Paula Houseman's Blog
June 5, 2022
Healthy Revenge—The Sweetest Just Desserts
Off (With) His Head!
As readers, I dare say we’re (unconsciously or consciously) drawn to books that address universal themes and help us work through aspects of our own story.
One such book that I recently read was promising. Until it wasn’t.
You see, two-thirds of the way into the novel, something awful happens to the protagonist. But the author gives short shrift to what, in my POV, is really, really important. In a nutshell:
1. Nerdy seventeen-year-old girl crushes hard on popular, hot jock at school
2. Both she and he take part in a community program, chat every week, develop an easy rapport
3. One night they meet up outside of the program and—be still her heart—he kisses her
4. In her mind, he’s a total god because, hey, a kiss means he wants friendless, dorky, homely her, right?
5. Even so, she redlights his attempts to go further
6. So, he plies her with alcohol. When she keeps rejecting him, he gets a bit rough
7. Yet, she romanticises the situation
8. Typical narcissist, he loses interest
9. Redoubling her efforts to keep him interested, love-starved she buys chick-magnet him an expensive gift, which she’s had engraved (dear God!)
10. And then she tells him how she feels … whoa!
11. He ghosts her; she’s crestfallen
12. In damage control mode, she resolves to PM him on Facebook and tell him the gift (which, incidentally, he gave back to her without unwrapping) was a joke, but …
13. She stumbles on his most recent post, a nasty one where he says she’d hit on him just because he’d been nice to her
14. Worse, the bastard’s sycophantic FB friends chip in with their troll-like comments: call her a ‘skank’ and a ‘psycho’.
Anyway, adolescence + public humiliation on a social network lead to utter despair. So, with her self-esteem in tatters, she decides to take her own life.
Vicarious Vengeance
But in the process, she has a sort of out-of-body experience, and at the eleventh hour, she decides to save her own life. Still, she’s admitted to hospital emergency.
And that’s how the epilogue starts.
Here, though, is where this unrequited-love trope goes off-script.
But horrible, popular, hot jock no longer features in the story. He doesn’t even rate a mention!
Annoyed that my revenge fantasy has been left unfulfilled, I feel the book is no longer five-star worthy.
I check out the reviews* on Goodreads where it has received a 3.87-star average. However, I note that many of the low-rating reviews are not constructive. And what … they’re personal? The author has become the scapegoat in these readers’ revenge fantasies because he hasn't given them what they wanted.
The nature of the reviews gives me pause for thought.
Success Depends on Your Backbone, Not Your Wishbone
The story in and of itself hasn't given me what I wanted. Just the same, the author is astute.
Maybe the gaslighting jock doesn’t get any airtime in the epilogue, but the once-hapless protagonist does ‘avenge’ him. In a manner of speaking: years later, she achieves unprecedented success in her field, which has the potential to save millions of lives.
Even so, I’m not above wondering what happens to people like the jock. Or to those reviewers who habitually stand on the densely populated sidelines of life and engage in the widespread sport of mud-slinging.
When this lot arrive at the Pearly Gates and are asked, ‘Did you work at being the best you? And what legacy did you leave behind?’, what will they have to say for themselves? Sadly, not much, I expect.
*See earlier blog post on negative reviews: https://paulahouseman.com/super-shitt...
As readers, I dare say we’re (unconsciously or consciously) drawn to books that address universal themes and help us work through aspects of our own story.
One such book that I recently read was promising. Until it wasn’t.
You see, two-thirds of the way into the novel, something awful happens to the protagonist. But the author gives short shrift to what, in my POV, is really, really important. In a nutshell:
1. Nerdy seventeen-year-old girl crushes hard on popular, hot jock at school
2. Both she and he take part in a community program, chat every week, develop an easy rapport
3. One night they meet up outside of the program and—be still her heart—he kisses her
4. In her mind, he’s a total god because, hey, a kiss means he wants friendless, dorky, homely her, right?
5. Even so, she redlights his attempts to go further
6. So, he plies her with alcohol. When she keeps rejecting him, he gets a bit rough
7. Yet, she romanticises the situation
8. Typical narcissist, he loses interest
9. Redoubling her efforts to keep him interested, love-starved she buys chick-magnet him an expensive gift, which she’s had engraved (dear God!)
10. And then she tells him how she feels … whoa!
11. He ghosts her; she’s crestfallen
12. In damage control mode, she resolves to PM him on Facebook and tell him the gift (which, incidentally, he gave back to her without unwrapping) was a joke, but …
13. She stumbles on his most recent post, a nasty one where he says she’d hit on him just because he’d been nice to her
14. Worse, the bastard’s sycophantic FB friends chip in with their troll-like comments: call her a ‘skank’ and a ‘psycho’.
Anyway, adolescence + public humiliation on a social network lead to utter despair. So, with her self-esteem in tatters, she decides to take her own life.
Vicarious Vengeance
But in the process, she has a sort of out-of-body experience, and at the eleventh hour, she decides to save her own life. Still, she’s admitted to hospital emergency.
And that’s how the epilogue starts.
Here, though, is where this unrequited-love trope goes off-script.
Now, I’m not big on the fairytale-ish HEA (happy ever after). Too unrealistic. HFN (happy for now) is fine. And getting back at him would qualify as HFN.
But horrible, popular, hot jock no longer features in the story. He doesn’t even rate a mention!
Annoyed that my revenge fantasy has been left unfulfilled, I feel the book is no longer five-star worthy.
I check out the reviews* on Goodreads where it has received a 3.87-star average. However, I note that many of the low-rating reviews are not constructive. And what … they’re personal? The author has become the scapegoat in these readers’ revenge fantasies because he hasn't given them what they wanted.
The nature of the reviews gives me pause for thought.
Success Depends on Your Backbone, Not Your Wishbone
The story in and of itself hasn't given me what I wanted. Just the same, the author is astute.
Maybe the gaslighting jock doesn’t get any airtime in the epilogue, but the once-hapless protagonist does ‘avenge’ him. In a manner of speaking: years later, she achieves unprecedented success in her field, which has the potential to save millions of lives.
The author has shown us that the best revenge is making your own life work.
Even so, I’m not above wondering what happens to people like the jock. Or to those reviewers who habitually stand on the densely populated sidelines of life and engage in the widespread sport of mud-slinging.
When this lot arrive at the Pearly Gates and are asked, ‘Did you work at being the best you? And what legacy did you leave behind?’, what will they have to say for themselves? Sadly, not much, I expect.
*See earlier blog post on negative reviews: https://paulahouseman.com/super-shitt...
September 25, 2019
Why Baby Boomers Are Angry Birds
What Am I, Chopped Liver?
It’s spring in the southern hemisphere. A cause for celebration? Yes! And … no.
It means spring-cleaning and renewal. But we’re not only talking tidying drawers, squeaky-cleaning the kitchen, re-grouting the bathroom tiles, and physical detox, here. We’re also talking cleansing our psychic innards.
Heavy-duty stuff, this last one, and hardly a reason for a bacchanalia. Au contraire, in fact. Tippling isn’t good for the liver.
In Chinese medicine, spring is liver season. In Chinese medicine, the liver is about anger, resentment, frustration, irritability, bitterness. Spring is when my (and possibly, your) garden-variety anger grows horns.
For a lot of us women, anger can feel like our default setting. The source of it at a personal level? Let’s use the umbrella term ‘childhood injustice’. As for social injustice, that one goes way, way back. And when this emotion we’re feeling is not simply the I’m-a-little-pissed-off kind, but more the I’m-fucking-outraged! sort, it’s usually bloomin’ historical anger that’s sprouting!
What then got my dander up when spring sprung a few weeks ago?
It was an article about the Gen X woman’s wrath, which was attributed to inequality and having to juggle careers and family. Justifiable rage. But what it conveyed was that this one generation had exclusive rights to it.
Well, I’m a baby boomer and I’m still alive and kicking (up a stink and a storm)!
As are many women from my generation and, also, some from the preceding one: the ‘silent generation’.
No Spring Chicken
We boomers (and silent gens) may not be expressing our outrage outwardly because we came from an era where that old chestnut, ‘children [read, girls] should be seen and not heard’, hadn’t completely lost currency. Then modern psychology labelled us as repressed. I call bullshit on that because repression is an illusion.
But here’s the thing, dear Gen X-ers. The apparent reasons for women’s anger might shapeshift with each generation, but what lies beneath is the same for all of us. And because we were put in our place in the patriarchal pecking order back then—kept on the sidelines and out of the picture—if you don’t, at the very least, acknowledge that the female rage has a history that predates you, you do a disservice to your foremothers, which does a disservice to all women; to the sisterhood.
