An Introduction

First, let me apologize for being tardy in posting today. Life tends to wait until we're not looking to throw us a curve ball. That said, on with the introductions!

My name is Kiernan Kelly, and I'm new here to the LooseId family, if not to writing. Iwanted to take this opportunity to introduce myself to all of you who don't know me, and share a little bit about myself with you. My first novel with LooseId, "A Weapon of Opportunity," is slated for release in April of this year, and I've been doing the happy dance over it for months.

Now, a little about me:

1. I write romance. In some people's opinion, that's one strike against me. After all, romance novels aren't real books, right? They're just a collection of meaningless words that any monkey with access to a keyboard could manage to pound out, and are quite possibly the reason behind the unrest in the Middle East, global warming, and all those recent bird-and-fish deaths in the U.S.

2. I write erotic romance. Oops, that's another strike. No legitimate author would ever include a steamy sex scene in his or her novel. In fact, no legitimate author has ever even had sex, nor are they the product of sex. They are grown in laboratories. Everyone knows this. Look it up.

3. I write erotic gay romance. Good grief, I must have a reserved seat in the lowest circle of Hell. I am the reason for the poor economy, the health care crisis, the Gulf Oil Spill, and am the lesser-known Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, ranked right behind Conquest, War, Famine, and Death on the list of cataclysmic omens.

Well, not really.

I gleaned all of the above misinformation from an actual conversation I had with a woman at a party. I didn't know this person well, but had no reason to expect the atmosphere between us to shoot to DefCon One within the first five minutes. After all, she didn't have obvious horns or fangs, nothing to warn me that she was an agent of Satan. In fact, our chat started quite amicably. It went something like this:

Her: So, what do you do for a living?

Me: I'm a writer.

Her: Really? What do you write?

Me: Romance novels.

Her face fell, and she actually rolled her eyes.

Her: Oh. I thought you meant you were an actual author. Why don't you write a real book?

My first reaction was, of course, the same as any rational person's would've been - to grab the closest available blunt object and try to beat some sense into her thick, bigoted head. However, my curiosity won out over my duty to elevate humankind's collective I.Q. by ridding the world of another idiot.

Me: That's an interesting statement. What's your definition of a "real" book?

Her: You know...something worth reading. Literature, something relevant, like that book about Lindsay Lohan, or the one about the Kardashians. Now, those were good books. I've read them both.

Showing admirable self-control, I refrained from commenting on her choice of reading material, or from snatching her baldheaded, which were my first and second impulses, not necessarily in that order. Either would've effectively terminated the conversation, although I must admit the latter choice would've been much more entertaining and satisfactory than the former. After all, she'd just intimated that my books were not worth reading, and that I wasn't a legitimate author. While I was confident no jury would convict me had I chosen to pull her hair out by the roots, I instead asked her if she'd ever read a romance novel before.

She looked aghast, as I'd actually asked her if she broiled and ate small children. Personally, I think she may have. She seemed the type, but my perception of her may have been a bit skewed by that point. In any case, she lifted her nose so high in the air I'm surprised she didn't get a nosebleed.

Her: I only read books that will improve my mind.

Well, that explains the Lohan and Kardashian references. Lord knows the secret of life can be found between the pages of those books. How could I possibly hope to compete?

Now, I have nothing against biographies, auto- or otherwise, neither of historical or pop culture figures, nor with those who write and read them. I do have a problem when people hold with the contemptible notion that the romance genre is somehow less than genuine writing, and relegate it to the bottom of the literary heap en masse simply because it's romance.

In my opinion, there's nothing wrong with writing romance, straight, gay, or other, or with reading it. Believe me, I've read romances that were so well written they took my breath away, and conversely, some so-called "literary" works of fiction that I've hurled against the wall in disgust after reading the first five pages. Just because the story deals with the heart does not make it less valid than any other genre. Romance is escapism, the same as any other form of fiction. It serves to entertain, and sometimes, believe it or not, may even contain a message hidden between the fabulously hot sex scenes, if one cares to look.

Which is probably more than I can say about the aforementioned Lohan and Kardashian books. Or maybe not. I haven't read either one, nor do I plan to. It's not that I find anything wrong with reading them; it's just that when I read for pleasure I personally prefer something with hot naked men doing things together that could peel paint, which I'm fairly confident neither of those two books contain.

My answer to her original question of when I was going to write a "real" book was that I was too busy to do so, what with my writing hot gay romance and my nefarious plot to take over the world, one reader at a time.

This was the point when my conversation with this creature-masquerading-as-a-human turned decidedly sour, and the weapons in her nuclear arsenal went hot. Surprisingly, it wasn't the threat of world domination or my sarcastic tone that threw her into a tizzy. What pushed her over the edge were the words "gay romance."

