Suleikha Snyder

I'm not a bestselling author. I'm not a degree-holding academic feminist who purports to validate the romance genre by reading it. I'm an author and reader of color who grew up with a certain amount of upper middle class and model minority privilege — none of which holds any weight in the publishing industry. Because, you see, like most of my fellow writers of color, I am invisible.

The past few weeks saw Stephanie Dray, a white author of historical fiction, "joking" about writing Thomas Jefferson-Sally Hemings BDSM romance. Women of color expressed hurt on Twitter, and those issues were later outlined more extensively in the blogosphere here and here. Dray made sure to seek absolution from well-known authors like Courtney Milan, Mary Robinette Kowal and Jenny Trout, and Beverly Jenkins lauded her for her apology. Ultimately the fracas became centered on Trout, Anne Rice and Jaid Black. Slavery and rape were forgotten. The black women hurt by the comments were forgotten. White authors with a bigger followings were having some feelings, so that took precedence.

It always takes precedence.

Author Racheline Maltese noticed some offensive social media advice from the March issue of RWA's RWR magazine. It instantly spurred Twitter discussion amongst romance writers about neutrality, being "nice" and how having polarizing opinions on gay marriage and Ferguson is important. And then male SFF author Chuck Wendig weighed in, because apparently he was "asked" to and felt he should. The women — particularly minority women who are always marginalized — involved in the discussion may as well have vanished into thin air. And some of us couldn't even express that thought without it becoming about a white author with a bigger following.

Because it always takes precedence.

And, of course, within the romance publishing blogosphere, there were only tumbleweeds and crickets from the most popular corners. Perhaps the whisper of broom bristles as the ugliness of things like slavery and Ferguson were swept under the rug.

All we want to do is write and be read. How can we flourish at that when our own community won't read us?

Publishing is populated by gatekeepers and town criers...ones who, intentionally or no, decide who gets in and who gets heard. And, over and over, the same people are locked out and silenced. It's a pattern. It's been the pattern for decades. And hashtagging diversity and putting a bunch of diversity panels on your conference schedule is nice lip service, but doesn't do a damn thing to change what's actually been happening and what will continue to happen.

I can't speak for others, but I know what has stood out to me. Being called out as racist by a white woman for thinking Idris Elba is kinky. Seeing a white woman say that my stories are misogynist and 'veer dangerously toward Orientalizing.' Watching every aspect of my story get nitpicked and analyzed when similar romances by white women are just taken at face value. As separate incidents, as book reviews, it all may seem like no big deal. I don't cry into my Cheerios because someone doesn't like my writing or what I have to say on social media. But taken together? Stacking it up? Seeing how my fellow authors of color go through the same things? All we want to do is write. All we want is to be read. Why are those simple desires so much like pounding on the door of a locked room, screaming to be let out?

Of course, most of us don't scream. Most stay quiet. Most don't want to rock the boat. Invisibility, in some ways, is more secure than being seen as a troublemaker, as someone who wants to upset the apple cart and change the industry status quo.

Because that status quo takes precedence. Make no mistake, it always takes precedence.

Editing to add/disclaim: This is probably a good reminder that you shouldn't angst and post. I want to assure people that I do manage my illness with daily medication and am doing better overall. This bit of navel-gazing and whinging is just another example of how depression narrows your world down to just you.

A fun (and by "fun" I mean "really not fun at all") part of living with depression involves low points when you least want them. For me, a terrible convergence of emotions happened during a particularly rough time in the romance industry's community relationship: when it turned out that Dear Author's Jane Litte was also author Jen Frederick and had been lying to her readership for years. Blame my hormones, blame my illness, but the same week the shit hit the fan, so did my paranoia. All of a sudden, I was convinced that my own community activism was poison, that what I frequently said as an advocate of diversity had made people hate me. I was DMing a fellow writer and friend frantically, worried that bestselling author and general badass Courtney Milan might be mad at me about something. What...? I have no clue. You laugh, but, dude, it's no fun. It's a guilt spiral you don't want to experience. And I made myself get off that Twitter account for a while and breathe. You know what? She might be mad at me. I say a lot of divisive, inflammatory shit. But do I need to be hyperventilating, crying, and taking Twitter breaks because of that...? Do I need to be that neurotic? No. Welcome to depression.

But, oh, we're talking about an illness that mainstream media thinks might be violent. One that they're implying might have caused the deaths of 150 people on an airplane.

Fuck.

What do you do, when you're trying to marshal your emotions and remind yourself that you're normal, when you see people saying depression makes you commit murder? I can't even tell you. All I can tell you is that it feels like someone is taking a melon baller and scooping through your guts. Because depression doesn't make me want to EVER hurt anyone else. It's internal. All I ever want to do is tear myself apart. I just want to curl up into fetal position and never leave my bed. I don't want to speak to you, look at your or even acknowledge you exist because it hurts too much. Kill you? Please. I don't have the energy to put on pants.

If I'm in a good place, I can go three weeks and be okay. Unfortunately, hormones mean that fourth week will turn into a pre-menstrual nightmare, and I will cry, hate myself and assume I'm shit. If I'm in a bad place, it doesn't matter because the entire span will be awful. And I was in that bad place for more than six months this past year. I don't recommend it. It sucks. I hated myself, I hated the world, I hated the future. And it was so bleak.

It's only recently that I've seen the sun again, felt hope and healing again.

So, I hate this.

I hate second-guessing my intelligence, my voice, my platform.

I hate making something about me when it sure as shit isn't about me. Jane Litte didn't betray my trust. I've actually been kind of transparent, if not a bit passive-aggressive, about the fact that Dear Author has been bad for me. She's hurt friends of mine, though. And people I respect. This week, I need to be focusing on them and not the fact that chemical bullshit in my brain makes me think I'm a victim.

But, thank you so very goddamn much, Depression, for making me the focus. Because all I can think is that I'm stupid and I talk too much and no one needs to listen to me. All I can believe is that I should just shut up for a while. Depression makes me narcissistic, thinking I have that much power when I am in fact powerless.

I'm not that important.

You know who's important? You.

I'm going to be messed up for the rest of my life, wrangling this tangle of emotions. But you? The reader, the fellow author, this amazing person outside the confines of my body and my internal turmoil? You have things to do. I want you to read and thrive and speak out. I want you to do what I can't: heal the people around you.

Romance deserves passion and it deserves honesty. Depression lies, but you don't have to.

Ever have one of those "If I only knew then what I know now" moments? Sometimes, it feels like my entire experience in romance publishing is that moment. More and more, I circle back to what was initially my great joy: my Bollywood Confidential novellas for Samhain Publishing. I was so proud to get these stories out there. And then so demoralized when they did poorly. But I learned a lot and if I could go back, there are so many things I would do differently. Here are just a few.

1. I would take the people off the covers. I mean, I LOVE these covers. They are stunning. Cover artist Angela Waters is a goddess. But POC on covers don't sell well -- particularly for authors of color. It's hard lesson to learn and a tough truth to swallow, but them's the breaks. Mainstream romance readers (by which I mean primarily white ones) take one look at these covers and go, "Oh, this isn't for me." Similar to why they won't hang a left at the African-American section at the bookstore. The sad-funny thing is, my books don't do well with Indian readers either!

Sometimes you just have to slap a piece of furniture and a puppy on a book to get folks to realize it is for them to read.

2. This ties into #1 somewhat, because it involves Rocky in Bollywood and the Beast. She's biracial and, yes, I admit a fraction of that choice was because I wanted to make her more palatable to those readers the first two books couldn't hook. Half-white heroine and a fairy tale redux...? How could I go wrong? Well, so many ways, apparently. For one, the woman on the cover doesn't look remotely white, so it doesn't work as a visual hook. Priya from Spice and Secrets looks more likely to pass than Rocky does!