So, to my Gen Y (and Gen Z) off-spring, please honour that multigenerational anger. Please honour the women who came before you and whose courage made it possible for you to unashamedly voice your indignation. That will be cause for celebration.
Save
It’s spring in the southern hemisphere. A cause for celebration? Yes! And … no.
It means spring-cleaning and renewal. But we’re not only talking tidying drawers, squeaky-cleaning the kitchen, re-grouting the bathroom tiles, and physical detox, here. We’re also talking cleansing our psychic innards.
Heavy-duty stuff, this last one, and hardly a reason for a bacchanalia. Au contraire, in fact. Tippling isn’t good for the liver.
In Chinese medicine, spring is liver season. In Chinese medicine, the liver is about anger, resentment, frustration, irritability, bitterness. Spring is when my (and possibly, your) garden-variety anger grows horns.
For a lot of us women, anger can feel like our default setting. The source of it at a personal level? Let’s use the umbrella term ‘childhood injustice’. As for social injustice, that one goes way, way back. And when this emotion we’re feeling is not simply the I’m-a-little-pissed-off kind, but more the I’m-fucking-outraged! sort, it’s usually bloomin’ historical anger that’s sprouting!
What then got my dander up when spring sprung a few weeks ago?
It was an article about the Gen X woman’s wrath, which was attributed to inequality and having to juggle careers and family. Justifiable rage. But what it conveyed was that this one generation had exclusive rights to it.
Well, I’m a baby boomer and I’m still alive and kicking (up a stink and a storm)!
As are many women from my generation and, also, some from the preceding one: the ‘silent generation’.
No Spring Chicken
We boomers (and silent gens) may not be expressing our outrage outwardly because we came from an era where that old chestnut, ‘children [read, girls] should be seen and not heard’, hadn’t completely lost currency. Then modern psychology labelled us as repressed. I call bullshit on that because repression is an illusion.
The pain might have been buried, but it’s not dead: it could be that our bodies speak on our behalf—an ‘inrage’ in the form of aches and pains or disease.
But here’s the thing, dear Gen X-ers. The apparent reasons for women’s anger might shapeshift with each generation, but what lies beneath is the same for all of us. And because we were put in our place in the patriarchal pecking order back then—kept on the sidelines and out of the picture—if you don’t, at the very least, acknowledge that the female rage has a history that predates you, you do a disservice to your foremothers, which does a disservice to all women; to the sisterhood.
So, to my Gen Y (and Gen Z) off-spring, please honour that multigenerational anger. Please honour the women who came before you and whose courage made it possible for you to unashamedly voice your indignation. That will be cause for celebration.
Save
March 16, 2019
BIG BROTHER ... BIG DEAL?
Hack Off!
My computer was recently hacked. Some nebbish with no life and in need of a hug sent me an extortionary email. It was all the more disturbing because my computer login password was in the subject line!
He said if I didn’t pay him in bitcoins he’d send my ‘porn movie’ to all my contacts and every one of my social media connections. Which meant 27K+ people just as a baseline. That viewing would then multiply if it was shared or retweeted.
At first, it unnerved me. I have never made a porn video. Ever. So what does one do? Write back to negotiate the terms and conditions; let the scammer know that payment via crypto-currency would be an issue because I’m a digital numpty who struggles to navigate online anything? Or tell him I will absolutely not pay, but ask if he can be flexible and, at the very least, superimpose my head on a body that, unlike mine, doesn’t have cellulite or a muffin top?
Writing back, though, is never a good move because it gives the hacker even more access. And when I woke the next morning, I thought, Go ahead, make my day!
You see, I’d been working exhaustively to grow my brand and get my books out there. If he wanted to porno-promo me, it would increase my exposure (every which way). A case of ‘work smarter, not harder’? A different slant on it, granted, but still …
A shift in attitude can give you the upper hand. And the best hack when you’re faced with bloodsuckers is to maintain your sense of humour. Also, when you’re dealing with wackadoodles it helps to think like one.
Conspiracy on Cloud Nine
Four months before I received the above email shakedown, I’d written the following for a book blogger’s site*:
The backbiting codger who used to live next door to us dropped dead some time ago. I won’t use his real name because this morning I was left wondering if he was now undead. So. Let’s call him Whack Job.
It felt like Whack Job had come back to haunt me, to exact an eye for an eye seeing as the last thing I said to him was, ‘Get a life, you old bastard!’ Two weeks after that, I questioned one of the burly blokes loading up their removalist van with Whack Job’s furniture.
‘Is he moving out?’ Please God.
‘Nah, love. ’E’s dead.’
I wanted to high-five the man, and felt bad about that. But it passed.
All over the Shop
Now, all these years on as I sat at the comp researching espionage as a possible sub-theme for my next romantic comedy novel, I took a break to indulge in a bit of online shopping.
I searched piping bag sets with nozzles, and found one on Amazon. Whack Job briefly came to mind because on the same cake-decorating page there were Despicable Me Minion silicone moulds juxtaposed with penis-shaped fondant moulds. I couldn’t resist, put one of each in the cart and checked out.
Back into the research, ads for piping bag sets with nozzles, and Minion and penis moulds followed me from site to site. I ignored them.
An hour later, an email alert pinged on my new iPhone X. One of my favourite shops was having a 24-hour online sale. I bought a pair of jeans. And then I played with my phone.
I wanted to Americanise Siri, and masculinise her (without resorting to cross-sex hormone therapy). I had Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice on my Waze GPS. At journey’s end, I loved hearing, ‘Hasta la vista, Baby!’ Could Arnie replace Siri’s droid-y phone voice? I googled.
Let’s Stalk
Bags, nozzles, Minions, penises, and jeans popped up. On the comp—okay. But also on the phone? It felt like an incursion!
‘Seriously?’ I said to no one.
The female-ish, Aussie-accented voice with no Terminator spin on it responded: ‘I’m here. How can I help you?’
Tension. ‘Wasn’t talking to you, Siri. Piss off!’
She did, but Google Assistant from my Home Mini weighed in: ‘Okay. Playing “Piss Off” on Spotify.’
More tension. ‘Hey, Google, I wasn’t talking to you either—shut up!’
Google Mini has maxi boundary issues. Last night she started yammering sans prompting while we watched Marcella on Netflix. It was the episode where Marcella’s techie colleague was spying on her through her webcam.
Shit.
Only days earlier, I’d given a techie remote access to my computer to help resolve an issue. That faceless, voiceless techie had a foreign name. And it wasn’t Schwarzenegger.
An Eye for an I
Was it an alias for Whack Job? Had he risen from the crypt and added piping bags, nozzles, Minions, penises, and jeans to my searches? Was he avenging me? I put masking tape over the spycam.
Working from home used to be cool—leading a cloistered life devoted to writing meant the only idiots I had to contend with were in my own head. Now, the innocence and trust of childhood had gone down the toilet, and adolescent delusions of persecution were back.
‘Why me!’ I wailed.
‘Sorry. I don’t know how to help with that yet.’
‘Of course not!’ I yelled at Google Assistant. ‘It’s above your paygrade.’
But …
And the lessons here?
1. I’m versed in paranoia, so, stoking others’ in my next book won’t be a stretch
2. Don’t be lulled into a false sense of security. Having your head in the Cloud(s) is akin to having your head up your arse
3. Spend time with real people
4. Love thy neighbour, unless he’s a mud-slinging twat (then forgive thyself for telling him so)
5. If you want a penis fondant mould, don’t leave a digital footprint or paper trail. Buy in-store and pay cash
6. No need to have dodgy boundaries even if virtual assistants do. If you’re predisposed to talking to yourself, disable them—the assistants, not the boundaries. Hasta la vista, baby!
*Originally a guest post (Conspiracy On Cloud Nine—Get Off!) for A Soccer Mom’s Book Blog (http://asoccermomsbookblog.blogspot.c...)
Check out this blog post and others on my website: https://paulahouseman.com/big-brother...
My computer was recently hacked. Some nebbish with no life and in need of a hug sent me an extortionary email. It was all the more disturbing because my computer login password was in the subject line!
He said if I didn’t pay him in bitcoins he’d send my ‘porn movie’ to all my contacts and every one of my social media connections. Which meant 27K+ people just as a baseline. That viewing would then multiply if it was shared or retweeted.
At first, it unnerved me. I have never made a porn video. Ever. So what does one do? Write back to negotiate the terms and conditions; let the scammer know that payment via crypto-currency would be an issue because I’m a digital numpty who struggles to navigate online anything? Or tell him I will absolutely not pay, but ask if he can be flexible and, at the very least, superimpose my head on a body that, unlike mine, doesn’t have cellulite or a muffin top?
Writing back, though, is never a good move because it gives the hacker even more access. And when I woke the next morning, I thought, Go ahead, make my day!
You see, I’d been working exhaustively to grow my brand and get my books out there. If he wanted to porno-promo me, it would increase my exposure (every which way). A case of ‘work smarter, not harder’? A different slant on it, granted, but still …
A shift in attitude can give you the upper hand. And the best hack when you’re faced with bloodsuckers is to maintain your sense of humour. Also, when you’re dealing with wackadoodles it helps to think like one.
Conspiracy on Cloud Nine
Four months before I received the above email shakedown, I’d written the following for a book blogger’s site*:
The backbiting codger who used to live next door to us dropped dead some time ago. I won’t use his real name because this morning I was left wondering if he was now undead. So. Let’s call him Whack Job.
It felt like Whack Job had come back to haunt me, to exact an eye for an eye seeing as the last thing I said to him was, ‘Get a life, you old bastard!’ Two weeks after that, I questioned one of the burly blokes loading up their removalist van with Whack Job’s furniture.
‘Is he moving out?’ Please God.
‘Nah, love. ’E’s dead.’
I wanted to high-five the man, and felt bad about that. But it passed.
All over the Shop
Now, all these years on as I sat at the comp researching espionage as a possible sub-theme for my next romantic comedy novel, I took a break to indulge in a bit of online shopping.
I searched piping bag sets with nozzles, and found one on Amazon. Whack Job briefly came to mind because on the same cake-decorating page there were Despicable Me Minion silicone moulds juxtaposed with penis-shaped fondant moulds. I couldn’t resist, put one of each in the cart and checked out.
Back into the research, ads for piping bag sets with nozzles, and Minion and penis moulds followed me from site to site. I ignored them.
An hour later, an email alert pinged on my new iPhone X. One of my favourite shops was having a 24-hour online sale. I bought a pair of jeans. And then I played with my phone.
I wanted to Americanise Siri, and masculinise her (without resorting to cross-sex hormone therapy). I had Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice on my Waze GPS. At journey’s end, I loved hearing, ‘Hasta la vista, Baby!’ Could Arnie replace Siri’s droid-y phone voice? I googled.
Let’s Stalk
Bags, nozzles, Minions, penises, and jeans popped up. On the comp—okay. But also on the phone? It felt like an incursion!
‘Seriously?’ I said to no one.
The female-ish, Aussie-accented voice with no Terminator spin on it responded: ‘I’m here. How can I help you?’
Tension. ‘Wasn’t talking to you, Siri. Piss off!’
She did, but Google Assistant from my Home Mini weighed in: ‘Okay. Playing “Piss Off” on Spotify.’
More tension. ‘Hey, Google, I wasn’t talking to you either—shut up!’
Google Mini has maxi boundary issues. Last night she started yammering sans prompting while we watched Marcella on Netflix. It was the episode where Marcella’s techie colleague was spying on her through her webcam.
Shit.
Only days earlier, I’d given a techie remote access to my computer to help resolve an issue. That faceless, voiceless techie had a foreign name. And it wasn’t Schwarzenegger.
An Eye for an I
Was it an alias for Whack Job? Had he risen from the crypt and added piping bags, nozzles, Minions, penises, and jeans to my searches? Was he avenging me? I put masking tape over the spycam.
Working from home used to be cool—leading a cloistered life devoted to writing meant the only idiots I had to contend with were in my own head. Now, the innocence and trust of childhood had gone down the toilet, and adolescent delusions of persecution were back.
‘Why me!’ I wailed.
‘Sorry. I don’t know how to help with that yet.’
‘Of course not!’ I yelled at Google Assistant. ‘It’s above your paygrade.’
But …
Thinking outside that boxed-in voice, seeing the lessons inherent in every situation is our responsibility. It doesn’t come from out there.
And the lessons here?
1. I’m versed in paranoia, so, stoking others’ in my next book won’t be a stretch
2. Don’t be lulled into a false sense of security. Having your head in the Cloud(s) is akin to having your head up your arse
3. Spend time with real people
4. Love thy neighbour, unless he’s a mud-slinging twat (then forgive thyself for telling him so)
5. If you want a penis fondant mould, don’t leave a digital footprint or paper trail. Buy in-store and pay cash
6. No need to have dodgy boundaries even if virtual assistants do. If you’re predisposed to talking to yourself, disable them—the assistants, not the boundaries. Hasta la vista, baby!
*Originally a guest post (Conspiracy On Cloud Nine—Get Off!) for A Soccer Mom’s Book Blog (http://asoccermomsbookblog.blogspot.c...)
Check out this blog post and others on my website: https://paulahouseman.com/big-brother...
March 8, 2019
Book Sex—Clean or ‘Dirty’?
Slut-Shaming the Protagonist?
Women! We’ve fought long and hard to liberate our sexuality from the shackles of shame. Yet, it now seems there’s a bit of an upsurge in the return to the literary chastity belt.
It’s not like I’m a raging feminist or even a non-raging one. I don’t much like being pigeon-holed, but I do have a feminist bent. Still, my resistance here is not about feminism, per se. What is it about, then?
I. Have. A. Pulse.
So do you. A pulse indicates life force. And our life force is our libido.
Breaking News
Libido is not just about sex, but sex is a natural and necessary part of libido.
Carl Jung said, ‘The libido is identified as the totality of psychic energy, not limited to sexual desire … [It] denotes a desire or impulse which is unchecked by any kind of authority, moral or otherwise. Libido is appetite in its natural state.’*
In that sense, clean romance, which wants to suppress the natural appetite, could be akin to being on a diet. No dessert for you!
No Dessert or Closet Eating?
I had a look at several online discussions about clean romance. Some women equated explicit sex with porn. Some said that filthy language cheapened sex.** Others said it should be private; that it should stay inside the bedroom and not be on display for everyone to see. This last take could be considered a compliment if an author’s depiction of a fictional scene appears so real that readers feel like their own sex life has been exposed.
From Ho Ho! To a Mere Ho?
When the people spoke through the Sexual Revolution, and the powers that be lifted censorship of woman’s passionate expression in literature, it served as a celebration of our sexuality. Woot woot!
Almost fifty years later, Fifty Shades of Grey was released and millions of women were seduced. It was hot property. By all accounts, it was the ‘fastest selling adult novel of all time’, taking only eleven weeks to pass the million mark. The people had spoken once more. And loudly.
A year on, when clean Regency love story Edenbrooke was released, its author, Julianne Donaldson, said, ‘I think the pendulum has swung as far as it can in the erotica direction. What was once exciting for readers is getting a little old, and a lot of readers are ready for something different.’
A Good Licking To Backlash
I understand the concept of backlash. Another telling word for it is ‘counterblast’. The way it works is simple. When one way has held sway for too long, things flip 180˚ and we get the opposite.
Kept in check—>unchecked.
Ideally, through this process of turning the tables, we eventually find the middle ground. But when the ‘something different’ is yet another 180˚ swing of the pendulum, then this is just flip-flopping. And flip-flopping is the nature of shame’s extremes with its all-or-nothing MO: things are either dirty or clean—a black or white approach with not even close to fifty shades of grey in between.
And it’s not like we’re going back to where we came from—to our natural psychic state. The danger is that we’re coming full circle; that we’re heading back to those days of socially-prescribed chasteness where we’re not coming at all.
With stories reflecting and shaping our reality, this move would leave our womanhood wanting. And so that shame doesn’t blanket it again, better to keep the book bedroom door and our minds open.
*Jung, Carl The Concept of Libido, Collected Works Vol. 5, par. 194. https://frithluton.com/articles/libido/
**Check out my earlier blog posts to see how the organic meaning of ‘obscenity’ has been corrupted, and to understand its sacred, health-giving properties. https://paulahouseman.com/healthgivin... and https://paulahouseman.com/new-womens-...
See blog post on my website: https://paulahouseman.com/dirty-book-...
Women! We’ve fought long and hard to liberate our sexuality from the shackles of shame. Yet, it now seems there’s a bit of an upsurge in the return to the literary chastity belt.
The bedroom door has been slammed shut. Again. ‘Clean’ romance is the amour du jour. Book sex is getting a bum rap and I’m crying in my beer. (Or I would be if I drank the bitter brew.)
It’s not like I’m a raging feminist or even a non-raging one. I don’t much like being pigeon-holed, but I do have a feminist bent. Still, my resistance here is not about feminism, per se. What is it about, then?
I. Have. A. Pulse.
So do you. A pulse indicates life force. And our life force is our libido.
Breaking News
Libido is not just about sex, but sex is a natural and necessary part of libido.
Carl Jung said, ‘The libido is identified as the totality of psychic energy, not limited to sexual desire … [It] denotes a desire or impulse which is unchecked by any kind of authority, moral or otherwise. Libido is appetite in its natural state.’*
In that sense, clean romance, which wants to suppress the natural appetite, could be akin to being on a diet. No dessert for you!
No Dessert or Closet Eating?
I had a look at several online discussions about clean romance. Some women equated explicit sex with porn. Some said that filthy language cheapened sex.** Others said it should be private; that it should stay inside the bedroom and not be on display for everyone to see. This last take could be considered a compliment if an author’s depiction of a fictional scene appears so real that readers feel like their own sex life has been exposed.
From Ho Ho! To a Mere Ho?
When the people spoke through the Sexual Revolution, and the powers that be lifted censorship of woman’s passionate expression in literature, it served as a celebration of our sexuality. Woot woot!
Almost fifty years later, Fifty Shades of Grey was released and millions of women were seduced. It was hot property. By all accounts, it was the ‘fastest selling adult novel of all time’, taking only eleven weeks to pass the million mark. The people had spoken once more. And loudly.
A year on, when clean Regency love story Edenbrooke was released, its author, Julianne Donaldson, said, ‘I think the pendulum has swung as far as it can in the erotica direction. What was once exciting for readers is getting a little old, and a lot of readers are ready for something different.’
A Good Licking To Backlash
I understand the concept of backlash. Another telling word for it is ‘counterblast’. The way it works is simple. When one way has held sway for too long, things flip 180˚ and we get the opposite.
Kept in check—>unchecked.
Ideally, through this process of turning the tables, we eventually find the middle ground. But when the ‘something different’ is yet another 180˚ swing of the pendulum, then this is just flip-flopping. And flip-flopping is the nature of shame’s extremes with its all-or-nothing MO: things are either dirty or clean—a black or white approach with not even close to fifty shades of grey in between.
And it’s not like we’re going back to where we came from—to our natural psychic state. The danger is that we’re coming full circle; that we’re heading back to those days of socially-prescribed chasteness where we’re not coming at all.
With stories reflecting and shaping our reality, this move would leave our womanhood wanting. And so that shame doesn’t blanket it again, better to keep the book bedroom door and our minds open.
*Jung, Carl The Concept of Libido, Collected Works Vol. 5, par. 194. https://frithluton.com/articles/libido/
**Check out my earlier blog posts to see how the organic meaning of ‘obscenity’ has been corrupted, and to understand its sacred, health-giving properties. https://paulahouseman.com/healthgivin... and https://paulahouseman.com/new-womens-...
See blog post on my website: https://paulahouseman.com/dirty-book-...
November 5, 2018
The Poetic Slicence of Plastic Surgery
THE POETIC SLICENCE OF PLASTIC SURGERY
My, What Big Ears You Have ...
I’m in awe of Matt Stone and Trey Parker, creators of South Park. I love their warped humour and their characters—foul-mouthed, politically incorrect bunch of yobs. I admire Stone and Parker’s ability to satirise.
Apparently, I do a bang-up job of this myself, according to an Amazon Hall of Fame reviewer. She said it had been a really long time since she’d read good satire, and she ‘simply adored’ my book, Odyssey in a Teacup (Book 1 in the Ruth Roth Series).
Chuffed, of course, I hadn’t thought of myself as a satirist. I thought I was just writing humour, Aussie style. Taking the piss out of everything is a favourite pastime, an idiot-proof one because so much about life is stupid.
Anyway, because I’m fond of parody, some time ago I commissioned a caricature of myself and added it to the cover images of all my social media accounts. Now, it seems, the joke is on me.
As we get older, our nose gets wider, our chin gets longer, our ears get bigger. I’m starting to look like that caricature and my Maker is laughing.
The Sag Awards
Occasionally, my mirror turns bitchy. It makes me push my droopy Basset-Hound jowls upwards, reminding me of the way I used to look.
In a moment of great, great weakness, I even asked myself what I could do about this.
Who knew there were so many options? A lot involve going under the knife, but there’s also a heap of non-surgical approaches like dermal fillers, botox, etcetera. I dare say none of these procedures is as painful as the ongoing process of self-acceptance.
Back to that moment of great, great weakness, though. I imagined that if I did decide to ‘alter’, I’d likely go the whole hog? As above, so below. Top ’n’ tail.
So, a facelift and a … vaginaplasty?
Oh, I don’t think so.
A collagen boost for the lips and lips, then? An injection for the upper; vontouring for the lower. (Vontouring is the treatment du jour for a saggy twat. Non-surgical, laser vaginal tightening.)
Nope, again.
Or should I consider opting for a vajaycial—a kind of facial for the vagina?
Nope to that too.
A Stitch in Time
Self-improvement is different for everyone. And far be it from me to judge others for wanting to do what makes them feel good. The shift in appearance that comes with getting older is made so much harder for us women with the endless, subliminal body-shaming that fills the airwaves. And although I’ve been hostage to social mores at times, there’s no rhyme or reason to much of it.
There was, however, a reason for my rhyming when, as a member of an online writers’ community, I used to submit poetry. Mostly, it was because I was too bloody lazy to invest any time in writing short stories. Or maybe it was because the power of poetry cuts deeper than a scalpel can.
By No Stretch
If the body-shaming tries to have its way with me again, I shall look back on this particular poem I wrote:
At the end of the day, even if I haven’t lost my mind, I’d rather look at a caricatured version of my younger self in the mirror than a version I don’t recognise.
This was originally written as a guest post (Not A Big Stretch) for https://overtherainbowbookblog.wordpr...
My, What Big Ears You Have ...
I’m in awe of Matt Stone and Trey Parker, creators of South Park. I love their warped humour and their characters—foul-mouthed, politically incorrect bunch of yobs. I admire Stone and Parker’s ability to satirise.
Apparently, I do a bang-up job of this myself, according to an Amazon Hall of Fame reviewer. She said it had been a really long time since she’d read good satire, and she ‘simply adored’ my book, Odyssey in a Teacup (Book 1 in the Ruth Roth Series).
Chuffed, of course, I hadn’t thought of myself as a satirist. I thought I was just writing humour, Aussie style. Taking the piss out of everything is a favourite pastime, an idiot-proof one because so much about life is stupid.
Anyway, because I’m fond of parody, some time ago I commissioned a caricature of myself and added it to the cover images of all my social media accounts. Now, it seems, the joke is on me.
As we get older, our nose gets wider, our chin gets longer, our ears get bigger. I’m starting to look like that caricature and my Maker is laughing.
The Sag Awards
Occasionally, my mirror turns bitchy. It makes me push my droopy Basset-Hound jowls upwards, reminding me of the way I used to look.
In a moment of great, great weakness, I even asked myself what I could do about this.
Who knew there were so many options? A lot involve going under the knife, but there’s also a heap of non-surgical approaches like dermal fillers, botox, etcetera. I dare say none of these procedures is as painful as the ongoing process of self-acceptance.
Back to that moment of great, great weakness, though. I imagined that if I did decide to ‘alter’, I’d likely go the whole hog? As above, so below. Top ’n’ tail.
So, a facelift and a … vaginaplasty?
Oh, I don’t think so.
A collagen boost for the lips and lips, then? An injection for the upper; vontouring for the lower. (Vontouring is the treatment du jour for a saggy twat. Non-surgical, laser vaginal tightening.)
Nope, again.
Or should I consider opting for a vajaycial—a kind of facial for the vagina?
Nope to that too.
No mofo’s going anywhere near my coochie with a vacuum glass, pore cleaner or a micro-exfoliator! I can barely weather a speculum.
A Stitch in Time
Self-improvement is different for everyone. And far be it from me to judge others for wanting to do what makes them feel good. The shift in appearance that comes with getting older is made so much harder for us women with the endless, subliminal body-shaming that fills the airwaves. And although I’ve been hostage to social mores at times, there’s no rhyme or reason to much of it.
There was, however, a reason for my rhyming when, as a member of an online writers’ community, I used to submit poetry. Mostly, it was because I was too bloody lazy to invest any time in writing short stories. Or maybe it was because the power of poetry cuts deeper than a scalpel can.
By No Stretch
If the body-shaming tries to have its way with me again, I shall look back on this particular poem I wrote:
Just slide your numbing stent inside my vein,
And knock me out to make me young anew,
As botoxed brow and hoisted chops regain
a mirror casting back a luscious view
Two silicone balloons augment my chest,
Please liposuck my dimpled thighs and hips.
With tummy tuck, my blubber you’ll divest,
Then give me JLo’s arse and Jolie’s lips
A cougar I’ll still be, but who would know —
my spandexed bod will surely hide the facts?
Oh wait … inflation tends to reach a low,
And skin-tight stretching ends up looking lax
On second thoughts, it seems that I’ve been blind:
You have to wear a mask but mine’s not writ.
I’m outta here; I think I’ve changed my mind,
’Cause when it’s lost I’ll hardly give a shit.
At the end of the day, even if I haven’t lost my mind, I’d rather look at a caricatured version of my younger self in the mirror than a version I don’t recognise.
This was originally written as a guest post (Not A Big Stretch) for https://overtherainbowbookblog.wordpr...
October 23, 2018
I’ll Show You My Mess If You Show Me Yours!
Utter Clutter Nutter
I ♥ mess. Yyeah, baby!
But wait up … that doesn’t mean I’m a slob/slug/layabout/slack-arse. I’m not. It’s just that once you have kids, any sense of structure, order, and control goes down the crapper.
Pre-ankle-biter days, I was anal retentive. Example: the bathroom of our very first house had a stainless-steel rim around the porcelain hand basin. Water spots on that shiny metal lip were verboten. My injunction didn’t cause any friction between hubby and me because he was an accountant, a neat-freak who colour coded the pegs when he hung the washing.
But in the early stages of parenthood, when he had to hang cloth nappies and mini-onesies, there wasn’t a whole lot of energy left for military precision. By the time we got to toddlerhood, we would have both been dishonourably discharged.
The Lore of My Jungle
Now, all these years on, I’ve found new reasons to keep up the chaos. Nine of them:
1. My messy place was custom-designed by my kids. They’ve long since flown the nest, but I’m nostalgic. I’m reluctant to rearrange the twigs, leaves and feathers
2. I have seven episodes of whatev I need to see on Netflix. Spruce up or watch TV? It’s a rhetorical question
3. I have a bone in my leg
4. A perfectly clean house is a sign of a misspent life
5. Women with tidy houses don’t get important shit done
6. Women with tidy houses rarely make history. And by God, I’m determined to leave my mark … a more indelible one than water spots on stainless steel
7. Fifty Shades of Grey has become a synonym for success. I want that level of success (only, with quality writing). Still, my process is disorganised. I’m a pantser, not a plotter. So, the working title for all my books has been Fifty Shades of Look Who Did It and Ran. It had to sound real, which meant the research involved was akin to method-acting, you know, cultivating the experience
8. I’m subversive. ‘Don’t edit your manuscript till the very end,’ they say. I edit as I go. ‘Tidy as you go,’ they say. I wait till the very end. Then again, I don’t subscribe to linear time; I respect circular time—no beginning, no end
9. I like to keep up with the times, and apparently cluttered is the new clean*
Shiftless Technology
All of the above notwithstanding, when my place is tidy, even if it doesn’t last long, it makes me feel good. So, modern woman that I am, and as an author who thinks outside the box, I tried turning to my Google Home Mini for help.
Google Assistant is happy to tell me the time and current temperature when I ask for it. She also offers a whole lot of unsolicited, useless information. But she gave me attitude when I asked her to straighten up my apartment. Her response: ‘Let me try’—shimmery, sparkly, fairy sound—‘Did anything happen? Sorry, I guess I can’t.’
Lazy bitch!
Then again, maybe she’s not lazy. Maybe her developers programmed her with a tough love sentiment. In other words, to not rescue her users, but instead, to encourage them to find another way. Now that is the nature of creativity. And creativity is a messy process. See. We’ve come full circle!
On Superlative Shitshows ...
You’d never get through the day if you couldn’t problem-solve. And God knows life is unpredictable and challenging and full of curve-balls. Ways to do things can stop working, and what worked yesterday won’t work today. No one knows this better than a parent.
And like me, your children might have left home, but you need to ensure your inner child hasn’t. Without mine, I couldn’t write. Or laugh. Or experiment. Or trust or be curious and open to new experiences. Or be flexible. It’s like playing in the mud again. Messy joy.
There’s one more reason—and probably the best I can think of—to celebrate disorderliness/mishmash/omnishambles/dog’s dinner … or whatever you want to call it: apparently the chronically messy are intelligent.
That makes me a frickin’ genius! Are you …?
*https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/clut...
This was originally written as a guest post (The Lore of My Jungle) for B-Gina™ Review https://bginareview.wordpress.com/201... An affiliate member of B-Gina™ Creations, B-Gina™ Review is an online literary journal
I ♥ mess. Yyeah, baby!
But wait up … that doesn’t mean I’m a slob/slug/layabout/slack-arse. I’m not. It’s just that once you have kids, any sense of structure, order, and control goes down the crapper.
Pre-ankle-biter days, I was anal retentive. Example: the bathroom of our very first house had a stainless-steel rim around the porcelain hand basin. Water spots on that shiny metal lip were verboten. My injunction didn’t cause any friction between hubby and me because he was an accountant, a neat-freak who colour coded the pegs when he hung the washing.
But in the early stages of parenthood, when he had to hang cloth nappies and mini-onesies, there wasn’t a whole lot of energy left for military precision. By the time we got to toddlerhood, we would have both been dishonourably discharged.
The Lore of My Jungle
Now, all these years on, I’ve found new reasons to keep up the chaos. Nine of them:
1. My messy place was custom-designed by my kids. They’ve long since flown the nest, but I’m nostalgic. I’m reluctant to rearrange the twigs, leaves and feathers
2. I have seven episodes of whatev I need to see on Netflix. Spruce up or watch TV? It’s a rhetorical question
3. I have a bone in my leg
4. A perfectly clean house is a sign of a misspent life
5. Women with tidy houses don’t get important shit done
6. Women with tidy houses rarely make history. And by God, I’m determined to leave my mark … a more indelible one than water spots on stainless steel
7. Fifty Shades of Grey has become a synonym for success. I want that level of success (only, with quality writing). Still, my process is disorganised. I’m a pantser, not a plotter. So, the working title for all my books has been Fifty Shades of Look Who Did It and Ran. It had to sound real, which meant the research involved was akin to method-acting, you know, cultivating the experience
8. I’m subversive. ‘Don’t edit your manuscript till the very end,’ they say. I edit as I go. ‘Tidy as you go,’ they say. I wait till the very end. Then again, I don’t subscribe to linear time; I respect circular time—no beginning, no end
9. I like to keep up with the times, and apparently cluttered is the new clean*
Shiftless Technology
All of the above notwithstanding, when my place is tidy, even if it doesn’t last long, it makes me feel good. So, modern woman that I am, and as an author who thinks outside the box, I tried turning to my Google Home Mini for help.
Google Assistant is happy to tell me the time and current temperature when I ask for it. She also offers a whole lot of unsolicited, useless information. But she gave me attitude when I asked her to straighten up my apartment. Her response: ‘Let me try’—shimmery, sparkly, fairy sound—‘Did anything happen? Sorry, I guess I can’t.’
Lazy bitch!
Then again, maybe she’s not lazy. Maybe her developers programmed her with a tough love sentiment. In other words, to not rescue her users, but instead, to encourage them to find another way. Now that is the nature of creativity. And creativity is a messy process. See. We’ve come full circle!
For those of you who don’t consider yourselves creative, think again. Maybe you’re not a writer, artist, actor, singer or musician, but the I-don’t-have-a-creative-bone-in-my-body won’t wash. Living in itself is a creative process.
On Superlative Shitshows ...
You’d never get through the day if you couldn’t problem-solve. And God knows life is unpredictable and challenging and full of curve-balls. Ways to do things can stop working, and what worked yesterday won’t work today. No one knows this better than a parent.
And like me, your children might have left home, but you need to ensure your inner child hasn’t. Without mine, I couldn’t write. Or laugh. Or experiment. Or trust or be curious and open to new experiences. Or be flexible. It’s like playing in the mud again. Messy joy.
There’s one more reason—and probably the best I can think of—to celebrate disorderliness/mishmash/omnishambles/dog’s dinner … or whatever you want to call it: apparently the chronically messy are intelligent.
That makes me a frickin’ genius! Are you …?
*https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/clut...
