A Short Critique of The Romantics: Ugh.

mjc-phone-hand-pendant-b&w and red

I hate the romantics. All of them. Shelley, Wordworth, Keats. Coleridge. That other guy whose name nobody can ever remember.

Most of all—Byron. Ugh.

They ruined love. They ruined sex. They almost ruined poetry.

Although they were part of the energy that made Mary Shelley write Frankenstein… and they inspired Darrah Teitel’s The Apology. after which I had phenomenal sex. So. I suppose.



About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance Tell Me, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) Consequences (of defensive adultery), and the rom-com (she's versatile) Cherry Pie Cure, as well as the non-fiction collection of essays Rough Draft Confessions: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway. Coming in 2018: Text Me, Cupid, a steamy romance in four episodes. Current WiPs: Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Jewel of the Not-So-Spectacular Boobs, All In the Cards, and Un-Valentine. Yes, working on four projects simultaneously is a spectacularly bad idea.

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