For two—and this is where I'm pissed at myself on a philosophical and activist level—in trying to make her relatable (oh, how I hate that word!) to an audience I don't even have I shortchanged the racial issues in the book. Bollywood, and India as a whole, has a huge problem with colorism. The paler you are, the more valued you are. And I pretty much sidestepped all of that subtext in Bollywood and the Beast. I think I mention it in passing, but Rocky being fair and thus getting more work is not explored with any depth. She really doesn't think about having white privilege or any sort of socio-economic advantage over India-born women. Because, at the time, I was trying to make her whiteness the entry point for white readers...not something uncomfortable to push them away. "Look, she's safe! Look, she comes from your world! She just wants to fit in and find love!"

In a weird way, I fell into the trap of the Exotic Other and the Sexy Biracial Character despite always railing against it. And it was all for naught because, well, she's brown on the cover. Plus, very few people read B&B and, therefore, very few had to grapple with their comfort level.

3. I would split Spice and Smoke into two novellas. I was so hungry to get published that I wrote "Part II," Sam and Vikram's story, to boost the word count and make it a submittable manuscript. On its own, the first half was either too short or got rejected all over the place. And I think the weakness there is pretty obvious. The two halves would work much better as separate but linked stories. Also, this would've enabled me to better market the tales to m/m readers...who weren't interested because there's a het romance in the first half.

This also ties back to the cover woes: If I did keep people on the covers, I'd take Trishna off of Spice and Smoke, because it looks like a ménage + m/m readers tend to not like ladies in their stories. I mean, I love Trish to pieces, but did it work for me as a marketing decision? Nope.

4. I would market better in general. More fool me, I thought just the act of writing Bollywood books—because Bollywood is, like, so cool and trendy—would be a smart move. See the above "nope." You have to have a push of some kind. Just writing stories that speak to you and have a good hook isn't going to sell copies. Spice and Secrets is basically a category romance, complete with a secret baby, and it's my poorest seller. No1curr. If I'd had any sense at all, I would've built a campaign around the Harlequin-i-iness. Also, there's a white dude in it. Maybe he should've been on promo materials. (You laugh, but I weep bitter tears.)

5. I'd build a stronger web and community presence before putting the novellas out. The Suleikha you know now...who mouths off all the time and freely admits she's also Mala from Soap Opera Weekly and RT Book Reviews, is not the one who was trying to get people to read Spice and Smoke. I had ties in the NYC romance community, sure, but that was about it. I had virtually no online footprint as Suleikha and not a whole lot of reach in "real life" either. And when you have a tiny, tiny circle...yeah, it's no wonder your magical, wonderful, book baby makes little impact.

If only, if only, if only...

What do you do when you stumble across a book that is so hurtful you physically recoil? These past few months, I've developed an almost pathological obsession with such a book. Every time I see mention of it, I flinch and my gut roils. I subtweet about it. I message friends and wonder what, if anything, can be done about it. And I tried to just grin and bear it. I know, I know, you're all thinking, "Suleikha, why didn't you just call this out publicly? That's what you do."

Yeah, that's what I do. And that's what exhausts me, what makes many label me as histrionic or one of those Angry Women of Color who doesn't want white people writing diverse books. Inevitably, one way or another, the hurtful book will still continue to hurt me. I will be the Bad Guy. Sure, sometimes it can be fun, even vindicating, to be the Bad Guy. But, mostly, it eats at you. Because you know that calling out race-fail is ultimately worse than writing something racist. That's the lesson we're taught. Being a whistleblower often means you get the blowback.

So, I'm going to try and channel my anger and frustration into something more positive. Here are five basic things to keep in mind while writing a character of color, in particular characters of South Asian origin.

Chandramukhi is not here for your bullshit.

1. There are more roles for WOC in both historical and contemporary settings than prostitute or stripper. East Asians, Indians and black women do not exist to be your geisha, your white hero's exotic piece of sex candy or bout of Jungle Fever. It's not all that groundbreaking to write a biracial or multiracial prostitute in historical times; it's kinda lazy because you're assuming that's the only income available to a woman of color. It's also not all that complimentary, unless you're trying to reclaim sex work as a positive subject for romance. So, try something new! I've always wanted to be pirate. Somebody write me a Bengali girl pirate!

His name is Anthony Gonsalves. He's alone in the world.

2. Research, research, research. You can't just pluck names out of the air. Names in India, particularly, are rooted in religion, caste, region, etc. Would you name characters from Greenwich, Connecticut, Bobbie Jo and Billy Bob? Probably not. Similarly, Rashmi Patel is Gujarati while Mala Bhattacharjee is Bengali. And a Farah Khan might be from any Indian state, because that's a Muslim name and not a Hindu one. Some names, like Ayesha and Kabir or the surname Choudhury, straddle both Hindu and Muslim usage. But most don't. Sometimes, you can actually build your character's background FROM their name. Because it gives you regional origin and language, religion and, if Hindu, caste.

Basically, making up an Indian name because it sounds pretty is the equivalent of getting a Chinese character tattoo and finding out it means "asshat" instead of "peace."

3. Talk to actual people of color from that area! Social media makes it easier than ever. You have no excuse. I may seem like a ranty beast on the Internets, but I answer TONS of questions for people and direct them to other sources if I don't know the answer.

Funny story: I was moaning about how the hero in my romantic suspense WIP is black and English and "I'm not sure if I'm getting him right," and fellow author Alyssa Cole goes, "My family's black and English. You could just ask me." Duh. Yeah.

4. Writing a diverse book doesn't make you an activist. It makes you a writer. Your book should be your biggest priority. That is your lasting contribution. Ain't no one going to remember that time you tweeted support for a hashtag. Write a solid, well-researched book. That is the best thing you can do for the movement.

5. Let your characters be human. POC aren't paragons. We're not exotic or wise or magical. We put our pants on the same way as everyone else. Sure, there are cultural, religious, sexual and ability factors that make every person unique, but at the core, we're just people. If you can write a werewolf, you can write a black woman. If you can spell Daenerys Targaryen, you can spell Priyanka Gavankar. An Indian guy or a Polynesian may be as sexy as hell, but he's sexy because he's HIM, not because he's Indian or Polynesian. (Trust me, every culture has ugly dudes and unfortunate women. Our race doesn't automatically make us sexy.)

I don't want to be the Bad Guy, folks. I just want to help—so that, ultimately, I don't have to hurt.

So, you're headed to the Romance Writers of America conference next week in the heart of New York City's Times Square. Yes, yes, it's for professional networking and improvement and bonding with your peers...but let's get real: 2500 romance writers in one spot means at least 2000 women who need to wet their whistle! As a season whistle-wetter and 11-year resident of the Big Apple, let me suggest a few places near the Marriott Marquis Hotel where you can let your hair down and say, "Bottoms up!"

1. Bourbon Street Bar & Grille. (346 W. 46th Street, between 8th and 9th Ave) Yes, I'm suggesting a NOLA-themed bar for while you're in New York. Because I am just that perverse. Bourbon Street is a huge space with Southern-inspired dishes and Southern cocktails. Hurricanes, Abita beer, gator sausage...let those good times roll! Bonus? It's on Hell's Kitchen's "Restaurant Row," where you will find a slew of prix fixe restaurants just rarin' to nab the pre-theater crowd.

2. Gossip. (733 9th Avenue) A standard pub with a great interior, not-so standard bar bites (the appetizers really are tasty!), and Happy Hour from 4-7 Monday-Thursday.

3. Deacon Brodie's. (370 W. 46th Street, closer to 9th Ave) Dive, dive, dive! This Scottish bar no longer features my two favorite accent-y bartenders, but it DOES have a ton of whiskey, bourbon and cheap cocktails. If you want a slice of no-frills, hometown dive bar in the middle of NYC, this is the place to go. They don't have a kitchen, but they will let you order food to the bar or bring stuff in from outside.

4. The Chelsea Grill. (675 9th Avenue) Not only do they have a great Happy Hour, but you will not find a better deal for good burgers in the area. I also really love their cavatelli and their pork chop. Confession: I used to go there all the time and sang karaoke every week at their original outpost in Chelsea. If you see a manager/owner type guy named James, tell him "Mala says hi!"

