A Story Is Still A Story: These Are the Roys Of Our Lives

One thing I find fascinating about a lot of people who watch only prestige TV? They assume it's automatically operating on a higher level, and more subversive, than mass-consumption series like Law & Order or One Chicago and what-have-you.

As though streaming or a bigger budget or an edgy cast means the basic foundations of storytelling are somehow different or better. They aren't. And those who constantly screenshot frames and zero in on props, looking for Meaning...oftentimes they are overlooking the obvious.

Because obvious messaging is boring, right? God, it's so pedestrian. If it's a smart show, then it has to be stimulating me intellectually and making me look deeper. No. Really, it does not. Often, the writer is still telling a core story that boils down to right vs. wrong.

Put another way, the Roys on Succession are a big-budget, award-nominated, variation on Days of our Lives' DiMeras*. The archetypal warring family with the patriarch they're desperate to impress and live up to. And, frankly, none of those kids jockeying for control can possibly measure up. Those who watch both shows are probably like "Yup, I know what the crux of this is." While many prestige-only viewers are flailing to assign "elevated" meaning.

This goes for things like Ted Lasso as well. I often feel like some viewers don't watch any other shows, because the basic foundational storytelling of a comedy or dramedy is missing them entirely. They can't see the forest for the trees that don't actually exist. Like, no, a heartfelt comedy with the message of "believe" is not going to have the Dutchman assault Rebecca while she's too drunk to consent. That is breaking the contract with the genre and with the viewer. But people were assuming ambiguity and some sort of awful "gotcha." When the writers were doing no such thing. 

It occurs to me that the word "prestige" comes from the French for "illusion." It's "a conjurer's trick," per Merriam-Webster. The first definition that comes up on Google is "widespread respect and admiration felt for someone or something on the basis of a perception of their achievements or quality." On the basis of a perception. Sometimes what you think you are seeing is not what's actually there. And that stands as much for the magician being obvious as it does for them pulling the wool over your eyes while they saw someone in half. What if the illusion in question is that it's deeper than what it actually is? The audience perception of this as a trick when it's not a trick at all.

A story is not lesser because its meaning is discernible and blatant. And writers can be telling the same core stories no matter what network or streaming channel their project is airing on. Right vs. wrong, good vs. evil, the patriarchy and white supremacy often win out, and kindness can be inherent in every gesture. Sometimes, there's no need to sift through the sands in the hourglass looking for more than what's there. The sand itself is enough.  

*Anyone who thinks comparing the DiMeras to the Roys is an insult? I hope Stefano's ghost haunts your pompous elitist ass.

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Tender is the Emotional Storm

I saw pictures of a childhood friend's engagement party first thing this morning, and they poked an already tender place. That place where I am so very aware of how I'm different. They're slightly younger than me, these beautiful shining desi girls who are lawyers and doctors and married and having children. The women from our community who "did it right." And then there's me. Single in my mid-40s. Loudmouthed and profane. Recently diagnosed with ADHD and Autism. A fraught history of CSA, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and problem drinking. Queer as hell and only just now saying it publicly. I never really fit in with the other kids in our community, not for lacking of trying on both sides. It's just that back then, I didn't know why I didn't "fit." I was just awkward and talked too much and made no sense to anybody but myself. I didn't shine. Because all I felt was tarnished.   

Sometimes I still feel tarnished. Even though I know I am brave. God, even saying that makes me feel like a fraud. But it's true. I'm brave. I'm still here. And I got here all by myself and by the sheer force of a will that was fighting against me every step of the way. I got therapy. I got on medication. I became an entertainment writer and then a published romance author. I constantly battle those demons that come in a bottle. We have cease-fires that go for months until a skirmish breaks out. I may be single, but I am safe and content otherwise. I am no less for being different, for not fitting in.

Twenty-Eight Days Later: Not the Zombie Apocalypse

I'm a romance author who's never had a relationship. Or at least that's what I tell people—and they are almost always shocked by that assertion. It's only in recent months that I've realized it isn't strictly true. I have had one significant long-term relationship. A toxic twenty-year on-and-off affair with alcohol...that's been in tandem with my lifelong partnership with fear. I've always been so afraid. Afraid I'm terrible, unlikable, unlovable. Afraid of what I'll say and what I'll do. Afraid of not being funny. Of not being cool. Of not being pretty enough. I grappled with those fears alone through my teens and into my first few years of college. And then I realized drinking softened the edges. A glass in my hand was like Dumbo's feather. It gave me the courage to fly.