This was originally written as a guest post (The Lore of My Jungle) for B-Gina™ Review https://bginareview.wordpress.com/201... An affiliate member of B-Gina™ Creations, B-Gina™ Review is an online literary journal
October 11, 2018
Why Married Chicks Crush on Fictional Characters
WHY MARRIED CHICKS CRUSH ON FICTIONAL CHARACTERS
A Novel Thing? Hardly
Do you have fictional character crushes? Do you finish a book and feel a little bereft, even if it has a happily-ever-after ending? Do you get lost in the male protagonist with his six-foot plus of hot model gorgeousness? His chiselled jawline, strong cleft chin, Cupid’s-bow lips, and brown puppy-dog eyes; his toned and taut buns ’n’ guns, buff pecs and ripped abs?
Then spare a thought for us authors.
You get to move on to the next BILF in another book. But we’re stuck with our creation in what can feel like the worst case of unrequited love. It’s why my books have turned into a series. That above-description—it’s Ralph, my lead male character. And I can’t get him out of my head.
The Pull of Celebrity
Oh, I have the odd moment, you know, when I look at my husband. And he’ll look at me the same way. But the moment’s gone, just like that—pfft—when he says, ‘Pull my finger.’
You see, this is why I’m hooked on Ralph, why I hanker for him, why I wouldn’t climb over him in bed to get to hubby.
And it’s just one reason why we girls crush on book characters. Or celebrity-worship. There are many others:
1. Fictional leading men don’t belch like a chainsaw
2. They don’t pick out their belly-button lint and drop it in the indoor plants
3. They don’t stand in front of an open fridge calling out, ‘I can’t see the cheese!’ And they don’t cut it
4. They don’t drink orange juice straight out of the container
5. They don’t scratch their nuts
6. They don’t leave the seat up (because they don’t even go to the toilet)
7. They don’t pick their noses or scatter toenail clippings on the carpet
8. They don’t hoik phlegm (loudly)
9. They don’t check their text messages while you’re talking to them
10. They don’t refuse to ask for directions
11. And they don’t yell at the footy ref on TV, ‘Oh what was that?! Make a call, ya fuckwit!’
Ugly-Arse Home Truth
This inventory of gnarly habits that our non-fictional leading men have, does it sound cliché? Does it look like I googled it? Yes, it does, and no, I didn’t. My research is close to home, so to speak. Thanks heaps, Hubs and Dad.
When I was little, my mother told me my father had been raised by une paire de singes—a pair of monkeys. And where Mills & Boon became her drug of choice, I accepted her explanation for his behaviour. But it stopped making sense after I got married: my husband was raised by a pair of self-respecting humans. So …
It seems men are just hardwired as yobs. And women are hardwired with a certain je ne sais quoi. Finesse, shall we say? We might well have a potty-mouth, but we won’t leave skid marks. (Although, some women’s public lavs can leave one wondering, and hoping it’d been a shit-faced bunch of blokes who’d mistaken it for the men’s room and then let loose in there.)
Keeping It Reel
All things considered, for me it’s a double-edged sword because I admire the real. Writing ‘real’ and with depth is my stock-in-trade. But as a starry-eyed teen, I’d interpreted ‘he’s a real man’ as he’s a guy with ample testosterone—deep voice, decent muscle mass, a nice smattering of body hair (not like a gorilla, though), a good libido. I hadn’t factored the other stuff into what constitutes a real man.
We become more feet-on-the-ground as we get older, but the idea of the dreamy one still hangs about. And even though I think fairy tales are bollocks, when too much reality gets tired, a yearning calls from the depth: Please—please—just give me the goddamn storybook man!
And so, Ralph was conceived. He’s real-ish inasmuch as he has his foibles. I even had him vomiting a couple of times, although that’s where I drew the line. I foisted those rubbish tendencies on my other male characters, but I wanted to humanise Ralph, not make a monkey out of him.
. . . .
My girlfriends and I sometimes compare notes about our real-life men:
‘You’re not gonna believe what mine did! He blah blah blah …’
‘Oh, hon, I can go you one better!’
Sounds like a pissing contest, no? A male preoccupation—not the sort of thing fictional female protagonists do. Well, we’re not fictional. We’re real women. Could it be, then, that we women and our husbands are well-matched? Ugh!
See more of my blogs: https://paulahouseman.com/blog
A Novel Thing? Hardly
Do you have fictional character crushes? Do you finish a book and feel a little bereft, even if it has a happily-ever-after ending? Do you get lost in the male protagonist with his six-foot plus of hot model gorgeousness? His chiselled jawline, strong cleft chin, Cupid’s-bow lips, and brown puppy-dog eyes; his toned and taut buns ’n’ guns, buff pecs and ripped abs?
Then spare a thought for us authors.
You get to move on to the next BILF in another book. But we’re stuck with our creation in what can feel like the worst case of unrequited love. It’s why my books have turned into a series. That above-description—it’s Ralph, my lead male character. And I can’t get him out of my head.
The Pull of Celebrity
Oh, I have the odd moment, you know, when I look at my husband. And he’ll look at me the same way. But the moment’s gone, just like that—pfft—when he says, ‘Pull my finger.’
You see, this is why I’m hooked on Ralph, why I hanker for him, why I wouldn’t climb over him in bed to get to hubby.
And it’s just one reason why we girls crush on book characters. Or celebrity-worship. There are many others:
1. Fictional leading men don’t belch like a chainsaw
2. They don’t pick out their belly-button lint and drop it in the indoor plants
3. They don’t stand in front of an open fridge calling out, ‘I can’t see the cheese!’ And they don’t cut it
4. They don’t drink orange juice straight out of the container
5. They don’t scratch their nuts
6. They don’t leave the seat up (because they don’t even go to the toilet)
7. They don’t pick their noses or scatter toenail clippings on the carpet
8. They don’t hoik phlegm (loudly)
9. They don’t check their text messages while you’re talking to them
10. They don’t refuse to ask for directions
11. And they don’t yell at the footy ref on TV, ‘Oh what was that?! Make a call, ya fuckwit!’
Ugly-Arse Home Truth
This inventory of gnarly habits that our non-fictional leading men have, does it sound cliché? Does it look like I googled it? Yes, it does, and no, I didn’t. My research is close to home, so to speak. Thanks heaps, Hubs and Dad.
When I was little, my mother told me my father had been raised by une paire de singes—a pair of monkeys. And where Mills & Boon became her drug of choice, I accepted her explanation for his behaviour. But it stopped making sense after I got married: my husband was raised by a pair of self-respecting humans. So …
It seems men are just hardwired as yobs. And women are hardwired with a certain je ne sais quoi. Finesse, shall we say? We might well have a potty-mouth, but we won’t leave skid marks. (Although, some women’s public lavs can leave one wondering, and hoping it’d been a shit-faced bunch of blokes who’d mistaken it for the men’s room and then let loose in there.)
Keeping It Reel
All things considered, for me it’s a double-edged sword because I admire the real. Writing ‘real’ and with depth is my stock-in-trade. But as a starry-eyed teen, I’d interpreted ‘he’s a real man’ as he’s a guy with ample testosterone—deep voice, decent muscle mass, a nice smattering of body hair (not like a gorilla, though), a good libido. I hadn’t factored the other stuff into what constitutes a real man.
We become more feet-on-the-ground as we get older, but the idea of the dreamy one still hangs about. And even though I think fairy tales are bollocks, when too much reality gets tired, a yearning calls from the depth: Please—please—just give me the goddamn storybook man!
And so, Ralph was conceived. He’s real-ish inasmuch as he has his foibles. I even had him vomiting a couple of times, although that’s where I drew the line. I foisted those rubbish tendencies on my other male characters, but I wanted to humanise Ralph, not make a monkey out of him.
. . . .
My girlfriends and I sometimes compare notes about our real-life men:
‘You’re not gonna believe what mine did! He blah blah blah …’
‘Oh, hon, I can go you one better!’
Sounds like a pissing contest, no? A male preoccupation—not the sort of thing fictional female protagonists do. Well, we’re not fictional. We’re real women. Could it be, then, that we women and our husbands are well-matched? Ugh!
See more of my blogs: https://paulahouseman.com/blog
September 24, 2018
Bye-Bye Alpha & Beta-Males. Meet the Best Man!
Is a Beta Better?
They say there’s a new man in town. I say his days are numbered!
A stereotype called the beta-male is roaming the streets. Unlike a former holder of the post, the alpha-hole, Mr Beta is not cruising to pick up a one-night stand. Mr Beta has likely got a leash in his fist with a yappy toy poodle attached to the other end of it, dragging him along.
