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Enter the big Insatiable Reads giveaway!
Jordan Bell is a bestselling author of steamy romance novels and novellas. The Fortune Teller’s Daughter is her newest release, now on sale on Amazon and all other major retailers and will be available in paperback in late March, 2013.
Conquering the Curvy Girl Shame
Growing up, I was the first girl in my fifth grade class to need a bra. I remember the morning I walked into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and barely dressed, my mother sitting at the kitchen table eating toast, smelling of hot grape jelly and butter. She told me, in the way you tell someone they’ve developed an incurable disease, that I would not be going to school another day without wearing my new bra. She wouldn’t allow it. It was indecent.
I had no idea what indecent meant, but it sounded awful, not worse than having to wear a bra, but pretty bad.
The bra was sort of off white and cotton. She’d hung it on a hanger on my door knob days earlier and I’d chucked it into the back of my closet as soon as I woke up. Seeing that thing hanging on my door waiting for me and I suddenly understood what boys were afraid of catching from girls. Cooties, I started to realize, were directly related to having to wear bras. No wonder they ran from us.
Somehow I ended up on the kitchen floor that day sobbing and clutching my jiggling chest, knowing that the moment I stepped into school strapped in everyone would know I had boobs. Real boobs. Boobs that bounced and knocked into things and got in the way and made all my clothes unbearable. Boobs that needed to be hidden and squashed and noticed. The boys would mortify me and the girls would pity me and I’d be something else that the rest of my classmates weren’t and there was no crueler punishment.
I didn’t go to school. I spent most of the morning sprawled on the floor tearfully wondering how I’d ever survive the rest of my life when I’d been afflicted with boobs. My mom didn’t push. She left me to my day-long tantrum and helped me to bed when I’d cried myself sick and exhausted.
When I write stories about women who push size twelve and up, who are as afflicted with boobs as I had been and as hyperaware of the space they take up as I am now, it’s this memory I draw upon. That I had them big and early was inevitable. People are not made equal sized or shaped, but somehow we’ve become a one size only society and there’s a certain amount of self shame we inflict upon ourselves when we aren’t that size. We are so unkind to each other, but we are worse to ourselves.
The hardest part about writing these women are the words I have to describe them with.
Overweight.
Plump.
Pudgy.
Round.
Curvy.
Bulging.
Big.
Fat.
These are only words.
They are only adjectives.
But they are also bad words. They are the sticks and stones of the word world.
Worse than bitch and never used in polite company or above a derisive whisper. These words describe traits about a person that are unforgivable. They are not kind words, and for most women, having these words describe them is worse than almost anything else they could be. It is better to be ugly than fat. It is better to be poor, unwanted, alone, unhappy, a liar, a thief.
As long as you’re not fat.
Because if you are fat, then you are automatically assigned other undesirable traits.
Lazy.
Pathetic.
Gluttonous.
Weak-willed.
Unworthy.
Apathetic
Dumb.
Self-destructive.
Unattractive.
Less than human.
When I write a BBW character, I have to face the ingrained prejudice of readers that take one look at these bad words and immediately ascribe my heroines with unflattering images before I have any chance of refuting them.
I don’t think we mean to do it. We’ve been taught too long, pummeled too often with hidden agendas, images, advertisements, products, clothes, and each other. We’re to the point where we don’t even question it. Oh she’s a size sixteen? I know what kind of person she is.
I write about girls who have a little extra vavoom and I love it. I love that there are so many people who want to read about these curvy girls being craved by the hero. Not necessarily because he’s ready to face the cultural hysteria against fat and love the heroine despite it (which makes me cringe, by the way.)
I love that the hero doesn’t see a fat girl he’ll love despite her curves. I love that the hero loves her because he loves her. There’s no despite or regardless in the equation.
Surprisingly enough, I kind of like the fact that in the beginning of the story when you realize the character has got cleavage for miles and hips like a linebacker you cringe because we’re used to cringing when we hear that someone’s been afflicted with curves. You feel embarrassed for her. Pity. I like that somewhere in the story you stop cringing and you forget you ever even noticed. I like the moment she becomes a person instead of a size.
I want women to be accepted and adored no matter what they look like or what cosmetically fatal flaw they think they’ve been stuck with, like a disease, but as a society we’re not there yet. Maybe someday, but for now I’m happy that people want to read about my beautiful curvy girls. They crave them and I love writing them so it’s sort of perfect. I am happy that when they cringe in the beginning but stop noticing by the end… this is progress. It’s the next step towards acceptance of ourselves and each other.
