Heartways: The Exploits of Genny O
It sounded like an interesting idea for a book. As the back cover describes it, Heartways: The Exploits of Genny O is “an extraordinary faux romance compilation [that] deconstructs art, literature, sex, and desire in one fell swoop. Constructed as a ‘novel,’ each chapter is written by a different contributor, all of whom create romantic tableaux that simultaneously work within and outside literary conventions.”
Unfortunately, I soon concluded that Heartways falls flat despite—or perhaps because of—its unusual set-up.
My first problem with the book is the fact that although this is supposed to be a novel, it is in fact more of an anthology of short stories centered on a similar theme. None of the chapters are attributed to the individual authors that wrote them. Personally, I would LOVE to know which one Fabio wrote! I mean, based on my best guess, I would certainly assume that the weakest link, “Chick Lit,” was his doing, but then again maybe this was Douglas Coupland striking out big time?
I’m not familiar with many of the names that editors Rita McBride and Erin Cosgrove have rounded up for this collection, perhaps because (as I discovered upon reading the bios at the back of the book) many of the people who wrote these stories are actually visual artists, models or “professional heartthrob”s. Only four of the 11 contributors to this work are writers by trade, and frankly, it shows. So why allow non-writers to try their hand at erotic fiction, a genre that is so difficult to do well?
If I am being honest, then I will admit that most of the stories I have admired the most and, thus, printed in Black Heart have come from non-writers. My visual artist friends often have some very imaginative ideas for erotic fiction, and I’m willing to let anyone have a go at writing for my magazine if they think they’ve got something to say. Therefore, I can’t really argue that there is anything necessarily wrong with letting newcomers have a shot at a tired old trope. The problem with this volume is that it sets itself up as such an intellectual project that its reliance on clichés and juvenile humour (“Banana Dream,” “Anal Annie”) come off as that much more insulting to the reader’s intelligence.
Note to writers of erotica everywhere: NEVER, EVER use the term “swollen womanhood” to describe a vagina. “Turgid member” isn’t much better, but at least you’re not equating someone’s genitals with the sum total of their gender identity.
In the end, Heartways is a disappointing read, despite some clever stabs at a premise that is highly constructed and rarely erotic.
