruz
looked at Flynn, brown eyes warm with affection and amusement. “He's not the
only one, I'd say.” She smiled. “Would you?”
WHERE
TO BUY
Gyrfalcon is available as an ebook
at Wilde City Press
GIVEAWAY
Comment here and get an entry in a
rafflecopter to win an Amazon gift card (drawn when the blog tour is over at
the end of March).
In addition, one commentator chosen at
complete close-eyes-stick-a-pin-in-it random will their choice of a little pack
of Gilded Scarab or Gyrfalcon loot and a free copy of FlashWired (a gay
mainstream sci-fi novella).
ABOUT
ANNA
Anna Butler was a
communications specialist for many years, working in UK government departments
on everything from marketing employment schemes to running an internal TV
service. She now spends her time indulging her love of old-school science
fiction. She lives in the ethnic and cultural melting pot of East London with
her husband and the Deputy Editor, aka Molly the cockapoo.
Find
Anna:
