there is this trend I have noticed in Queer Books of late (it's not just Queer Books, but that's the only arena I can definitively speak on; please see this Goodreads review dragging The Hacienda to hell and back for a related example) where authors are so very proud of themselves for reinterpreting, reinventing, etc. a genre, but 1) they don't actually understand the genre at all, and 2) they are scared absolutely shitless at having their protagonists ever do anything remotely morally questionable - or, god fucking forbid, not being good people - that the result is the blandest fucking mush I've ever had the displeasure to read. See: Lavender House, a murder mystery about a family of queer people where the killer is obvious from the jump because there's only one straight person in the house and it's obvious the author isn't willing to let a gay person commit a crime, and Reluctant Immortals, a vampire book where our vampire leading lady not only doesn't kill people but doesn't even drink blood. I'm sick of it! None of these authors have anything remotely insightful to say about anything, but they're getting their books boosted because slapping a "look! it's queer!" label on the cover sells. Obviously the "classics" (by which I mean, the likes of Anne Rice and Poppy Z. Brite) are hashtag problematic, but god, I wish current authors had a fucking ounce of courage when it came to writing characters who just plain old fashioned SUCK.
and it has never stopped getting notes!