Why I'm Not Happy About My Book Deal (or anything else)

Ever since I signed a three-book contract earlier this year, I've been going through this thing. Where I tell someone about it and they exclaim, "Oh, you must be so thrilled! Congratulations!" "Thanks, I'm terrified, actually," I say, fidgeting in my seat and feeling my cheeks heat—certain the person will think me ungrateful, but unable to lie and feign joy. And then the rest of the words tumble out of me. About the anxiety, the depression, the fear that I will fail. Nothing the person asked to hear. All they want is to be happy for me and I can't allow them, or myself, that moment.

My struggles with mental illness are no secret. I was in a depressive low even before my agent emailed me in March to let me know an editor wanted this book, this series. I had commitments to write a column for Frolic.Media that I kind of just...bailed on. (Sorry, Frolic!) I was barely poking at new fiction projects. The book news just sent me deeper into the spiral. Weeks turned into months of darkness. Of staring at my Word document in despair. Of listening to that voice in my head, whispering like Iago, "You're going to fail. You're going to die before you finish this book." Pushing myself out of the house—and ostensibly out of my head—inevitably meant going to local bars...and "celebratory" cocktails quickly turned into "drink until I cry" cocktails and "black out when I get home" cocktails. 

Before people rush in with well-meaning advice...I have a therapist. We've upped from monthly to twice a month. I have a new psychiatrist scheduled. I (try to) go to an exercise class every week. No, I'm not going to try yoga. Yes, I've tried meditation. This is not about asking for help. This is an honest look at the utter clawing terror that steals joy, that inhibits creativity, that wants to ensure we don't reach our full potential. Because I know exactly what this is. I know what's causing it. I know why I push past the third-drink happies to the fourth-drink miseries. No amount of self-awareness actually helps stop it. And neither does Downward-Facing Dog, okay?

Born To Be White: How Biracial Historical Heroes Reinforce The Status Quo

I was in the shower, thinking about how much I enjoyed KJ Charles’ Unfit to Print and its two POC leads, when I had a revelation about books I don’t enjoy so much. Why do half-Indian heroes in most historical romances continue to bother me so damn much? Not just because they don’t engage with biracial identity or transracial adoption or anything of that nature in any meaningful way, but also because they reinforce the relationship between white adjacency and white supremacy. When that hit me, I practically skidded across the tub from the force of the “duh!” The whole point of these sexy dukes and earls and generally wealthy hunks with tans is that they can move in white worlds. They “belong” in ballrooms, in clubs, in the House of Lords. It’s aspirational, inspirational. I mean, heavens, we wouldn’t want them otherwise, would we?

You're Not Reinventing the Romance Wheel

Every few years — hell, maybe it's every few months — someone tries to set themselves up as the arbiter of what romance novels have validity and deserve to be representative of the genre. Whether it's declaring historical romance dead and hailing the rise of New Adult, suggesting the New York Times review these authors and not those books for a "smarter" presentation of romance, penning pieces about the "new" heroines of "new" feminist romances, or dismissing Harlequin as outmoded and out of touch compared to independent authors...someone is always trying to reinvent the wheel to their specifications. It would be kind of funny if it weren't so divisive. Given how much gatekeeping we already have to deal with from publishers, do we really need the extra elitism and attempts at taste-making?

Romance has been blazing trails since the 1970s. We could even go all the way back to Heyer and Austen. I'm not going to go over the ground that many academics and romance historians have already tread. I'm just pointing out that none of this is new. The writing and reading of romance has always, always, been a feminist act for its time. And trends within the genre have always been cyclical. Alpha heroes and strong women who push back against them didn't just crop up five years ago. Neither did heroines in their late teens/early 20s. Neither did super-filthy, boundary-pushing love scenes. (Bertrice Small's Wild Jasmine had an f/m/f scene with anal sex. In 1992.) You're not bringing sexy back, Justin. It never left.

There Are Things That Never Fade

This is a revised re-post of a blog entry originally written in June 2016.

Trigger warnings for sexual assault.

The Patriarchal Call is Coming From Inside The House

*A version of this was posted on Facebook in late April.

I've been thinking, lately, about cis men's acceptance into — and often domination of — feminine-coded spaces. Mainly because I have this clawing, gut-wrenching resentment of it that's been building over the past few years. It's like acid reflux but less pleasant. I tried to flip it around. To interrogate it from a different perspective. "Suleikha, if someone was this resentful of your inclusion in an exclusively white space, what would you say?" But you know what...? That's not the same thing. Because in NO WAY would I be allowed to gain the kind of power and notoriety that men acquire amongst women's groups. I would not be ceded the floor at every opportunity. My word would not be treated as gospel. You can be the token minority, but you can never lead the pack. That is not the case when you're a dude surrounded by women.