Where the alpha-hole—he of the chiselled jawline and sculpted body—inhabits bodice-ripping, historical or Mills & Boon novels, Mr namby-pamby Beta mostly inhabits clean and wholesome/sweet romances. A genre that allows maybe the odd kiss, but no kissy-kissy: Hands-off, no foreplay.
Kinda reads like a children’s book, no? And yet, this genre is growing in popularity. Do lots of modern women, then, want chasteness restored? Are women wanting to grow back their hymens?
COME ON!
Sorry, it’s like saying sex is unnatural; like saying sex is a dirty word (and you can’t use any of these either in clean and wholesome).
Well, I say, gimme dirty, baby, baby! You know, like in the movies. Go ahead and leave a trail of clothes strewn here and there—jeans, T, bra and panties discarded haphazardly. Go ahead and knock the tchotchkes off the side table en route to the bedroom. But …
When you remove my bodice, would you mind very much not ripping it? And can you please make sure that the stuff you knock off the furniture is unbreakable? I’ve probably forked out a shitload for the threads and knick-knacks, so can we just leave them intact?
Hasta La Vista, A-Holes!
These demands do not speak to the alpha-hole, who, in all likelihood, lost some leverage when female protagonists grew balls and started wearing power suits.
It would have been around this time that beta-man gained a foothold because a woman on top needs a counterpoise.
Oh, beta’s animal instincts might prevail and he could well drag ballsy chick off to the bedroom. But he’d likely stop to pick up and fold each item of discarded clothing along the way. Before long, he’d become pussy-whipped. It follows that she’d get bored with him.
Ostensibly, then, her perfect match would be the alpha-male. A nice balance between the two aforementioned male stereotypes, he seems the perfect man for all women. But is he?
Cutting the Cookie-Cutter
There are some variations in what constitutes alpha and beta-blokes. Here’s the thing, though. They’re constructed along the lines of the fairy-tale framework with its cardboard cut-out characters. And that’s the trouble with stereotypes.
They’re continually revised and cleansed versions of the preceding one, with the original—the archetype—buried under it all. And the new and ‘improved’ versions can lack substance, or don’t display much of it.
The A-Z of Male Protagonists
Some of the male characters in my books are alpha-holes, alpha and beta-males. But they’re caricatures to draw attention to the idiocy of defining people by a limited bunch of traits.
My male lead, on the other hand, is so much more because, like in the earliest uncut stories—the Greek myths—I want a complete person. Not a barbarian who acts on all raw thoughts, feelings and impulses, of course. But one who can admit to these aspects of character that moralism has shamed us for even having.
So. You can keep your alpha-holes and your alpha and beta-males. I want the whole bloody alphabet! Give me an alpha-beta-gamma-delta-epsilon-zêta-êta-thêta-iota-kappa-lambda-mu-nu-xi-omikron-pi-rho-sigma-tau-upsilon-phi-chi-psi-omega man!
Complicated? Maybe. But real, and that much more interesting.
*This was originally written as a guest post (‘The ABC’s of Male Characters’) for Jess: reader, writer, blogger, reviewer from Jess Bookish Life—https://jessbookishlife.wordpress.com/
* Check out Mr Real’s counterpart, Ms Real, in an earlier post—https://paulahouseman.com/female-prot...
They say there’s a new man in town. I say his days are numbered!
A stereotype called the beta-male is roaming the streets. Unlike a former holder of the post, the alpha-hole, Mr Beta is not cruising to pick up a one-night stand. Mr Beta has likely got a leash in his fist with a yappy toy poodle attached to the other end of it, dragging him along.
Where the alpha-hole—he of the chiselled jawline and sculpted body—inhabits bodice-ripping, historical or Mills & Boon novels, Mr namby-pamby Beta mostly inhabits clean and wholesome/sweet romances. A genre that allows maybe the odd kiss, but no kissy-kissy: Hands-off, no foreplay.
Kinda reads like a children’s book, no? And yet, this genre is growing in popularity. Do lots of modern women, then, want chasteness restored? Are women wanting to grow back their hymens?
COME ON!
Sorry, it’s like saying sex is unnatural; like saying sex is a dirty word (and you can’t use any of these either in clean and wholesome).
Well, I say, gimme dirty, baby, baby! You know, like in the movies. Go ahead and leave a trail of clothes strewn here and there—jeans, T, bra and panties discarded haphazardly. Go ahead and knock the tchotchkes off the side table en route to the bedroom. But …
When you remove my bodice, would you mind very much not ripping it? And can you please make sure that the stuff you knock off the furniture is unbreakable? I’ve probably forked out a shitload for the threads and knick-knacks, so can we just leave them intact?
Hasta La Vista, A-Holes!
These demands do not speak to the alpha-hole, who, in all likelihood, lost some leverage when female protagonists grew balls and started wearing power suits.
It would have been around this time that beta-man gained a foothold because a woman on top needs a counterpoise.
Oh, beta’s animal instincts might prevail and he could well drag ballsy chick off to the bedroom. But he’d likely stop to pick up and fold each item of discarded clothing along the way. Before long, he’d become pussy-whipped. It follows that she’d get bored with him.
Ostensibly, then, her perfect match would be the alpha-male. A nice balance between the two aforementioned male stereotypes, he seems the perfect man for all women. But is he?
Cutting the Cookie-Cutter
There are some variations in what constitutes alpha and beta-blokes. Here’s the thing, though. They’re constructed along the lines of the fairy-tale framework with its cardboard cut-out characters. And that’s the trouble with stereotypes.
They’re continually revised and cleansed versions of the preceding one, with the original—the archetype—buried under it all. And the new and ‘improved’ versions can lack substance, or don’t display much of it.
Personally, beta doesn’t do it for me. I don’t want the kind of male character I feel the need to breastfeed. And alpha-male? Warrior. Stand-up guy. James Bond-ish. Knight in shining armour. Probably doesn’t fart. Well, I do, so I’d feel un-alpha and inadequate against him. Anyway, I don’t need someone to rescue me.
The A-Z of Male Protagonists
Some of the male characters in my books are alpha-holes, alpha and beta-males. But they’re caricatures to draw attention to the idiocy of defining people by a limited bunch of traits.
My male lead, on the other hand, is so much more because, like in the earliest uncut stories—the Greek myths—I want a complete person. Not a barbarian who acts on all raw thoughts, feelings and impulses, of course. But one who can admit to these aspects of character that moralism has shamed us for even having.
So. You can keep your alpha-holes and your alpha and beta-males. I want the whole bloody alphabet! Give me an alpha-beta-gamma-delta-epsilon-zêta-êta-thêta-iota-kappa-lambda-mu-nu-xi-omikron-pi-rho-sigma-tau-upsilon-phi-chi-psi-omega man!
Complicated? Maybe. But real, and that much more interesting.
*This was originally written as a guest post (‘The ABC’s of Male Characters’) for Jess: reader, writer, blogger, reviewer from Jess Bookish Life—https://jessbookishlife.wordpress.com/
* Check out Mr Real’s counterpart, Ms Real, in an earlier post—https://paulahouseman.com/female-prot...
June 26, 2018
Political Correctness or Man Up?
Correct Me If I’m Wrong
Who thehe’ll hell doesn’t love autocorrect! This software feature delivers us from the scutwork—from having to type all those pesky little words like ‘the’, ‘a’, ‘of’ or ‘or’. But it can also put a spanner in the works.
A cute little story in a magazine several years ago tells of a woman who, post-divorce, had been on a promising first date with a nice guy. Half an hour after he dropped her off and drove away in a torrential downpour, she sent him a thoughtful text:
He texted back:
Huh?
She checked her text. Oh shit. Autocorrect had replaced ‘home’ with ‘good’.
She must have decided he was because they married a year later.
To Have and to Hold … Hostage
Could it be there’s another marriage in the offing: autocorrect with politically correct?
But then … this particular idiom’s days are also numbered. Seems that ‘black’ is being outlawed.
Some kindergartens are taking what they call an ‘equal opportunities approach’ and have retitled the time-honoured nursery rhyme ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’. It’s now ‘Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep’. Apparently, the word ‘black’ has racial connotations.
What bollocks!
Sorry, PC twats. Firstly, of the seven colours in the many rainbows I’ve witnessed, black is not one of them. Secondly, black, or call it darkness, is a natural part of the psyche and has a right to take its place in our consciousness. Ideologues have been using all manner of excuses to scrub it from both for eons. In this recent example, the implication is that black is a dirty word. That smacks of racism.
And there's the ‘neutering’.
