Southern Fried Chicas

I love the way the media/news/press no longer refers to people as “Suspects”.
If they suspect you of anything now, you’re called “A Person of Interest”.

A few days ago, I found myself mentally employing this euphemism in regard to an author in a way that surprised me, since it was something I’d ranted against myself in the past (hanging head in shame…).

I read the first chapter of a certain book on the B&N website, basically because it was part of a line I was vaguely considering submitting to.  I knew this was a big-name publisher, and I knew the book was classified as “erotic romance”.  It turned out to be BDSM.  Okay.  No problem.  I’d read some before.  But I came away from this one wanting to brush my tongue.

Long story short…the hero rendered the heroine helpless, stuffed something…er, ‘unsavory’ into her mouth, whipped (not spanked—whipped) her until he left welts on her body, paused to smirk and verbally abuse her, whipped her again, then forced her to beg for sex.

Yes, to each his own.  This didn’t work for me, though, so my first reaction was to wonder if this was considered a romance or ‘romantic’ by its audience (the readers’ reviews indicated that it was).  Okay.  Whatever floats your boat.

Then a strange thought flashed through my mind before I could stop it, something I’d never wondered about before, something that made the writer a “Person of Interest”…
Did this AUTHOR consider this sexy and romantic?  Was there some insight into her psyche here, I wondered?

Yes, I’m guilty as charged.  Surprised myself.  I don’t normally even CARE about other peoples’ business that way, certainly don’t make assumptions, could give a crap less what an author is personally like.  And I know writing is a j-o-b, and fiction is just that.  Fiction.

Still, it made me wonder about how much of ourselves we do—or should—put into our stories.
One begins to suspect…