Is there an element of misandry in what I'm feeling? Probably. I'm self-aware enough to acknowledge that. But I also know that it's a particular type of man who inspires this roiling in my gut. There are plenty of guys I don't mind having around when I'm with women friends or with fellow industry professionals. The ones that rankle are the sea lions, the mansplainers, the guys who have to jump up and down and go, "Look at me!" so that every eye in the room is now on them. Because it's disingenuous. It's disrespectful. It's claiming a space as yours, marking your territory and turning a collaborative space into your harem.

Spoiler Alert: Someone Dies in This Movie

One of my biggest cinematic pet peeves is when a film is advertised as a romance and you've invested your heart and soul in a beautiful love story...and then half the pairing kicks the bucket. Pushes up daisies. Shuffles off the mortal coil. THEY DIE. Because it's somehow noble and artsy and the partner left behind can cherish that experience and move forward and live a full life with skydiving and Pulitzers and shit.

How is that romantic? Like...no. Heartbreak is terrible. If I wanted heartbreak, I'd just stay in my own life, not fork over dough to escape into someone else's!

Huffing, Puffing, and Blowing the House Down

I recently found myself in conversation with an earnest film school graduate — the kind of hip, bearded, 20-something who thinks acknowledging his white privilege and his problematic faves is enough to balance out his praise of Quentin Tarantino and explain away why he still watches films by Roman Polanski and Woody Allen. He volunteers with Planned Parenthood, you see, so he’s not like those other white dudes — the ones that get huffy about movies like Get Out, which he’d just come from seeing.

Yeah, there was a lot to unpack in that chat we had. And he’d had at least four beers and three shots, which made him particularly mansplain-y. But one thing that really struck me was his insistence that Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs has one of the most shocking scenes ever put to film. This was a follow-up to my condemnation of Polanski and Allen and my insistence that I don’t have to give them my time or my money. He turned to the responsibility of creatives within the confines of storytelling. Wasn’t depicting problematic things onscreen just as bad as actual abuse? Needless to say, I tried my best to set him straight on that count. (Mystery writers don’t actually kill people, remember?) But I keep coming back to what he said about Straw Dogs.

Schooleikha's in Session — Catch Up On My Videos!

Did you know I have a YouTube channel now? I'm kind of bad at announcing these things, but, yes, you can actually WATCH me rant about things.

I've started a video series called Schooleikha's in Session, talking about diversity from a craft perspective. So far there are only three clips, but I will happily make more — especially if you leave me questions in the comments of this post! I'm happy to tackle anything related to writing and social media branding.

For now, check out these three videos about writing diversely!

THE WHY:

HOW TO:

THE WHO (not the rock group):

Kerfuffles, TARDISes and Empty Seats

I recently got into the strangest fracas on Twitter about racism in publishing...where some diversity naysayers asked if I'd read conservative books (because, clearly, I'm biased against such things) and wondered who my favorite Supreme Court Justice is. Frankly, I have no idea what the latter has to do with publishing (it's Ruth Bader Ginsburg, because DUH), but the former is a more troubling query. Because, let's face it, given the literary canon according to schools and colleges, most of what we read is by right-leaning white authors. If anything, I'm making up for not reading lefties and social progressives for 22 years!

So, yeah, that was weird. Also weird was this idea that talking about the disparity in publishing means painting white people as racists. Because, as always, being called a racist is the terrible part. Not the inequality in the system. And it's such a clever, kneejerk-emotional way to distract from the actual topic. It centers the conversation back on white cishet folks instead of the work that still needs to be done to include everyone.

But here's what I really don't get about these perpetual kerfuffles: why asking people to read more is a bad thing. As I said on Twitter, so many people act like being told to diversify your reading is limiting. No, dude, it just means more awesome books. The capacity to devour stories is infinite. It's like a TARDIS. There's plenty of room in there. You can read dead white guys, living white ladies, and POC. That's all that's being said. I mean, I love to read. I've been binge-reading to shut out the world, and I flow from one text to the next. Paul Tremblay to Sonali Dev to Sherry Thomas to Sabaa Tahir to Amanda Bouchet. It's "and" not "instead of."

