That is probably the scariest title I’ve ever given a blog post.
October 2010 an author wrote about his difficulties selling his romantic comedy. He claimed he was turned down by publishers because he was (and still is, presumably) a man. He goes on to state “some of the reasons from the editors”:
‘Men writing about romance and relationships doesn’t appeal to the reading public.’
‘Women readers feel that women writers cover this area far more convincingly.’
Two reasons, then, and both equate to the same thing: romances written by men don't appeal to the usual audience for romance, which is women. Whether you believe that or not, this is what he was told.
He goes on to say,
In the meantime I suppose I’ll have to work on a new novel about war, or crime, or cars, as apparently these are the only subjects on which men are able to write.
Coming from the only gender allowed to write anything at all for most of human history, this is a pretty funny statement. However, I understand his frustration. I’m confused by his reception as he says that his romance is from a male perspective and there’s precedent for this (High Fidelity comes to mind.) I didn’t think women would have a problem with a man writing a romance from a man’s perspective. I'd think they'd be interested. My gut instinct was that a man trying to write a romance from a woman’s perspective would be the difficult scenario. But even as a woman I don’t know all women.
We do care about gender, though, don’t we? I do. I’m reading a fairly vicious book right now by an author named “Jesse,” and I find myself hoping it’s a female Jesse because I really want to read a book this dark and disturbing by a women author. There’s no good reason for that. I just want it. I want that precedent.
I’ve also recently finished Caitlan Moran’s How to be a Woman, a memoir that examines the author’s life with a view to define what a woman is, what it isn’t, and whether it’s all that important anyway. It’s funny, relevant to the world, allegedly honest, and if I found out it was written by a man it wouldn’t negate any of the great points within but I might have read it with a lot of skepticism. As it is, I offered it to my husband and he laughed. Pointing out that it would help him understand his wife inspired a slightly better reaction, but still. Readers care about gender. Publishers know it. They want to make money, and if the market is sexist, their selection process is also.
And readers care about honesty. I had a great conversation in a book club about whether it mattered that James Frey never actually experienced a good part of A Million Little Pieces. One reader said it didn’t matter because someone in the world had experienced these things and the book presented them as they would have been. For others (including Oprah) it mattered immensely: they felt cheated because they’d bonded with a real person who turned out to be a liar. Interestingly, if it had been presented as fiction rather than a memoir we might have all happily bonded with the character and not cared that it was a lie. But even more interestingly, the reason it was presented as a memoir was because Frey tried to publish it as fiction and failed.
So there we are again.
Readers care what we’re getting, and whether we’re getting the full story. We also recognize the difference between fiction and lying.
The author who can’t publish his romance refuses to use a pseudonym, saying it would be “conceding to the discrimination,” and “attitudes should be changed as opposed to my name.” I think that’s admirable. When it comes to feeling discriminated against I support standing up for yourself rather than lying down. However, in this case it amounts to the same thing: his book disappears, unread.
The end.
Sketch: Man, woman by Yehohan92100, & Photo: vintage crossdressing by Foxtongue, both on flickr
