When someone from a writers’ festival reached out recently to ask if I would read something at a romance and erotica literary salon in a few months’ time, my first question was, “Again?”
It’s not so outrageous. Both of my books have heavy romance threads, and I’ve written about my dating misadventures in this column a handful of times before. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked to join these types of events, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve accepted the invitation, either. I just had no idea so many people wanted to pay to sit in a crowded room and listen to a handful of writers read filth aloud.
Credit: Robin Cowcher
I guess we’ll take steamy content wherever we can get it; any time, on any medium. Though their popularity never waned, romance novels are currently having a renaissance, and it sometimes seems as though HBO requires one gratuitous love scene for every 10 minutes of screen time. Even in action movies, buddy comedies, and comic book adaptations, there’s usually a moment in which our hero takes a break from saving the world to fall into bed with the hottest character on the call sheet. It’s not like 50 Shades of Grey sold more than 160 million copies because of the compelling dialogue.
A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J Maas. Icebreaker by Hannah Grace. Tessa Bailey, Emily Henry, Ana Huang, Ali Hazelwood … you only have to glance down the aisle of a train at peak hour to see these names and know when your fellow passengers are turning up the heat on a dull commute with addicting, unabashed spice. Smut is back, baby!
But why now?
Maybe it’s because when the internet asks if women would rather be trapped in the woods with a man or a bear, the response is a resounding, “BEAR, BEAR BEAR”. We’re giving up dating in such droves that recently, Bumble put up bright yellow billboards begging us to return to the app. “You know full well that a vow of celibacy is not the answer,” said one. “Thou shalt not give up on dating and become a nun,” said another. The landscape is looking barren. It only follows that we go looking to get our kicks elsewhere.
But when I go to this literary salon, I know that the host will read out my bio and call my name, and during the long walk to the microphone, I’ll start to sweat. The other writers will have read out steamy short fiction, poetry, and essays. They’ll be so graphic that the audience will lose their better judgement and text the number in their phones labelled “Daniel DO NOT ANSWER,” in hopes of recreating one of the raunchy scenes they’ve heard so far. Little do they know, I’m on my way to throw a bucket of ice water on each and every one of them.
My piece starts with an ill-advised one-night stand and ends with an existential crisis. Aren’t you supposed to write what you know?In among all the faerie porn and these raunchy fantasies about brooding billionaires, someone’s got to bring realism back.
Because however many spicy anecdotes I might have, it’s the bad ones, the laugh-out-loud nights spent at rock bottom, that stand out. I’ve lost count of the number of times my best friend, hearing these stories over brunch or too much sauv blanc, has ended up with her face in her hands, telling me that my life is a romantic comedy without the romance. Last week, a story heard through the grapevine fit the same criteria. A friend of a friend was in a situationship with some guy. He suggested that they invite her housemate — how do I phrase this in a family publication? — join them. When the friend of a friend declined, the guy responded, “That’s OK. You don’t have to be there.”
Christ, that’s bleak. It’s also very, very funny.
There’s that old joke that compares sex and pizza: even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. But how far are you willing to travel for bad pizza?
It’s a question and a competition. Do you, after a long week, after all these funny/horrible stories, want to spend $40 on a bottle of wine, and brave the cold and the odds to see if a spark catches flame so you can have a night worth writing about? Or would you rather slip off into the humid fantasy land of fiction, where glances burn and appendages quiver?
In the piquing exhaustion of midwinter and this strange moment where our hopes for romance outweigh any conceivable reality, I’m beginning to wonder if the idea of pizza isn’t sometimes better than the real thing.
Don’t worry. You can still have your existential crisis afterwards — especially if I have anything to do with it.
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