5. Riposo 46 (667 9th Avenue) Just up the block from the Chelsea Grill is their sister bar, a beautiful little wine bar and bistro that serves flat breads, luscious desserts and a metric ton of good wine. I know many of y'all are winos. Don't deny it. Just go here and indulge.

6. The Beer Authority (300 W. 40th Street, at 8th Avenue) It's just what it sounds like: a place for beer. The food is decent -- standard American fare -- but it's the beer list you want to go for. See also...

7. House of Brews (two locations: 302 W. 51st Street, 363 W. 46th Street), A great place to sneak out for lunch during the conference week, as they have $10 lunch specials till 4PM. You can also get these ridiculous beer tower thingies. I've never had one, but I think it has a tap. And they bring it to your table. And it's a lot of beer.

8. Chevy's (259 W. 42nd Street) I know, it's a nationwide chain. I'm not suggesting you eat here. What I am suggesting is that you go here for their $5.99 margaritas and daiquiris during Happy Hour. From 2PM to 8PM every day, you can get drinks as big as your head and a free basket of chips and salsa. Possibly the best bang for your buck in the area. I am just looking out for your wallet.

Go forth and imbibe with my blessing, my fellow romance writers.

This list would not have been possible without the help of Elizabeth Kerri Mahon's liver. You can also check out my gal Julia Kelly's list. Isn't it amazing that we managed to rattle off completely different places in roughly the same area? Welcome to the glory that is New York.

This year's Romance Writers of America conference in New York City was my first as an author. I've attended three past RWAs around the country as an industry professional — and it was really interesting to attend as someone the programming was ostensibly for rather than as someone just observing for the purposes of coverage. It was also really fascinating to realize that, even with only one hat on, I was basically at twoconferences.

The first RWA I was at, in the boisterous and often maddening confines of the Marriott Marquis Hotel, was full of great energy and laughter and lots of people happy to share their experiences in the publishing hustle. I found many of the authors I hang out with on Twitter and our bonds were forged even stronger in person. It was fun and supportive and honest. We shared meals, went to each other's panels, or just sat with each other in exhausted silence. It reminds you that Romance is a sisterhood, a club, a place where people Get You...and a place where you're safe enough to still geek out if you meet Beverly Jenkins or Nalini Singh. “Sure, we're, like, peers and stuff, and they're normal people, but OH MY GOD.”

It was great. A lot of you know that I've had a difficult year. So, for me, RWA wasn't about pitching or networking so much as it was about remembering how to be human again, embracing the community again, and realizing that the relationships I've built online are real. Alisha Rai, Rebekah Weatherspoon, Alyssa Cole, Courtney Milan, Lorelie Brown, Lisa Lin, and 20 other names I want to fill this paragraph with...thank you. Thank you all for the industry straight talk, the hugs, the quiet time, and the smiles. We write for ourselves, but we trust in each other.

And then there was the other RWA I'd found myself in...

The one where publishers still don't quite know what to do with multicultural and queer romance.

The one where self-publishing is something you do because the Big Five haven't yet shined their light upon you.

The one where you feel as though your presence is just barely being tolerated, and these other women are indulging you as long as you stay quiet and don't draw too much attention.

This other conference was a convergence of microaggressions. From being side-eyed in elevators to having us confused for each other — Falguni Kothari and Alisha Rai are notthe same person, FYI — to being told that diverse books were not a priority for Pocket/Gallery...there was a thread of something that was almost like resentment. “Why do we have to talk about diversity?” “Why are there so many of you here?” “My God, can't you all be quiet and go away, so we can go back to the way it was before?”

I'm sorry our brownness and our queerness and our hair and our loudness have sullied the decorum and dignity of RWA. Except, wait, I'm really not.

Yes, three male/male romances, Farrah Rochon's Yours Forever, and Sonali Dev's A Bollywood Affair were all RITA finalists. But none of those books won. And they had to share a nomination slate with a Christian romance set in aconcentration camp with a Nazi hero and a Jewish heroine who converts at the end. It finaled in two categories. TWO. And I have no freaking clue how. Was no one Jewish involved in the awards process? Do we really need, in this day and age, to have a Jewish person tell us that concentration camp romance is deeply fucked up? Shouldn't that be, like, COMMON KNOWLEDGE? But I digress... What this boils down to is that the industry is not changing fast enough, and thatis why we can't be quiet and just go away.

Representation and inclusion are not just empty buzzwords. We're here, so let us really be here. We don't need to merely be tolerated or be thrown a bone here and there. We want what any other author wants: the assumption that we belong in the industry, and the shelf-space and marketing support that our paler, straighter, colleagues are afforded. We don't need side-eye. We need to be looked at head-on.

Man, that second, concurrent, RWA was tough to attend.

So, I'm going to focus on the first one.

The one where Alyssa Cole, Falguni Kothari, Lena Hart and K.M. Jackson made the best hand-out of all time.

The one where Nisha Sharma, Sonali Dev and I wooed a room full of people with clips from our favorite Hindi movies.

The one where I kept running into Sarah Lyons and Sarah Wendell like we were orbiting planets.

The one where a kick-ass, honest, panel about Writing Through Depression made everyone cry. (I was stuck on the subway during most of it. The MTA sucks.)

The one where I squeezed Tiffany Reisz and stroked her shiny new RITA for Erotic Romance.

The one where I felt like I was a part of something huge and fantastic and empowering.

photo by Rebekah Weatherspoon

I want to go back to that RWA conference as soon as possible!

On Sunday, July 26, I wrote up a very measured and rather SRS BZNESS account of attending this year's RWA. Now, I'd like to rattle off some of the other experiences I had. It wasn't all microaggressions and diversity panels. There was a whole lotta fun and a whole lotta silly. (And, at one point, a whole lot of tequila.)

•I Kool-Aid Womanned my way onto The Li.st's romance panels on Tuesday night with Maya Rodale, Sarah MacLean, Alisha Rai, Carla Neggers, Feminista Jones, Rebekah Weatherspoon and Jordan Silver. (I said the word “orgasm.” A LOT. And on Periscope! Eep.)

Alisha, me, Rebekah's mojito, and Rebekah's photo skills

•Me: “Why is this bar so empty and unprepared on a Saturday?”

Alisha Rai: “Honey, it's Tuesday.”

•Protip: Never order a mojito at a Russian vodka bar.

•I found soon-to-be RITA winner Meredith Duran at the Literacy Signing and she autographed Lady Be Good for me.

•I did a vodka shot at Lorelie Brown's table at the Literacy Signing. (Zoe Archer saw the whole thing. #sorrynotsorry)

•I hugged Lauren Dane...and then basically never saw her again. Heh.

•I fangirled at Bec McMaster, because I LOVE her London Steampunk series.

•I got recognized from Twitter by Beverly “bow down to her freaking awesomeness” Jenkins.

•I caught the tail-end of the Thursday morning breakfast buffet with Katana Collins. (I hope all of that leftover bacon went to a good place.)

•Our Bollywood Basics panel proved that the power of Ranveer Singh's oiled-up chest cannot be denied.

•Tessa Dare and her muffin. #nocontextforyou

•The day emergency sugar run to Junior's. Cheesecake solves almost everything...including weirdo tourists who think a group of women is "shy" for not wanting their picture taken.

•The night emergency sugar run to Momofuku Milk Bar at Ma Peche. (Cookie War references abounded!)

•Cake balls. Heh.

•I met Kelly Faircloth, Jezebel's resident romance lover.

•I finally broke down and gave money to the Yum Yum Thai restaurant empire with Regina Small and Shari Slade — who saved me from Death By 'Shroom.

•I ate raw fish with Courtney Milan. Mmmm, sashiiimiiii.

•I saw all of Nico Rosso's snake. #nocontextforyou (Zoe Archer witnessed this, too.)

What can brown do for you?

•Desi Romance Writer lunch with Falguni Kothari, Nalini Singh, Nidhi, Nisha Sharma, Sienna Snow, Sophia Sasson, and Soniwolf.

•“Am I the only Bong in this group?”

•I almost fell asleep at the Dark Romance panel. Luckily, Sophie Jordan helped me catch up with note-taking.

•Alyssa Cole. Just because.

•Rebekah, Kelly and I got spontaneous cake from Laura Florand and company.

•I finally ran into Tiffany Reisz, Rhonda Helms and Jeffe Kennedy after much angsting and searching. (PSA: Only Jeffe, Vivian Arend, and Sarah Anderson are allowed to wear hats to conferences.)

•I tackle-hugged Cecilia Tan after the RITAs...and just barely resisted singing Simon & Garfunkel at her. (I'm sure she gets that A LOT.)

•I immediately wanted to DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN.

Buckle up, folks. This is a huge recommendation list of Bollywood films. For those of you just joining the party, "Bollywood" specifically refers to big-budget Hindi-language films made in Mumbai, India — though I DO have some indie/arthouse Hindi films on this list because they're awesome and you should watch them.

IMPORTANT NOTE: If it's one-hundred percent in English, it is not a Bollywood film. It might be Indian arthouse, though. Similarly, Gurinder Chadha, Mira Nair, Deepa Mehta and Danny Boyle are NOT Bollywood filmmakers. Bride and Prejudice is not Bollywood. Fire is not Bollywood. Slumdog Millionaire is absolutely not Bollywood.

I've split the films up by categories so if a favorite of yours doesn't pop up in one place, it may be listed under something else. I've linked to some reviews where I can. Y'all know what IMDB and Wikipedia are, so I trust you to do that if you need to. Most of these films should be available via Netflix and online retailers. I've tried not to be that jerk who lists movies you can't find.

Also, I don't have a whole lot of Salman Khan films on this list because he makes me rage-y. I'm sure someone can rec you his greatest hits in the comments!

Classics Through the Decades
Shree 420 (1955)
Mughal-e-Azam (1957) Based on the allegedly real-life tale of future Mughal emperor Jahangir and a dancer named Anarkali,
Aradhana (1969) Sexiest. Song. Of. All. Time.
Bobby (1973)
Sholay (1975) Spaghetti western, desi-style!
Silsila (1981) Scandalous because it allegedly mirrored the actors' real-life affair.
Lamhe (1991)

Hollywood Remakes
Chori Chori (1956) and Dil Hai Ke Manta Nahin (1991) - It Happened One Night
Ek Ladka Ek Ladki (1992) - Overboard
Yeh Dillagi (1994) - Sabrina
Main Khiladi Tu Anari (1994) - The Hard Way
Pyar To Hona Hi Tha (1998) - French Kiss
Kaante (2002) - Reservoir Dogs and The Usual Suspects
Ghajini (2008) - Memento
We Are Family (2010) - Stepmom

Period Pieces
1942: A Love Story (1994)
Lagaan (2001) I hate this movie. Other people like it.
Devdas (2002) See above. I like the 2009, modernized, Dev D. much better.
Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
The Dirty Picture (2011)
Lootera (2013)

Modern Love
Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam (1999)
Hum Tum (2004)
Namastey London (2007)
Band Baaja Baaraat (2010)
Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani (2013)
The Lunchbox (2013) Critically acclaimed for a reason.

Ladies in the Lead
Dushman (1998) Kajol is a badass and the villain is TERRIFYING.
Chameli (2004) Kareena Kapoor plays a world-weary, foul-mouthed sex worker.
Black (2005) Rani Mukerji as a quasi-Helen Keller.
Dor (2006) An exquisite friendship between Gul Panag and Ayesha Takia.
Aaja Nachle (2007) Madhuri Dixit's "comeback" film.
Kahaani (2012) Vidya Balan is my girlfriend.
English Vinglish (2012) In which Sridevi makes us all cry.
Queen (2014) Kangana Ranaut is a revelation in this.

Khaaaaaaan!
Whether it's Shahrukh, Salman, Saif or Aamir, there's no denying the Khans have ruled the last three decades of Bollywood cinema. Here is a shortlist of films that aren't in other categories.
Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak (1988) Warning: This is a Romeo & Juliet story.
Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar (1992) College romance centered on a bike race.
Deewana (1992) In which SRK takes the hero role and the girl from Rishi Kapoor.
Darr (1993) SRK used to play villains. He makes for one CREEPY stalker.
Hum Aapke Hain Koun (1994) A big, splashy film that was a '90s watershed.
Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (1995) The longest-running Hindi film of all time.
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1998) One of my favorite movies of ALL TIME.
Kal Ho Naa Ho (2003) - I hate this movie but love the soundtrack.
Rang De Basanti (2006) Social justice and a history lesson. I cried.
Chak De India (2007) SRK's in it, but it's really about kickass lady sportsing!

The Big B
Amitabh Bachchan is one of the most famous actors in the world, and with good reason. I'm putting some repeats from other categories on this list. Because duh.
Deewaar (1975)
Sholay (1975)
Amar Akbar Anthony (1977)
Don (1978)
Lawaaris (1981)
Silsila (1981)
Coolie (1983)
Mahaan (1983)
Sharaabi (1984)
Kaante (2002)
Black (2005)
Bunty Aur Babli (2005)

Auteur, Auteur
Mani Ratnam - a) awesome and b) they dubbed a lot of his Tamil films in Hindi.
Roja (1992)
Bombay (1995)
Yuva (2004)
Guru (2007)

Zoya Akhtar, Farhan Akhtar - These siblings make GREAT films.
Dil Chahta Hai (Farhan, 2001)
Rock On!! (Farhan produced, 2008)
Luck By Chance (Zoya, 2009)
Karthik Calling Karthik (Farhan produced, 2010)
Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara (Zoya, 2011)
Dil Dhadakne Do (Zoya, 2015)

Vishal Bhardwaj - His Shakespeare series is just BRILLIANT.
Maqbool (Macbeth, 2003)
Omkara (Othello, 2006)
Haider (Hamlet, 2014)

Moves I Haven't Seen Yet That Other People Rec A Lot
Taal (1999)
Fanaa (2006)
Ishqiya (2010) and Dedh Ishqiya (2014)
Gangs of Wasseypur (2012)

Get Your Crack Right Here
Amar Akbar Anthony (1977) Brothers separated as kids, raised Hindu, Muslim and Catholic.
Mahaan (1983) Amitabh Bachchan in a TRIPLE ROLE.
Nagina (1986) She's a snake. Literally.
Kishen Kanhaiya (1990) Corsican twins separated at birth. Like, you hit one and the other feels pain.
Khalnayak (1993) A lady cop goes on the run with a criminal with questionable hygiene.
Jai Kishen (1994) Twins separated at birth. One is a blind martial artist.
Karan Arjun (1995) Reincarnation. Superhomoerotic fraternal twins.
Munnabhai MBBS (2003) A mob kingpin pretends to be a doctor to impress his parents.
Dhoom (2004) Motorcycle racing thieves, paper-thin plot, lots of chases.
Bunty Aur Babli (2005) A much happier, cuter, Bonnie and Clyde.
Om Shanti Om (2007) Another one of my favorites, featuring reincarnation, Bollywood meta references and gratuitous wind machine.

This should keep you all busy for a while, but I'm sure people will provide more recommendations in the comments. Remember: I left out a LOT because finding copies of older movies is hard.

**I am so anal-retentive, I will probably keep adding titles.

I'd like to talk about what constitutes kindness and bravery, and what any of it has to do with writing romance. But there is so much, so many different threads, that I'm not sure how to pull them together — especially without citing hundreds of years of racial disparity, colonialism, colorism, segregation, privilege, etc. It's a lot.

You can read some brilliant thoughts on what's going on in Romancelandia right now — what HAS been going on for decades — by Courtney Milan, Melissa Blue, and Zoraida Córdova.

Now here are some of my thoughts.

•Someone asked me the other night, “What difference does it make if someone is profiting of off us, as long as the diversity message is spread? I thought spreading the message was important.” This is a legitimate question, and I understand why people are confused. Do we only want the “right” people supporting diverse causes and inclusive books? And here's my answer: It's not about the right people, it's about HOW the message is spread. If someone couches reading a book by a black author as a “have to,” is that really palatable? There's a reason many kids hate broccoli and Brussels sprouts. Do you really want to pick up a book if someone says you SHOULD read it because Diversity Is Important? That's like forcing cod liver oil down someone's throat! And it's even worse if you're trying to say Diversity is Important and Trendy. People of color aren't kale. I don't care how artisanal and hip you pretend inclusive romance is, no one's drinking your kale smoothie.

Similarly, if you have a high-profile reviewer creating a whole diversity awareness month and devoting Kirkus Reviews blog posts to diverse romance...only to say “I'mnot actually reading these because they're not in audio/I don't have time/there are so many other books,” is that going to make you want to read a diverse title? If it sounds like these books are hard to find, not selling well, and not worth the effort to click a button on your Kindle, are you really going to bother? “Well, if this reviewer can't even make time to read a Beverly Jenkins or Alyssa Cole book, why should I?”

So, ultimately, the reviewer profits from page-clicks and greater visibility, but the books and authors DON'T.

•Kindness. Niceness. Courage. Bravery. Ultimately, romance publishing is a business — my friend Rebekah Weatherspoon loves reminding people of this and pointing out that we're all trying to make money, so calls for “civility” are actually getting in the way of one's livelihood. And she's right. Being “nice” is not a business strategy. It's a way to keep the playing field comfortable and safe as white, straight, cisgender women continue to dominate the market. When we're told to try being “nice” to get our message across, what we're really being told is to shut up, to not rock the boat.

Speaking of boats, I love how Tessa Dare addresses the issue of niceness in the romance community supposedly helping foster growth. “Does a lukewarm bath of general niceness lift ALL boats, really? Or just some boats?” she asks on Twitter. “What do we say to people sitting--nicely--in boats that...gosh, just don't seem to be rising? 'Hmm, have you tried being even NICER?' No.”

That's why you'll see authors of color, LGBTQ authors, authors who are a religious minority — and authors who fall under all of those umbrellas, because, hello, intersectionality — not being so damn NICE. We have to yell just to be heard. We have to rattle the cage just to be acknowledged. But, somehow, it's the women telling us to shut up who are lauded for their courage, who are told they are brave. Women who, oftentimes, have better publishing deals and shelf space than we can hope for. Their tears matter more than our livelihood. That's what we're constantly told. “You're broke? Well, I'm heartbrokenbecause you think I might be racist or clueless or not listening to you.”

You are not brave or courageous when you try to pretend racism doesn't exist. You're deliberately ignoring your own privilege and the voices of people around you. And it's not kind or nice to close your eyes and pretend it will all go away — or to blame women of color when youstarted the fight. Throwing us under the bus, making us the “Mean Girls,” is, again, a way to profit off diversity without having to lift an actual finger to really help the cause.

Like I said, it's a lot. None of this is new, and I'm practically hoarse from talking about it. Here are some of my past posts about diversity issues in romance publishing:

RWA15 in NYC: A Tale of Two Conferences

http://www.suleikhasnyder.com/2015/07/rwa15-in-nyc-tale-of-two-conferences.html

On Writing Diverse Characters and Moving Past Passive-Aggression:

http://www.suleikhasnyder.com/2015/06/on-writing-diverse-charactersand-moving.html

Spilling Tea, Choking on Silence and Perhaps Burning Bridges:

http://www.suleikhasnyder.com/2015/03/spilling-tea-choking-on-silence-and.html

This month, a slew of authors are pulling together for Tamsen Parker and Rebecca Grace Allen's Valentine's Rewind blog hop.

For my part in it, I decided to return to the world of Spice and Smoke and check in on Bollywood actors Michael Gill and Avinash Kumar. It helps to have read that novella, but in case you haven't, the bones of the story are simpler than they appear: Avinash is bisexual and has a flexible concept of fidelity; Michael's a romantic whose devotion is singular.

If you leave a comment on this post, you'll be eligible for a HUGE Blog Hop giveaway at the end of the week, which is pretty awesome!

So, without further ado, here's Smoke and Mirrors:

It still took his breath away that they'd had three glorious years together―okay, bas chohro, glorious if you discounted that Avi had cheated on him twice. The first time had been with his wife, which hardly rated as betrayal. Michael was not one to dismiss his lover's history, to turn his back on Trishna, who was still such a vital part of Avinash's life. He'd forgiven the drunken goodbye to their union almost instantly...and they'd all shared a bed together at one point or another over the months that passed.

Michael did not begrudge his lover his bisexuality, or his need for connection and reconnection with the woman he'd been married to for so long. And if he was careful not to let his hand stray to Trishna's silken skin when they all tangled beneath the sheets, it wasn't out of anger but of respect and a knowledge of his own body's demands. Just as Harsh, Trish's partner, only really needed her, Michael only needed his Avinash. No other bare flesh had the same appeal.

Some might call that stupidity, others naiveté. But Michael Gill had his code, the things he could and could not tolerate in order to live his life and have his career. Avi was Avi, hain na? He had to make concessions. He had to make acceptances. He had to sometimes breathe a woman's spicy perfume in the dark.

But cheat number two had been more difficult. More painful. Zaher jaise. Like drinking poison. And he couldn't think about that devastating time now, when Avi was standing in front of the window and silhouetted by the moonlight. He was beautiful like this. A hairy, naked brute, all sinew and muscle and sheen of sweat.

Michael pushed aside the bedcovers and the troubling memories, padding barefoot across the cool tile floor. He couldn't deny himself. He had to indulge his impulse to touch, to taste. He pressed his tongue to Avi's shoulder, licked salt and inhaled skin. He absorbed Avi's shudder and the guttural noise of pleasure that slipped from his throat.

The handsome superstar gave up trying to light his cigarette, stuffing it back into the pack. “You're not in the middle of my marriage,” he assured, meeting Michael's gaze with blazing dark eyes―and then a sheepish expression. “We're...polyamorous.”
Oh. He knew what that meant. Cheating ka free pass, na?
“I don't like to share,” he warned automatically. He turned to face Avi, one shoulder against the wall. “Especially not with women. Too many cases of straight guys looking to experiment. It's not my scene. Samjhe? Understand?”

He'd known. That first evening on the veranda when they'd locked eyes and traded quips and smoky, gin-soaked kisses, he'd known that Avinash would shatter him. Fool him, he'd thought he could avoid it. He hadn't yet realized that they were inevitable, that this was inevitable. Aaj, abhi, isi waqt. Here, today, this very moment. Curving into each other's arms. Kissing frantically and desperately until it slowed to languid touches of mouth against mouth, lips catching and tugging and sucking. Their hips canted together, their erections rubbing like two sticks sparking flame. Because it was fire between them, wasn't it? Pure, searing, aag that burned away all else.

“Kyu?” Avi demanded, fingertips digging into his hips. “Why are you still here? With me?”

“Because there is no 'without you.'” Michael gripped Avi's hair, pulling his head back with a possessive fierceness as their lips locked once more.

But then Avinash was wresting away, sliding down to his knees. Worshipful. Like Michael was a god and this bedroom was their temple. He nuzzled into the place where thigh met pelvis, kissing and tickling and drawing moans from Michael even before he took his cock down his throat. Then Michael sank into that loving warmth, accepted the stroke of tongue and the wet suction, and his head fell back against the wrought-iron window grate. The warm Mumbai breeze wove around him. The moon cast Avinash's bent form in a glow, tinting his dark curls with silver.

“Don't you believe in love, Avinash? Sachai pyar? Real love?”
The liquor bottle in Avi's hand nearly slipped, sloshing brown booze every which way, but his fingers caught hold of the neck before it could fall. “I stopped believing in poetic nonsense when I was twenty, Michael. When I learned that love can be bought and sold, the price haggled over like fish at market. There's no such thing as 'sachai pyar.' There's just deep trust. Trishna and I have that. You and I could have it also.”
No. No, they couldn't.

Or so he'd thought at the time. But they'd made it, na? The ink on Avi and Trishna's divorce had been dry for six months. Neither of their careers had suffered too badly, as they'd proclaimed to all the Bollywood magazines and gossip blogs that they were “still good friends.” No one was the wiser when Trish and Harsh Mathur went public as “dating” that they'd been fucking for several years with her ex-husband's blessing. And the ex-husband in question...well, he and Michael had done plenty of fucking themselves.

He'd never had a lover so attuned to his body, so attuned to his heart and his soul. They could barely stand to be apart for more than a handful of days. If a film took Avinash to London for a week, Michael was there by Wednesday. If Michael had to shoot in Simla, Avi packed his winter coat and gloves. It was an obsession between them. A madness.

And it had lasted three years longer than anyone had predicted. Player. Playboy. Manwhore. Slut. He'd heard all of those labels in that time―not about him, but about the man who shared his house and his bed. He'd listened to countless warnings that they could never be out and proud, never be faithful, never last. When they held hands and roughhoused in public like typical desi boys, no one blinked. But when they gazed at one another with affection, everyone judged, laughed and placed bets.

Three years were a “fuck you” to all of that bullshit. And a marvel. A miracle. Ek kamaal. They'd had months and weeks and days of passion and need...and of coming so hard that Michael couldn't think or breathe or conceive of anything outside the orbit of their two heavenly bodies. As orgasm broke over him now, he surrendered yet again to his fate and accepted his partner's fundamental nature anew. This was who they were. This was who they would be forever. No one could take it away.

“Happy anniversary, mere jaan,” Avinash whispered against his thigh, lips slick with seed and smug satisfaction.

Michael gently stroked his head before trailing his fingers down the lines of Avi's neck and his spine and giving him a blessing and a curse. “I love you,” he promised, for better or worse, as he'd done so many times before. “I will always love you. I will always be your home.”

Thanks for reading, I hope you liked this visit with Avi and Michael! The next stop on the hop is Teresa Noelle Roberts. Be sure to comment on each story to be eligible for the massive giveaway at the end. Thanks for joining us for #ValentinesRewind! ♥

I've been thinking a lot about diversity panels and diversity months and visibility. Bandwagons vs. real change. How to be seen and how to be heard. It's sticky and tangled and problematic, and I know some people wish I would shut up about it. But I can't, because I know I'm not the only one with questions. There are others who don't feel comfortable asking the room. Bull in a china shop that I am, I don't mind shouting.

There's a backlash right now about the word "diversity" and how it's pretty much just lip service. An empty buzzword being tossed around You also see a lot of big-name authors of color turning down diversity panels and landing on "diverse books" lists because they want to be part of the larger picture, general panels, general lists, and not pigeonholed by race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, etc.

I get it. We all want to be a part of that larger conversation, and to bring meaning to our identities in the process...not just have it be an empty word that people dismiss as a "trend." But, as I said on Twitter the other day, most lesser known authors can't afford to turn down panels or say "don't put me on a list." Sometimes, that's our only visibility.

For a lot of us, in our particular genres, we're starting at square one. "Diversity" is the easiest word to use to educate people on a basic level and get the concept of a mixed bookshelf off the ground.

The fact of the matter is, if writers like me swear off talking about diversity and inclusion, we aren't heard. We should be heard.
— Suleikha Snyder (@suleikhasnyder) April 3, 2016

Today, I saw one of my publishers kicking off a diversity month...and while I'm all for the author side of it and thrilled for the people I know who are being highlighted — it's a hustle, so get in there!— the publisher side of it bugs me just like the conference side of it does. Why must representation come with strings and limitations? Why does a conference place a higher value on a white straight midlist author talking about general topics than on a queer person of color? We can talk about marketing and craft, too. Why does a publisher think promoting white, cis, straight authors year-round and then dedicating a diversity month to everybody who's brown, gay, or disabled is more sensible than promoting all authors and titles equally all the time?

This, I don't get.

Like I've said before, being marginalized in some way is not fun or trendy or something to jump on. We're not kale. We're just trying to be seen, we're just trying to get our books read. We're just trying to live our lives and pay our rent.

Are there answers to the things I wonder about? I don't know. Can we fix this? I don't know. Will I stop trying? No.

If you've ever wondered what it's like to have "crazy brain*," I wrote this blog post when I was in the grip of a depressive episode yesterday. Reading it today, when things are a little brighter, it reminds me that I'm FIGHTING to get better, to keep from sliding back to a dark place permanently.

It's okay. It's going to be okay.

***

I'm awful and I should die. I'm a monster. I'm terrible. No wonder people hate me. I just had this litany go through my head. Welcome to anxiety. Welcome to depression. Yeah, I know they lie. Doesn't make the lies any less like a siren's call. Doesn't make the sensation any less like bees knocking around in my rib cage and weights dragging down my wrists.

I've been struggling for years to write through depression, to live through anxiety, and sometimes I feel like it's pointless to fight. Fortunately, thanks to regular therapy and a combination of meds, I can now flag those times and check myself. But, again, it doesn't make it any less attractive to just shut out the world, hide away, and give up.

I know that self-sabotage and self-judgment are a large part of my illness. I set myself up for failure, and I'm terribly hard on myself. Every mistake, every misstep, every fumble, must reinforce that I'm awful.

So, yeah, there IS a part of me that wonders if all my social justice and race-in-publishing raging is really about doing good or just about proving to myself that I'm a caustic jerk who can't leave things alone. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time. I have torpedoed a lot of things in my life, done a lot of self-destructive things. Maybe I'm trying to ruin my writing career before it even really starts, alienate everyone I possibly can?

Okay, no. I don't really believe that. I do think the ranting is actually what it says on the tin. But the fact that I am a blunt asshole with no filter is definitely still destructive. It just adds to the things my depression and anxiety already whisper to me. I'm a monster. I'm terrible.

I don't know where I'm going with any of this. I'm trying to remember the strides I've made. I have a new day job that I love. I self-pubbed a serial last year under a new name. I'm writing more often these days and it might eventually add up. I've made countless new friends. I dyed my hair. I get out of bed every morning.

But I'm still afraid. I'm always afraid.

Last year, I split my head open and broke my ribs. What if this is the year I break everything else?

***

*I know a lot of people find terms like "crazy," to be ableist, but it works for me. As well as "nuts,""loony," and many other variations.

...unless you want to kick my ass. Then ignore this post in its entirety!

That's right, folks! I'll be attending this week's RT Booklover's Convention in Las Vegas from Wednesday, April 13, through Saturday, April 16. I will have rabble-rousing buttons, but no other swag, and probably some mid-level anxiety!

My schedule's pretty light — it is, after all, Vegas and one needs to make allowances — but you can find me at TWO panels during the conference!

Historical: Look Around, Look Around: Exploring the Exciting New World of Inclusive Historical Romance
Wednesday, April 13, 2016 2:45pm-3:45pm, Conga
Moderator:
Suleikha Snyder
Panelist(s):
Alyssa Cole, Lena Hart, Courtney Milan, Genevieve Turner

HEA For All: Writing Multicultural Romances
Thursday, April 14, 2016 1:30pm-2:30pm, Palma G
Moderator:
Alisha Rai
Panelist(s):

Rebekah Weatherspoon, Suleikha Snyder, Alyssa Cole

Aside from these two panels, I have no set plans — except supporting my pals at their panels and then following them around like a duckling.

Romance author and Washington Post columnist Sarah MacLean put out a call on Twitter earlier today, asking for India-set historicals featuring heroes and heroines of color. Maybe it's because I kind of understand Sarah-speak by now, or because I have a lot of hope, but I automatically assumed she was asking about stories by authors of South Asian origin writing about South Asian people. The answers that came back were all recs for books by white women...and at least four white authors volunteered that they're writing stories with half-Indian characters.

