So I’m sitting in the car, the Hubs and I are driving someplace and we’re listening to an audiobook of his choice.
Fiction, fantasy.
I’m getting ready to roll down the window and dash my brains out on the pavement at 70mph because the story is so boring.
Thing is, I’ve already read a dozen variations on this theme.
We’re focused on a young lady who is to be married to the king. She’s naieve, bordering on stupid. She’s trapped in this destiny engineered for her. We’re going on and on about how young and nubile her body is. The physician has inspected her to make sure she’s a virgin… Now we’re going on and on about the quality of the cloth that makes up her gown. The cut and drape of her gown. The way the laces work. How long the sleeves are… Huh. Now she’s getting detailed instruction on how to dupe this king into believing that he’s not raping her on their marriage night…
Why is this so intolerably boring to me? Am I old and cynical? Why can’t our fantasy fiction be about older women? Why can’t her area of expertise expand beyond the clothes she’s wearing? Why can’t the world building include a world that’s not obsessed with a woman’s physical beauty? Why can’t the totally imaginary society value their women for something other than their single-use-only fuckability?
It’s an imaginary world. Can’t we invent something better for ourselves?
Nuts. Hubs has turned on the child-lock for the window controls.