No one is forcing medicine down your throat. Like I've said many times before, POC aren't kale. We're not some new health trend. We've always been here. The Mahabharata is estimated to date back to the 8th or 9th Century BCE. The Epic of Gilgamesh is dated around 2100 BCE. I could go on. But, basically, POC were spinning stories while paler folks were still scribbling in the dirt. So don't pretend you were here first. You just built the modern stadium, the modern playing field, and then put us in the parking lot...not realizing that there's plenty of room in that stadium. Tons of seats left to fill.

Am I mixing my metaphors? I might be mixing my metaphors.

Stop being weird, people. Just read more goddamn books.

     

A Whole Lotta Words on Doing Things By Halves

Romance author and Washington Post columnist Sarah MacLean put out a call on Twitter earlier today, asking for India-set historicals featuring heroes and heroines of color. Maybe it's because I kind of understand Sarah-speak by now, or because I have a lot of hope, but I automatically assumed she was asking about stories by authors of South Asian origin writing about South Asian people. The answers that came back were all recs for books by white women...and at least four white authors volunteered that they're writing stories with half-Indian characters.

Sophia Duleep Singh, actual biracial person and
 suffragette, in 1910

White authors are writing historical romances with half-Indian characters, and all I can ask is "Why?" Because you care about the biracial and marginalized experience at the time or because you think it's sexy and the right touch of angst? If it's the latter...I thought we were past that two decades ago, aside from a few authors here and there who still love to drop in a half-Indian peer. If you claim it's the former...show me the receipts. I would love to see a fictionalized take on Sophia Duleep Singh. Or Merle Oberon (yes, I know Michael Korda already did that). But I know that the reality of romance writing is much different. What we're told and what we actually get are often seas apart.

And, let's be honest, why isn't the character 100 percent Indian? Is there something wrong with that? Will it completely change your story? Or is the half-Indianness just a tool, an easy source of conflict? A dash of spice? Biracial people, whether they're on the page or picking up the book, deserve FAR better than that.

With diversity and inclusivity very much part of the romance publishing conversation, I really question intent. Is this about being cool and trendy? Are you trying to jump on a bandwagon? Because I've talked about that. So MANY of us have talked about that. We're not this hot new thing. And we're not demanding diverse characters from everybody. You seriously don't have to include POC...especially if you're going to half-ass it. Because another part of the conversation we're having is about harm. Is your portrayal going to cause someone pain?

No, I'm Not Done Talking About This

I've been thinking a lot about diversity panels and diversity months and visibility. Bandwagons vs. real change. How to be seen and how to be heard. It's sticky and tangled and problematic, and I know some people wish I would shut up about it. But I can't, because I know I'm not the only one with questions. There are others who don't feel comfortable asking the room. Bull in a china shop that I am, I don't mind shouting.

There's a backlash right now about the word "diversity" and how it's pretty much just lip service. An empty buzzword being tossed around You also see a lot of big-name authors of color turning down diversity panels and landing on "diverse books" lists because they want to be part of the larger picture, general panels, general lists, and not pigeonholed by race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, etc.

Why POC Aren't Kale And We'd Rather Have Wine Than Your Tears

I'd like to talk about what constitutes kindness and bravery, and what any of it has to do with writing romance. But there is so much, so many different threads, that I'm not sure how to pull them together — especially without citing hundreds of years of racial disparity, colonialism, colorism, segregation, privilege, etc. It's a lot.

You can read some brilliant thoughts on what's going on in Romancelandia right now — what HAS been going on for decades — by Courtney Milan, Melissa Blue, and Zoraida Córdova.

Now here are some of my thoughts.  

RWA15 Part Two: Electric Boogaloo

On Sunday, July 26, I wrote up a very measured and rather SRS BZNESS account of attending this year's RWA. Now, I'd like to rattle off some of the other experiences I had. It wasn't all microaggressions and diversity panels. There was a whole lotta fun and a whole lotta silly. (And, at one point, a whole lot of tequila.)

•I Kool-Aid Womanned my way onto The Li.st's romance panels on Tuesday night with Maya Rodale, Sarah MacLean, Alisha Rai, Carla Neggers, Feminista Jones, Rebekah Weatherspoon and Jordan Silver. (I said the word “orgasm.” A LOT. And on Periscope! Eep.)

Alisha, me, Rebekah's mojito, and Rebekah's photo skills

•Me: “Why is this bar so empty and unprepared on a Saturday?”

Alisha Rai: “Honey, it's Tuesday.”

•Protip: Never order a mojito at a Russian vodka bar.

