Why I have left the MMRG on Goodreads

It’s been an interesting few days for the M/M Romance Group on Goodreads. Basically, people of color were hurt by the racism in a historical master/slave story that was written as part of the Don’t Read in the Closet event. A white master/black slave story set in the United States around the time of the civil war.

Hey, who remembers the uproar over the concentration camp “romance”? Frankly, if anyone couldn’t see that a master/slave story set during the American Civil War was a terrible idea, I’m not sure anyone can help them.

Here’s the thing. It is absolutely beyond question that the writer of the story did not mean to cause harm. Nobody is accusing her of that. Nevertheless, people were harmed by this story, because the effects of slavery are still felt today. Racism is a thing. Institutionalised racism is a thing. And so is privilege. And if you can’t see that people are still harmed every day in absolutely tangible ways by racism, then you need to check your privilege.

I’m a white Australian woman. When it comes to privilege, I win some and I lose some. But I always do try to be aware that because I’m white, I’m Western, and I’m middle-class, then there are a hell of a lot of prejudices out there that other people face, that I simply don’t. I recognise that I have privilege, and that sometimes I need to shut up and listen to what other people are saying, rather than dismissing their concerns as something that just doesn’t happen because it’s never happened to me.

For truly excellent reviews of the story in question, I suggest you read Emma Sea’s review, or Mmeguillotine’s review.

The issues with the story aside for now, let’s turn instead to the response from the M/M Romance Group. When people of color stated that they were harmed by this story, I would have thought that the response from a group that so fervently defends LGBTQ rights would have been different than what amounted to: If you don’t like it, leave.

Let’s just repeat that: People were harmed, and instead of the mods apologising for that harm, they threw out the old red herring about censorship, and told people that if they were unhappy in the group then they should go.

Firstly, smarter people than me have pointed out that rejecting a prompt or a story is not censorship. And secondly, telling already marginalised people who are complaining about being marginalised again in a group they thought was a safe place that they’re over-reacting, or they’re too sensitive, or they’re making a big deal out of nothing -- excuse me, that loud bang was the sound of my irony meter exploding.

I have written three stories for the DRitC event, and I have enjoyed doing it. But I have asked that this year my story Hellion be removed from the anthology. It will still be available on the M/M Romance Group site for anyone who wishes to read it. However, I have left the group and will not be writing for the event again. On a professional level, I do not wish to have my work publicly associated with the group whose response to this incident has been tone deaf at best, and racist at worst. On a personal level, I do not wish to be part of a group where others are made to feel unsafe, unwelcome, or unwanted.

And while I know I run the risk of being labelled a sycophant, as others have already been, I assure you that I can and do think for myself. And if anyone wants to label me a badly behaving author, as others have already been, because I believe in taking a stand in this matter, then if that’s easier to do than checking your own privilege, go for it.

Hellion

If you're a member of the MM Romance Group on Goodreads, then you should know all about the Don't Read in the Closet event. Each year, people send in prompts, and authors claim them, then write FREE stories to the prompt. This year I picked a regency prompt. BECAUSE I COULD!!!

And I had a blast! 

Here's a little teaser from Hellion: 


Alderton, Suffolk, 1817

Had Oliver Fitzwilliam ever been asked to give his considered opinion on the matter― and, unfortunately, he had not― he would have stated that the sooner the ton gave up the idea of a Season, the better. Not that Oliver was in any way a moralistic old bore. Quite the opposite, in fact. He loved the balls, parties, theatres, military reviews and masquerades that made up the frenzied London social calendar between late January and early July. He only hated the fact that, as with all good things, it had to come to an end, leaving the once-vibrant capital a veritable graveyard as everyone packed up and went home for the next six months.

Home, in Oliver’s case, was Waverley, a more than modest estate in Suffolk that was so damned bucolic it set his teeth on edge. Even the sounds of the birds twittering in the trees drove him slowly mad. It wasn’t that he hated the countryside― well, perhaps a little― it’s just that he was so dreadfully bored by it. It wouldn’t have been so bad if only he could have been left alone to perhaps read or draw, both of which he enjoyed, but he was a wealthy unmarried baronet, and the damned locals wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace.

There was one wittering on at him at that very moment, jowls jiggling as he talked animatedly about some upcoming ball at Major Clinton’s estate, and how everyone would be delighted if Oliver attended. Delighted.

Oliver smiled and nodded as the Reverend Mr Bletchley buzzed on and on and on, as tiresome as a bluebottle trapped against a windowpane.

“Well, of course I should love to attend,” he lied, pouring himself another brandy and holding the decanter up in question.

“Oh my goodness, I really oughtn’t,” the reverend said, but made no further protestation.

Oliver resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he poured him another drink, then looked up as a figure appeared briefly in the open library doorway. He was gone again, as fleeting as a shadow, but Oliver would know him anywhere.

Unfortunately.

Simon Cavendish.

The estate at Waverley had come with ten thousand acres of prime Suffolk farmland outside the village of Alderton, an income exceeding eight thousand pounds a year, the title of Baronet of Stockdale, and, regrettably, an unforeseen complication who went by the name of Simon Cavendish. 

Complication, perhaps, was an exaggeration.

There wasn’t terribly much that the boy could do to complicate Oliver’s life. His duties to the estate, and to the boy, generally involved reading the correspondence that his manager sent him each month, which, for the first few years at least, had included the increasingly damning reports from the boy’s schoolmasters.

Oliver had inherited the estate, and the boy, from a great-uncle. His uncle’s lack of direct heir had proved extremely beneficial for Oliver, but he hadn’t anticipated inheriting anything like Simon Cavendish.

Whether Oliver cared to admit it or not, the boy was another reason Oliver didn’t spend more time at Waverley. He was fifteen when Oliver had first made his acquaintance. He was nineteen now. In two years he would attain his majority, and, with a more than generous settlement bestowed upon him, would be out of Oliver’s hair for good. It wasn’t that he detested the boy; he was just somewhat confounded by him.

He had been confounded the first time he’d met him, and remained confounded to this day.

*** 

To check out the story, and see the NSFW picture that came with the prompt, here's the link on Goodreads. Enjoy! 

If you aren't a GR member, don't worry! In a few days I'll post the links to a downloadable version of Hellion.