Her: "You write what? Gay romance?" She said this with the same tone and facial expression as someone else might say, "You pick your nose and eat the boogers?"

Thinking she'd misunderstood, perhaps distracted by all the fresh, plump, unroasted children wandering around nearby, I repeated myself.

Me: Yes. I write gay erotic romance.

Her: Who in their right mind would want to read that trash?

Trash? She called my work trash! Oh, she was just asking for an instant lobotomy with a cast iron skillet. By sheer force of will, I once again restrained myself, but mostly because there was no cast iron skillet handy. I figured by the time I ran to Wal-Mart and bought one, the window of opportunity would've closed and she'd be off enjoying a roasted five-year old with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Me: "Well, actually, I have a lot of readers from all walks of life; gay men, straight women..."

That's when she really went on the attack - literally. She backed me up against the wall, all up in my grill, as the kids say. Believe me, her face was not something you'd want mere inches from your own. I was afraid she might decide raw author would taste as good as child flambé and take a bite out of me...if her garlic breath didn't kill me first. She actually snarled at me.

Her: "No straight woman would ever read that!"

I admit to being frequently befuddled, especially when someone uses absolutes to make a statement that is so completely, utterly idiotic that I can't believe an adult human being of at least average intelligence would think it, let alone say it. Also, being cornered by a raving lunatic with an obvious penchant for human flesh is not exactly conducive to clear thinking. I stood there, blinking in confusion, and made the mistake of trying to defend my previous statement.

Me: Huh? Um, well, actually, yes, they do. Lots of them.

Her: You're lying! How many copies have you sold? Huh? How many? No real publisher would touch that garbage. What do you do, print that crap up on Café Press or something?

Okay, now I was seriously annoyed. That trip to Wal-Mart for the cast iron skillet was sounding more and more like a viable option after all.

Unfortunately, she wasn't done with me yet.

Her: Maybe a few women might read it once out of some perverse curiosity, but never twice. It's disgusting. You're no writer. That stuff is nothing but filthy trash! Porn. People like you are the reason this world is a mess!

It was then that I realized her bigotry wasn't limited to romance novels in general. No, her prejudices were legion and went bone-deep. It made me wonder why she reacted so fiercely to the very idea of a straight woman enjoying a gay romance novel.

Was she simply homophobic, or was there a deeper, underlying reason? Did she recognize a part of herself that might just enjoy reading a gay romance novel, a part she feared and kept buried? Did she find the notions that a straight woman would write gay romance by choice and the fact other straight women would read and enjoy it equally by choice to be so offensive because it threatened her personal, rigid concept of human sexuality? Of her own sexuality?

More importantly, I wondered if her rabies shots were up to date. Those big ol' choppers she was gnashing were awfully close to the tip of my nose.

I also realized that there would be no arguing with her, no chance of changing her mind, no opportunity for a calm, rational exchange of ideas or honest debate. I understood that any further engagement with this shrieking lunatic might very well come to blows if I even tried to persist in explaining my point of view.

As infuriated as I was, I was also just a little bit frightened. Having an enraged woman blowing her fetid chicken scampi breath all over you while she shouted about how disgusting you are isn't exactly my idea of how to pass a pleasant afternoon.

Luckily, my husband intervened. Maybe it was the wild look in my eyes or the way my head was spinning on my neck ala Linda Blair in the Exorcist that told him I was having a problem. Either way, he came to my rescue before I resorted to spewing pea soup, effectively whisking me away by grabbing my arm and muttering something incredibly inspired and knight-in-shining-armor-worthy, like "We gotta go."

Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut. I probably should've maintained a professional demeanor, left the room with dignity and grace, my chin held high, refusing to sink to her level.

Unfortunately, I was more likely to gargle with Drain-O and bend over for a lye enema. I just don't have it in me to go quietly into the good night. Before I left, I risked having the final word.

As my husband dragged me away with all the finesse of a cowboy wrestling a steer, I looked over my shoulder and directly into her eyes, and asked, "Oh, yeah? So, what have you published lately? Ha! That's what I thought."

Okay, so maybe I could've come up with a better retort, but when your blood is boiling, and a husband who would rather not see you on Death Row for the cast iron skillet murder of an idiot is manhandling you out the door, it's difficult to think quickly and be creative at the same time.

My point to all of this is that, while the conversation left me shaken and furious, I did not let this bigoted, unbalanced, snarky moron keep me from doing what I love. I still proudly write gay erotic romance, I still read it, and I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to do both here at LooseId.

Oh, and I still plot to take over the world, one reader at a time.