•I found soon-to-be RITA winner Meredith Duran at the Literacy Signing and she autographed Lady Be Good for me.

•I did a vodka shot at Lorelie Brown's table at the Literacy Signing. (Zoe Archer saw the whole thing. #sorrynotsorry)

•I hugged Lauren Dane...and then basically never saw her again. Heh.

•I fangirled at Bec McMaster, because I LOVE her London Steampunk series.

•I got recognized from Twitter by Beverly “bow down to her freaking awesomeness” Jenkins.

•I caught the tail-end of the Thursday morning breakfast buffet with Katana Collins. (I hope all of that leftover bacon went to a good place.)

•Our Bollywood Basics panel proved that the power of Ranveer Singh's oiled-up chest cannot be denied.

RWA15 in NYC: A Tale of Two Conferences

This year's Romance Writers of America conference in New York City was my first as an author. I've attended three past RWAs around the country as an industry professional — and it was really interesting to attend as someone the programming was ostensibly for rather than as someone just observing for the purposes of coverage. It was also really fascinating to realize that, even with only one hat on, I was basically at two conferences.

On Writing Diverse Characters...and Moving Past Passive Aggression

What do you do when you stumble across a book that is so hurtful you physically recoil? These past few months, I've developed an almost pathological obsession with such a book. Every time I see mention of it, I flinch and my gut roils. I subtweet about it. I message friends and wonder what, if anything, can be done about it. And I tried to just grin and bear it. I know, I know, you're all thinking, "Suleikha, why didn't you just call this out publicly? That's what you do."

Yeah, that's what I do. And that's what exhausts me, what makes many label me as histrionic or one of those Angry Women of Color who doesn't want white people writing diverse books. Inevitably, one way or another, the hurtful book will still continue to hurt me. I will be the Bad Guy. Sure, sometimes it can be fun, even vindicating, to be the Bad Guy. But, mostly, it eats at you. Because you know that calling out race-fail is ultimately worse than writing something racist. That's the lesson we're taught. Being a whistleblower often means you get the blowback.  

So, I'm going to try and channel my anger and frustration into something more positive. Here are five basic things to keep in mind while writing a character of color, in particular characters of South Asian origin.

Bollywood Confidentially: A Hard Look Back

Ever have one of those "If I only knew then what I know now" moments? Sometimes, it feels like my entire experience in romance publishing is that moment. More and more, I circle back to what was initially my great joy: my Bollywood Confidential novellas for Samhain Publishing. I was so proud to get these stories out there. And then so demoralized when they did poorly. But I learned a lot and if I could go back, there are so many things I would do differently. Here are just a few.

1. I would take the people off the covers. I mean, I LOVE these covers. They are stunning. Cover artist Angela Waters is a goddess. But POC on covers don't sell well -- particularly for authors of color. It's hard lesson to learn and a tough truth to swallow, but them's the breaks. Mainstream romance readers (by which I mean primarily white ones) take one look at these covers and go, "Oh, this isn't for me." Similar to why they won't hang a left at the African-American section at the bookstore. The sad-funny thing is, my books don't do well with Indian readers either!

Sometimes you just have to slap a piece of furniture and a puppy on a book to get folks to realize it is for them to read. 

Depression Part Two: Electric Boogaloo

Editing to add/disclaim: This is probably a good reminder that you shouldn't angst and post. I want to assure people that I do manage my illness with daily medication and am doing better overall. This bit of navel-gazing and whinging is just another example of how depression narrows your world down to just you.


A fun (and by "fun" I mean "really not fun at all") part of living with depression involves low points when you least want them. For me, a terrible convergence of emotions happened during a particularly rough time in the romance industry's community relationship: when it turned out that Dear Author's Jane Litte was also author Jen Frederick and had been lying to her readership for years. Blame my hormones, blame my illness, but the same week the shit hit the fan, so did my paranoia. All of a sudden, I was convinced that my own community activism was poison, that what I frequently said as an advocate of diversity had made people hate me. I was DMing a fellow writer and friend frantically, worried that bestselling author and general badass Courtney Milan might be mad at me about something. What...? I have no clue. You laugh, but, dude, it's no fun. It's a guilt spiral you don't want to experience. And I made myself get off that Twitter account for a while and breathe. You know what? She might be mad at me. I say a lot of divisive, inflammatory shit. But do I need to be hyperventilating, crying, and taking Twitter breaks because of that...? Do I need to be that neurotic? No. Welcome to depression.