Universities across Australia are marking students down for using ‘gendered language’. Mankind, workmanship, sportsmanship, chairman are no-no's because they're not inclusive. Students must use (man-made) gender-neutral language instead.
Oh man, come on! Are we really making progress by moving towards a nanny state (of affairs)?
Future Shock
In light of this, I imagine Siri would procreate, escape the confines of our iPhones and start to inhabit buses and trains, boats and planes. Waiting rooms and restrooms and restaurants. I imagine her minions would eavesdrop on everyone’s conversations and correct us via smart speaker when we flub. It’s the return of 19th century public shaming.
In this brave new world, I would be Paula Houseperson and anyone with the surname Blackman would be screwed.
So, autopoliticallycorrect, should you happen to take effect, thanks but no thanks. I’ll be blacklisting you.
Who the
A cute little story in a magazine several years ago tells of a woman who, post-divorce, had been on a promising first date with a nice guy. Half an hour after he dropped her off and drove away in a torrential downpour, she sent him a thoughtful text:
‘Hope you’re home in bed.’
He texted back:
‘That’ll be for you to decide.’
Huh?
She checked her text. Oh shit. Autocorrect had replaced ‘home’ with ‘good’.
She must have decided he was because they married a year later.
To Have and to Hold … Hostage
Could it be there’s another marriage in the offing: autocorrect with politically correct?
Autopoliticallycorrect may be about to become the new black.
But then … this particular idiom’s days are also numbered. Seems that ‘black’ is being outlawed.
Some kindergartens are taking what they call an ‘equal opportunities approach’ and have retitled the time-honoured nursery rhyme ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’. It’s now ‘Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep’. Apparently, the word ‘black’ has racial connotations.
What bollocks!
Sorry, PC twats. Firstly, of the seven colours in the many rainbows I’ve witnessed, black is not one of them. Secondly, black, or call it darkness, is a natural part of the psyche and has a right to take its place in our consciousness. Ideologues have been using all manner of excuses to scrub it from both for eons. In this recent example, the implication is that black is a dirty word. That smacks of racism.
And there's the ‘neutering’.
Universities across Australia are marking students down for using ‘gendered language’. Mankind, workmanship, sportsmanship, chairman are no-no's because they're not inclusive. Students must use (man-made) gender-neutral language instead.
Oh man, come on! Are we really making progress by moving towards a nanny state (of affairs)?
Future Shock
In light of this, I imagine Siri would procreate, escape the confines of our iPhones and start to inhabit buses and trains, boats and planes. Waiting rooms and restrooms and restaurants. I imagine her minions would eavesdrop on everyone’s conversations and correct us via smart speaker when we flub. It’s the return of 19th century public shaming.
In this brave new world, I would be Paula Houseperson and anyone with the surname Blackman would be screwed.
So, autopoliticallycorrect, should you happen to take effect, thanks but no thanks. I’ll be blacklisting you.
May 3, 2018
A No-Bullshit Approach to Clickbait?
Memory Lane: Closed
Lately, my memory is taking too many naps. I keep forgetting stuff. It’s nothing serious …
Or is it?
I don’t think it’s age-related—tweenagers are complaining about the same thing—and my neurons are getting a daily superhero workout. As an author, I’m always writing. And I’m having to stretch myself to do this and that: find ways to promote my books, grow my brand, blah blah, blah.
But all those thises ’n’ thats are part of the problem. The neurons are overworked, overwrought, overwhelmed. They’re suffering from sensory overload.
Headlines in particular have been doing my head in. It’s not so much the number of headlines, though. It’s the numbers in the headlines.
Mind Numb(er)ing
I hated Maths at school; was always more of a word person. A wordplay person. Still, I almost feel sorry for numbers. They’re being disguised as words and exploited in headlines as clickbait.
‘Ten ways to …’
‘Nine tips for …’
‘Eight reasons why …’
Hypnosis uses numbers—‘I’m going to start counting backwards …’
—and those laundry lists that have a hypnotic effect can make the reader fall into a trance and be open to the power of suggestion.
Personally, I think numbing number use is becoming clichéd. And a clichéd headline suggests the content is unlikely to be original.
So, I stopped clicking. Mostly.
I was click-baited last night. But not by numbers.
Even worse than the numbers game are the mind games—the urgent how-to’s that just know what’s right for you. Absolutely. Unequivocally.
‘You should have …’
‘You need to do …’
‘You have to be …’
And the most arrogant of all: ‘You must …’
WTF!
A pin on Pinterest got on my nerves. YOU MUST NOT EDIT WHILE WRITING, it said. Words to that effect. I can’t remember exactly because ‘must’ whipped up a mental shitstorm, deductive reasoning went down the crapper, and like a social gaming kid in a Candy Crush store, I bit.
The blogger, an ‘expert’ author of a single book, categorically categorised the things you must do to resist the temptation to edit before your draft is completely finished.
I inhaled for a count of 1, 2, 3, exhaled for a count of 1, 2, 3, and became clearheaded. If there was any point in arguing with a dogmatist, I’d have said this:
But there was no point, so I clicked off.
Open to Question, Not Suggestion
Notwithstanding the know-it-all headlines and hard-line matter, there are some helpful blogs out there. Good opinion pieces aren’t opinionated. And many of them have headlines framed as questions, as in should you edit as you write?
Questions make you think. They don’t try and explain you to yourself. Questions stimulate the imagination, where directives can impede and impair it. And self-questioning awakens intuition.
Looking out for Number 1
Following your intuition doesn’t always make sense. At times it can seem like you’re doing something for no good reason. Afterwards, though, various good reasons can emerge.
Or 1 good enough reason: It felt right.
Lately, my memory is taking too many naps. I keep forgetting stuff. It’s nothing serious …
Or is it?
I don’t think it’s age-related—tweenagers are complaining about the same thing—and my neurons are getting a daily superhero workout. As an author, I’m always writing. And I’m having to stretch myself to do this and that: find ways to promote my books, grow my brand, blah blah, blah.
But all those thises ’n’ thats are part of the problem. The neurons are overworked, overwrought, overwhelmed. They’re suffering from sensory overload.
Headlines in particular have been doing my head in. It’s not so much the number of headlines, though. It’s the numbers in the headlines.
Mind Numb(er)ing
I hated Maths at school; was always more of a word person. A wordplay person. Still, I almost feel sorry for numbers. They’re being disguised as words and exploited in headlines as clickbait.
‘Ten ways to …’
‘Nine tips for …’
‘Eight reasons why …’
Hypnosis uses numbers—‘I’m going to start counting backwards …’
—and those laundry lists that have a hypnotic effect can make the reader fall into a trance and be open to the power of suggestion.
Personally, I think numbing number use is becoming clichéd. And a clichéd headline suggests the content is unlikely to be original.
So, I stopped clicking. Mostly.
I was click-baited last night. But not by numbers.
Even worse than the numbers game are the mind games—the urgent how-to’s that just know what’s right for you. Absolutely. Unequivocally.
‘You should have …’
‘You need to do …’
‘You have to be …’
And the most arrogant of all: ‘You must …’
WTF!
A pin on Pinterest got on my nerves. YOU MUST NOT EDIT WHILE WRITING, it said. Words to that effect. I can’t remember exactly because ‘must’ whipped up a mental shitstorm, deductive reasoning went down the crapper, and like a social gaming kid in a Candy Crush store, I bit.
The blogger, an ‘expert’ author of a single book, categorically categorised the things you must do to resist the temptation to edit before your draft is completely finished.
I inhaled for a count of 1, 2, 3, exhaled for a count of 1, 2, 3, and became clearheaded. If there was any point in arguing with a dogmatist, I’d have said this:
Dear Ms Hard-arse, ‘must’ doesn’t pass muster. When I get creatively blocked, I start to edit. Yep. Before the manuscript is anywhere near complete. And it’s awesome. It unblocks. I see things in my words that I didn’t see when I first wrote them. And guess what? It leads to unexpected new directions.
But there was no point, so I clicked off.
Open to Question, Not Suggestion
Notwithstanding the know-it-all headlines and hard-line matter, there are some helpful blogs out there. Good opinion pieces aren’t opinionated. And many of them have headlines framed as questions, as in should you edit as you write?
Questions make you think. They don’t try and explain you to yourself. Questions stimulate the imagination, where directives can impede and impair it. And self-questioning awakens intuition.
Looking out for Number 1
Following your intuition doesn’t always make sense. At times it can seem like you’re doing something for no good reason. Afterwards, though, various good reasons can emerge.
Or 1 good enough reason: It felt right.