Serafine Moreau grew up on the shiftless, grimy edges of cities that were never home, raised at the capricious whims of her bohemian mother. She learned young how to move unseen through crowds, acquire things that didn’t belong to her, and disappear at the first sign of trouble. Together they made a curious life beneath street market tents, plying tourists with fortunes and new age voodoo. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs - until a stranger appeared one unremarkable autumn morning to steal the fortune teller’s life and leave Sera with nothing but questions.
Now alone, Sera wanders lost between days, strangled by the past and unable to pursue her future. Even the cards reveal nothing. So when an invitation addressed to her mother’s stage name Corazon arrives from an old carnival outfit looking to recruit the late fortune teller, Sera answers instead.
Beneath the labyrinthine tents she discovers enchantments that defy explanation and wonders that feel like magic. Bewitched by the carnival’s handsome illusionist and the dark whimsy of the Carnival Imaginaire, Sera finally feels like she’s home until the mystery of her mother’s death unravels with the secrets of the carnival’s past. At the center of the brewing storm hides Sera’s heart that can’t hope to survive another loss.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jordan Bell is a bestselling author of steamy romance novels and novellas. She writes about powerful relationships, complicated families, terrible villains, delicious heroes, and curvy, clever heroines. Jordan’s newest title series, Curves & Corsets, debuted on the Amazon bestseller list with more hot titles on the way. The Fortune Teller’s Daughter is her first full length novel. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and four cats.
Follow me at: my website, on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest, Join my mailing list for new releases and free short stories!
Jordan Bell is currently on virtual tour with 15 other awesome romance authors as part of the Insatiable Reads Book Tour. From March 4-31st, readers will be invited to enter for a chance to win a Kindle Paperwhite, free books, and other fun goodies. Readers will also be able to participate in author chats, get insights into writing and publishing romance, and collect story swag.
This week, Jordan is touring with Erika Masten, Carré White, and Marina Maddix
To enter giveaways and meet the other writers, follow us at:
Website: www.insatiablereads.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/insatiable.books
Twitter: www.twitter.com/insatiablereads/
Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/100902224798608127488/posts
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/selenakitt/insatiable-reads/
Enter the big Insatiable Reads giveaway!
Conquering the Curvy Girl Shame
Growing up, I was the first girl in my fifth grade class to need a bra. I remember the morning I walked into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and barely dressed, my mother sitting at the kitchen table eating toast, smelling of hot grape jelly and butter. She told me, in the way you tell someone they’ve developed an incurable disease, that I would not be going to school another day without wearing my new bra. She wouldn’t allow it. It was indecent.
I had no idea what indecent meant, but it sounded awful, not worse than having to wear a bra, but pretty bad.
The bra was sort of off white and cotton. She’d hung it on a hanger on my door knob days earlier and I’d chucked it into the back of my closet as soon as I woke up. Seeing that thing hanging on my door waiting for me and I suddenly understood what boys were afraid of catching from girls. Cooties, I started to realize, were directly related to having to wear bras. No wonder they ran from us.
Somehow I ended up on the kitchen floor that day sobbing and clutching my jiggling chest, knowing that the moment I stepped into school strapped in everyone would know I had boobs. Real boobs. Boobs that bounced and knocked into things and got in the way and made all my clothes unbearable. Boobs that needed to be hidden and squashed and noticed. The boys would mortify me and the girls would pity me and I’d be something else that the rest of my classmates weren’t and there was no crueler punishment.
I didn’t go to school. I spent most of the morning sprawled on the floor tearfully wondering how I’d ever survive the rest of my life when I’d been afflicted with boobs. My mom didn’t push. She left me to my day-long tantrum and helped me to bed when I’d cried myself sick and exhausted.
When I write stories about women who push size twelve and up, who are as afflicted with boobs as I had been and as hyperaware of the space they take up as I am now, it’s this memory I draw upon. That I had them big and early was inevitable. People are not made equal sized or shaped, but somehow we’ve become a one size only society and there’s a certain amount of self shame we inflict upon ourselves when we aren’t that size. We are so unkind to each other, but we are worse to ourselves.
The hardest part about writing these women are the words I have to describe them with.
Overweight.
Plump.
Pudgy.
Round.
Curvy.
Bulging.
Big.
Fat.
These are only words.
They are only adjectives.