Sophia Duleep Singh, actual biracial person and
suffragette, in 1910

White authors are writing historical romances with half-Indian characters, and all I can ask is "Why?" Because you care about the biracial and marginalized experience at the time or because you think it's sexy and the right touch of angst? If it's the latter...I thought we were past that two decades ago, aside from a few authors here and there who still love to drop in a half-Indian peer. If you claim it's the former...show me the receipts. I would love to see a fictionalized take on Sophia Duleep Singh. Or Merle Oberon (yes, I know Michael Korda already did that). But I know that the reality of romance writing is much different. What we're told and what we actually get are often seas apart.

And, let's be honest, why isn't the character 100 percent Indian? Is there something wrong with that? Will it completely change your story? Or is the half-Indianness just a tool, an easy source of conflict? A dash of spice? Biracial people, whether they're on the page or picking up the book, deserve FAR better than that.

With diversity and inclusivity very much part of the romance publishing conversation, I really question intent. Is this about being cool and trendy? Are you trying to jump on a bandwagon? Because I've talked about that. So MANY of us have talked about that. We're not this hot new thing. And we're not demanding diverse characters from everybody. You seriously don't have to include POC...especially if you're going to half-ass it. Because another part of the conversation we're having is about harm. Is your portrayal going to cause someone pain?

Jhansi ki Rani bit it in 1858.
She died so dead.

It's 2016. I'm over the half-Indian duke and the exoticizing of my parents' homeland in the service of a white girl's orgasm. I'm over the poor research, the microaggressions, the arousing titillation of the forbidden Other. I'm over people mixing up Islam and Hinduism. I'm over people not realizing that there are dozens, if not hundreds, of distinct cultures on that subcontinent. I'm over people ignoring caste and purdah. And I'm over people ignoring that colonization is an act of racism and an act of war. The British Raj was not exotic wallpaper, not a curry-laced convenience that spawned some interesting colors and cultural appropriation.

Hundreds of thousands of people DIED because the British came to India. And how many died to get them to LEAVE? They were not welcome there. There was a revolution. And independence.

How do you ignore THAT history while crafting your ball gowns and witty repartee?

It's certainly hard for those of us of South Asian origin. I think that's why you don't see us writing in that time period because, well, it's extremely complicated and largely un-fun. Most of the stories I know about the Raj are about revolutionaries who died for the cause. Chandrashekhar Azad. Bhagat Singh. The Rani of Jhansi — she was 29 years old when she succumbed to wounds from a skirmish with the British. And I'm not about to suggest someone write that definitively non-HEA "romance"!

Bhagat Singh was superhot...
and superhanged to
death in 1931.

Sure, there is a desire among desi romance writers to tackle India's pre-colonial history. We have thousands of years of gorgeousness to mine...but we also have to work through a couple of hundred years of being told our own stories don't matter.

So, yeah, when I see a white author of historical romance blithely going, "I have a half-Indian character," I just go back to, "Why?"

What is this character's throughline?

Does his or her background actually mean something?

What do you hope to gain?

Is this going to hurt?

'Cause, goddamn, I am so tired of hurting.

Trigger warning for sexual assault.

You might want to pour a few...

A cousin in a back bedroom. A friend who drove me home from our local dive. Another friend who gave me a lift home. A cab ride with a B-list film and TV actor who's been in blockbusters. And, most recently, a former bartender who kept buying me mezcal and tequila and kissed me until my mouth and neck bruised under the force of his grip — the marks appeared the next morning, after a harrowing night of throwing up in a bar bathroom and being walked home by a rescuer.

It's amazing, when I think about it, how most of my experiences with men have involved unwanted advances, or even more unwanted touch. Because my mere proximity was enough consent. I sat next to them. Or I was kind. Or I was funny. I smiled. That was the green light to lean in, to loom, to lower lips to mine. To tell me, “I've always had a woody for you.” To bracket my chin and hold me in place. To tell me it would be our special secret.

I smiled too wide. I gave them the wrong impression. It's amazing, too, the things I've told myself over the years about all of these encounters — the judgment growing all the heavier as my few consensual moments, more often than not alcohol-fueled, joined the pile. I don't think I've kissed someone while sober since I was 18. I'd like to think it didn't count when I was eight.

At a certain point, you begin to feel like the word “victim” is scrawled all over you. Like they can read it, smell it, taste it. The shame is leaking from your pores. So you need a drink to forget that essence, that tattoo, for a while, or you need a drink to make yourself brave enough to flirt with someone you like...and then you realize the man next to you interprets “victim” as “easy” or “I want it,” and he takes away the choices you've been fighting so hard to get back.

Someone once told me "It's not like you were raped." As if penetration is the only real violation. As if I'm not allowed to catalogue the countless moments where I felt unsafe and guilty and betrayed.

There's so much of it I can't remember. So much of it I want to forget.

And that's not even counting anonymous groping, ass-grabs, men trying to pull me on dance floors, online dating perverts, and guys who've called me a bitch when I dare to shoot them down.

I smiled too wide. I gave them the wrong impression. That must be it, right?

Weeks later, I still find myself tracing my neck, like the thumbprint hasn't faded. I shudder. I keep trying to find a way to make it my fault.

None of it was ever my fault.

I didn't ask for it.

I existed. I breathed the same air.

I was kind and funny and I smiled.

I'm a woman, I remind myself. That's all the reasoning he needed.

I recently got into the strangest fracas on Twitter about racism in publishing...where some diversity naysayers asked if I'd read conservative books (because, clearly, I'm biased against such things) and wondered who my favorite Supreme Court Justice is. Frankly, I have no idea what the latter has to do with publishing (it's Ruth Bader Ginsburg, because DUH), but the former is a more troubling query. Because, let's face it, given the literary canon according to schools and colleges, most of what we read is by right-leaning white authors. If anything, I'm making up for not reading lefties and social progressives for 22 years!

So, yeah, that was weird. Also weird was this idea that talking about the disparity in publishing means painting white people as racists. Because, as always, being called a racist is the terrible part. Not the inequality in the system. And it's such a clever, kneejerk-emotional way to distract from the actual topic. It centers the conversation back on white cishet folks instead of the work that still needs to be done to include everyone.

But here's what I really don't get about these perpetual kerfuffles: why asking people to read more is a bad thing. As I said on Twitter, so many people act like being told to diversify your reading is limiting. No, dude, it just means more awesome books. The capacity to devour stories is infinite. It's like a TARDIS. There's plenty of room in there. You can read dead white guys, living white ladies, and POC. That's all that's being said. I mean, I love to read. I've been binge-reading to shut out the world, and I flow from one text to the next. Paul Tremblay to Sonali Dev to Sherry Thomas to Sabaa Tahir to Amanda Bouchet. It's "and" not "instead of."

No one is forcing medicine down your throat. Like I've said many times before, POC aren't kale. We're not some new health trend. We've always been here. The Mahabharata is estimated to date back to the 8th or 9th Century BCE. The Epic of Gilgamesh is dated around 2100 BCE. I could go on. But, basically, POC were spinning stories while paler folks were still scribbling in the dirt. So don't pretend you were here first. You just built the modern stadium, the modern playing field, and then put us in the parking lot...not realizing that there's plenty of room in that stadium. Tons of seats left to fill.

Am I mixing my metaphors? I might be mixing my metaphors.

Stop being weird, people. Just read more goddamn books.

Did you know I have a YouTube channel now? I'm kind of bad at announcing these things, but, yes, you can actually WATCH me rant about things.

I've started a video series called Schooleikha's in Session, talking about diversity from a craft perspective. So far there are only three clips, but I will happily make more — especially if you leave me questions in the comments of this post! I'm happy to tackle anything related to writing and social media branding.

For now, check out these three videos about writing diversely!

