michaelsmithwritingblog

[michaelsmithwritingblog]

Good writing in 'bad' places

Guilty pleasures

For today's blog, we will be discussing the fast food of literature, that guilty pleasure better known as the romance novel. Steadfast companions on long train rides, lazy beach days, and other purgatories. This boilerplate novels full of stock characters don't aim to serve any intellectual nutritional value -- no, their purpose is to entertain. Usually, these novels tend towards the erotic. The subject of today's post will be exactly that.

Red cheeks and snack

It was in my formative years that I bought one such novel. An anthology of shorter stories, I bought it giving in to my adolescent curiosity and the well-placed alluring female form that graced the cover. This liminal moment between actually being innocent and having a receipt that attested to the contrary was only marred by my red cheeks and the somewhat indignant choice of snack: a Terry's chocolate orange.

Groans and Moans

That first sojourn of mine held many a memory that I cherish, but the most unexpected was the discovery of an unknown author. I recall there being nine stories in the anthology, as it struck me as an odd number -- why not make it ten? Most of them as forgettable and unremarkable as the landscape I was traveling through, only interesting to the virgin eyes whom had never read such explicit scenes before. Even then, the stereotypical, repetitive nature of the vocabulary and described actions drew more graons than moans. And then there it was, book-ended by 4 stories on either side, story number 5: The subtle demises of Olivia's vices by Robert E. Ryewood.

Sicut liliam inter spinas

Despite its title, there is nothing subtle about Olivia or her vices. The story doesn't shy away from explicitness in language or depictions. The story depicts a young woman exploring her sexuality for the first time and shedding her shame through carnal conquests. In doing so, her preconceived notions of the acts she explores being 'vices' metaphorically die as she accepts them as part of the human experience without being intrinsically evil. It is also a pun my younger self only understood after a different sojourn in France years later.

Herein lies the brilliance of this unknown, unsung, and -- in the larger literary landscape -- unimportant author. Robert E. Ryewood short story can only be described as printed sex. His writing is a course in intercourse. The kind of writing that makes people take notes and wonder if they should be wearing a condom -- or whether they should be covering their crotch on the train. And yet, at the same time he is able to weave humor into the perverted tapestry. Pun are plenty, and one could fill another train ride annotating the subtle (and unsubtle) jokes. There is a reason Olivia is spelled with a capital O!

To me, that short story about the little deaths is akin to that romantic encounter with a summer love. The one where you laughed and enjoyed every moment, smile turning in a breathed curse, a giggle into a moan and back again. Despite more passionate nights, despite more meaningful meetings, the fondest memory is of that girl with the radiant smile that reminds you that sex should come naturally, should feel right, and most of all: that sex is to be enjoyed.

So I raise a glass to Robert E. Ryewood, his silly, overly erotic comedy and lament the fact I never found any of his other works. I'd love to hear if anyone else read anything by him and where I can find more. I raise a glass to Olivia, who taught me to be a generous lover, but to keep in mind that generous donations are tax deductible. Here's to you, Bob!