But they are also bad words. They are the sticks and stones of the word world.
Worse than bitch and never used in polite company or above a derisive whisper. These words describe traits about a person that are unforgivable. They are not kind words, and for most women, having these words describe them is worse than almost anything else they could be. It is better to be ugly than fat. It is better to be poor, unwanted, alone, unhappy, a liar, a thief.
As long as you’re not fat.
Because if you are fat, then you are automatically assigned other undesirable traits.
Lazy.
Pathetic.
Gluttonous.
Weak-willed.
Unworthy.
Apathetic
Dumb.
Self-destructive.
Unattractive.
Less than human.
When I write a BBW character, I have to face the ingrained prejudice of readers that take one look at these bad words and immediately ascribe my heroines with unflattering images before I have any chance of refuting them.
I don’t think we mean to do it. We’ve been taught too long, pummeled too often with hidden agendas, images, advertisements, products, clothes, and each other. We’re to the point where we don’t even question it. Oh she’s a size sixteen? I know what kind of person she is.
I write about girls who have a little extra vavoom and I love it. I love that there are so many people who want to read about these curvy girls being craved by the hero. Not necessarily because he’s ready to face the cultural hysteria against fat and love the heroine despite it (which makes me cringe, by the way.)
I love that the hero doesn’t see a fat girl he’ll love despite her curves. I love that the hero loves her because he loves her. There’s no despite or regardless in the equation.
Surprisingly enough, I kind of like the fact that in the beginning of the story when you realize the character has got cleavage for miles and hips like a linebacker you cringe because we’re used to cringing when we hear that someone’s been afflicted with curves. You feel embarrassed for her. Pity. I like that somewhere in the story you stop cringing and you forget you ever even noticed. I like the moment she becomes a person instead of a size.
I want women to be accepted and adored no matter what they look like or what cosmetically fatal flaw they think they’ve been stuck with, like a disease, but as a society we’re not there yet. Maybe someday, but for now I’m happy that people want to read about my beautiful curvy girls. They crave them and I love writing them so it’s sort of perfect. I am happy that when they cringe in the beginning but stop noticing by the end… this is progress. It’s the next step towards acceptance of ourselves and each other.
Serafine Moreau grew up on the shiftless, grimy edges of cities that were never home, raised at the capricious whims of her bohemian mother. She learned young how to move unseen through crowds, acquire things that didn’t belong to her, and disappear at the first sign of trouble. Together they made a curious life beneath street market tents, plying tourists with fortunes and new age voodoo. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs - until a stranger appeared one unremarkable autumn morning to steal the fortune teller’s life and leave Sera with nothing but questions.
Now alone, Sera wanders lost between days, strangled by the past and unable to pursue her future. Even the cards reveal nothing. So when an invitation addressed to her mother’s stage name Corazon arrives from an old carnival outfit looking to recruit the late fortune teller, Sera answers instead.
Beneath the labyrinthine tents she discovers enchantments that defy explanation and wonders that feel like magic. Bewitched by the carnival’s handsome illusionist and the dark whimsy of the Carnival Imaginaire, Sera finally feels like she’s home until the mystery of her mother’s death unravels with the secrets of the carnival’s past. At the center of the brewing storm hides Sera’s heart that can’t hope to survive another loss.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jordan Bell is a bestselling author of steamy romance novels and novellas. She writes about powerful relationships, complicated families, terrible villains, delicious heroes, and curvy, clever heroines. Jordan’s newest title series, Curves & Corsets, debuted on the Amazon bestseller list with more hot titles on the way. The Fortune Teller’s Daughter is her first full length novel. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and four cats.
Follow me at: my website, on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest, Join my mailing list for new releases and free short stories!
Jordan Bell is currently on virtual tour with 15 other awesome romance authors as part of the Insatiable Reads Book Tour. From March 4-31st, readers will be invited to enter for a chance to win a Kindle Paperwhite, free books, and other fun goodies. Readers will also be able to participate in author chats, get insights into writing and publishing romance, and collect story swag.
This week, Jordan is touring with Erika Masten, Carré White, and Marina Maddix
To enter giveaways and meet the other writers, follow us at:
Website: www.insatiablereads.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/insatiable.books
Twitter: www.twitter.com/insatiablereads/
Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/100902224798608127488/posts
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/selenakitt/insatiable-reads/
Awesome post. That schoolday memory really hit home.
ReplyDeleteGreat post!!!
ReplyDelete