THE WHY:

HOW TO:

THE WHO (not the rock group):

Here's a tiny bit of writing inspired by author Falguni Kothari, who cheers the idea of a "passive-aggressive Sita" choosing to turn her back on Rama in The Ramayana after her tried to force her into one last purity test.

She stands at the edge, toes pointed toward the precipice. The fresh mahawar on her soles stains the rocks like blood. The silken ends of her pallu are singed, and soot dances in the air like tiny leaves curled to a crisp.

She is unburned. But the earth behind her is scorched. A marriage incinerated. A history made ash.

Words, she knows, are like matches that way. They kindle so quickly and spread on the wind, destroying everything in their path. Whore. Adulteress. Traitor. Mother of bastards. But the saying of it does not make it truth. She is not her reputation. She is not a husband's weakness, or a people's ignorant fervor.

She is Sita. Queen of Ayodhya. Princess of Mithila. Progenitor of noble princes and better men.

A slim brown hand encircles her calf like an anklet and gives it a playful tug. Still more hands reach up from the crevasse. Bright, hopeful eyes and strong voices follow. Eyes like hers once were. Voices like hers once was. Come, they urge her. Come home where you belong, sister. Mother Earth holds no judgment. Her children are all equal. They do not suffer the tests of mortal men and are not bound by their petty laws. They drink of the rain, dance in the mud and bloom on the vine.

Sita does not look back. All of her goodbyes have been said.

She does not jump.

She soars.

On February 13, I took part in WORD Brooklyn's Galentine's Day bash with fellow authors Sarah MacLean, Maya Rodale and Damon Suede, as well as sex educator Kait Scalisi. Wine and swear words flowed freely as host Maddie Caldwell put us on the hot seat — and so did book recommendations! I wanted to list them here for those who missed the event. Y'all deserve to have your wallets drained, too!

photo by Fran, @NBPLRomance

An Extraordinary Union by Alyssa Cole (historical romance)
Let it Shine by Alyssa Cole (historical romance)
Daughters of a Nation by Kianna Alexander, Alyssa Cole, Lena Hart and Piper Huguley (historical romance)
The Game Maker series by Kresley Cole (contemporary romance/dark romance)
A Champion's Heart by Piper Huguley (historical romance)
Forbidden by Beverly Jenkins (historical romance)
The Deadly series by Brenda Joyce (historical romance)
The Wallflowers series by Lisa Kleypas (historical romance)
Devil in Spring by Lisa Kleypas (historical romance)
Sugar Daddy and Blue-Eyed Devil by Lisa Kleypas (contemporary romance)
No Good Duke Goes Unpunished by Sarah MacLean (historical romance)
Kingdom of Dreams by Judith McNaught (historical romance)
Perfect by Judith McNaught (contemporary romance)
Some Kind of Wonderful by Sarah Morgan (contemporary romance)
The Beyond series by Kit Rocha (erotic romance/dystopian)
Lady Bridget's Diary by Maya Rodale (historical romance)
The Knickerbocker Club series by Joanna Shupe (historical romance)
Priest by Sierra Simone (erotic romance)
The Professor by Charlotte Stein (erotic romance)

I recently found myself in conversation with an earnest film school graduate — the kind of hip, bearded, 20-something who thinks acknowledging his white privilege and his problematic faves is enough to balance out his praise of Quentin Tarantino and explain away why he still watches films by Roman Polanski and Woody Allen. He volunteers with Planned Parenthood, you see, so he’s not like those other white dudes — the ones that get huffy about movies like Get Out, which he’d just come from seeing.

Yeah, there was a lot to unpack in that chat we had. And he’d had at least four beers and three shots, which made him particularly mansplain-y. But one thing that really struck me was his insistence that Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogshas one of the most shocking scenes ever put to film. This was a follow-up to my condemnation of Polanski and Allen and my insistence that I don’t have to give them my time or my money. He turned to the responsibility of creatives within the confines of storytelling. Wasn’t depicting problematic things onscreen just as bad as actual abuse? Needless to say, I tried my best to set him straight on that count. (Mystery writers don’t actually kill people, remember?) But I keep coming back to what he said about Straw Dogs.

What was so jaw-dropping about the 1971 thriller according to this self-professed film buff? Well, it depicted a woman being raped — and coming to enjoy it. “So that’s more gratuitous to you than, say, The Last House on the Leftor I Spit On Your Grave?” I asked. Well, yeah, he said. Because those movies are revenge fantasies. Peckinpah’s take, however, was a no-no. Sure, the character does end up assaulted “for real” and eventually kills one of her attackers, but she liked it once. Unconscionable to this white male feminist who thinks A Touch of Evil is one of the greatest movies of all time even though Charlton Heston is in brownface.

And this is where my brain breaks down. There are zillions of movies out there that are severely fucked up. Audition, anyone? Old Boy? 120 Days of Sodom? Human Centipede? And what about the hilarious “big reveal” in Snowpiercer — the only movie on this list I’ve seen, because I have no desire to watch crazy shit just because it has cinematic relevance. But to this supposedly “woke” young man, a woman orgasming from sexual violence is the most horrifying thing he’s ever witnessed on film. Why?

I can’t help but conclude that he still views a woman as something that needs to be protected, with no agency of her own, a victim of storyline and circumstance. We talked about Elle, too, and even there his focus was mainly on Paul Verhoeven deft handling of the film’s subject matter and not on Isabelle Huppert’s character. The Planned Parenthood anecdote he shared with me...? He said he feels out of sorts now because, before, he could be an escort. He’s a 6-foot-plus strapping white man who can be perceived as a threat. Now, with so many volunteers, he’s reduced to doing mailings. My takeaway? He doesn’t have relevance. He’s been rendered unimportant, impotent. In terms of how this relates to Straw Dogs, I feel like he was saying that showing a woman being raped and then liking it is an anathema because another man doesn’t have to come in and rescue her or avenge her. It also implies that all women should react to sexual assault the exact same way — that there’s only one acceptable narrative. (And, really, all of this is made even more absurd by the fact that Straw Dogsis all about the husband’s emasculation and how heevolves into a violent man after his wife’s assault.)

You can tell that this film school grad — “I’m 26,” he told me in an offended tone, when I guessed he was 27 — would turn up his nose at romance novels and soap operas and the questions about sexuality and agency they raise. He was surprised when I brought up how rape fantasy is often tackled in erotic romance — and I bet General Hospital’s Luke and Laura would blow his mind.

I’m not justifying Sam Peckinpah’s choices in the least. That shit’s bananas, and I really hate rape as a plot device. But the PBR-loving film scholar made me angry in a different way. Because when men see rape as the worst thing that can happen to a woman — or to anyone, really — they are reducing us to our sexual worth and our perceived purity. As a molestation survivor, I resent the idea that my reaction and my experience cannot be my own — that it has to be defined by what a man thinks is right. You don’t get to decide that being turned on during an assault is the worst thing ever. Worse than a gory wound or cannibalism or, you know, death. That’s not progressive, no matter how much you claim you’re aware of your privilege. Combine that with all of the “these films are important even if the directors are human garbage” stuff, and I couldn’t help but look at this guy like, “Are you high?” Though, to be fair, he wasdrunk.

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Depression Part Two: Electric Boogaloo

Bollywood Confidentially: A Hard Look Back

On Writing Diverse Characters...and Moving Past Passive Aggression

Yet Another Drinking During RWA-in-NYC Post!

RWA15 in NYC: A Tale of Two Conferences

RWA15 Part Two: Electric Boogaloo

Suleikha's Epic Bollywood Recs Post

Why POC Aren't Kale And We'd Rather Have Wine Than Your Tears

Valentine's Rewind Blog Hop: Smoke and Mirrors

No, I'm Not Done Talking About This

Turn Down These Voices Inside My Head

Where to Find Me at #RT16...

A Whole Lotta Words on Doing Things By Halves

There Are Things That Never Fade

Kerfuffles, TARDISes and Empty Seats

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Flash Ficlet: "No Place Like Home"

All the Book Recs From Galentine's Day!

Huffing, Puffing, and Blowing the House Down