“I propose, as the opposite of “chick flick,” films called “prick flicks.” Not only will it serve film critics well, but its variants will add to the literary lexicon.” (read article)

Maybe the term “prick” is too strong. It’s not the word I would’ve chosen, yet it answers the fact that a lot of women are put off by the tone and expression, if not the word, used when we hear the term “chick flick.”

Steinem’s editorial reminds me of something that occurred in a “Modern Fantasy” literature class I took, back in the seventies, when Mary Stewart’s first two Merlin and Arthur novels, The Crystal Cave and The Hollow Hills, were recent bestsellers. One of the young men in the class was so taken with them, he asked what other books Mary Stewart had written. I told him she’d written mostly romantic suspense in the past. I had an entire collection of her books at home, older hardcover editions gleaned from thrift store shelves. I thought when he expressed an interest that here was another new fan. But when the young man heard the word “romantic,” he took on a look of utter distaste and lost interest.

Some female mystery novelists still publish today using their first and middle initials rather than their full first names, in order to stretch past that still-existent gender barrier in many male readers’ minds, a practice reminiscent of the Brontës publishing under masculine names. One would’ve hoped that by the time this century rolled around we’d have advanced further. I don’t have statistics on this, but I’ll hazard a guess that there are more women who read and write fiction containing a predominately masculine point of view than there are men who read or write fiction containing a predominately feminine point of view.

Yet I know women, myself included, who enjoy a good action film, of the type once considered a favorite of men. Why is it that women, both in their reading and writing, as well as in movie preferences, might more readily cross old gender barriers?

Mind you, many men do take an equal interest in less violent or less action-oriented movies and books, and I admire men who are open to genres and interests considered historically feminine. I also admire women who open up more to interests previously considered masculine. More women today are sports fans than ever before, and don’t restrict their interests, as I do, to figure skating. My lack of interest is mostly due to bad experiences in physical education classes — I was that awkward, non-athletic kid always picked last for the team. It has nothing to do with my admiration of any outstanding achievement, physical or otherwise, and I enjoy watching good sports-related movies.

What is it that continues to keep some men from enjoying what they term as “chick flicks?” Is it that they truly don’t enjoy more thoughtful, slower-moving, or less action-oriented stories, once they give them a chance? Or is there another reason? Is it adrenaline addiction? (Understandable, among men and women, in today’s world, though perhaps best not encouraged.) Is it fear of what their friends will think? I’m trying not to make assumptions here. I’d really like to know, especially as a female writer trying to sell my fiction.

We all have types of stories we don’t like, or even parts of movies we like that we could do without. I personally back away from anything about child abductions, gangster movies that are overly violent onscreen, comedies that resort to tasteless bathroom humor (bathrooms have doors for a reason), and horror with too much blood and gore added for shock value. As far as I’m concerned, vomit and excrement belong off-screen. There’s enough of them in real life, and they’re not entertaining. They’re certainly not the kind of realism I’m looking for in a story.

I can understand someone not liking romance, even though I usually enjoy it provided it’s not overly sappy. But no one’s personal preference for certain types of stories and not others explains why we need the term “chick flick,” and especially not why it so often seems to be used as a derogatory term. Do the men who don’t like “chick flicks” prefer movies with only men? Is that what it boils down to?

I’m reminded of a line from Frank Herbert’s Dune regarding taking the “waters of life.” It mentions the place in their minds the Bene Gesserit mother superiors (women) fear to go, a place they believe only the fabled Kwisatz Haderach (a man) can access. The Kwisatz Haderach, once he accesses that place, becomes a superior being destined to lead his people to freedom. I wonder about the allegory Herbert intended, if any. Is there a place like that inside the female psyche, where some of the toughest men fear to go? Is that what they fear about “chick flicks?” Will they gain power if they find a way to access that, or will they lose power, possibly even die, as many men did who attempted to become the Kwisatz Haderach? Or will they simply gain a broader understanding of life and the world around them? In that case, maybe it’s worth a shot.

Gloria Steinem makes an interesting observation about power, and about nouns and adjectives in labels:

“Just as there are “novelists” and then “women novelists,” there are “movies” and then “chick flicks.” Whoever is in power takes over the noun — and the norm — while the less powerful get an adjective. Thus, we read about “African American doctors” but not “European American doctors,” “Hispanic leaders” but not “Anglo leaders,” “gay soldiers” but not “heterosexual soldiers,” and so on.” (read article)

But rules of writing aren’t the rules I’m concerned with breaking, at the moment.

What I’m puzzling over is how many rules a sleuth can get away with breaking within the confines of a mystery. Especially a sleuth who’s characterized as an honest, law-abiding citizen, as a particularly ethical person, or as a by-the-book law enforcement officer. I’m concerned about a sleuth I want to bring back in the next story in a series, rather than have him wind up in jail or out of work.

I have a dilemma. This character of mine is honest, sometimes to a fault. He’s a good guy, the kind you want your daughter to marry. But he may have to break some rules, in this story, and possibly tell some untruths. I find I have trouble even proposing that he do either. It’s something in me, perhaps, the part of me in which this character originates. I’m not a rule breaker. I’m a boring, goodie-two-shoes rule follower, and that trait may be in danger of keeping my characters too honest for their own good.

Now I’m picturing Adrian Monk, holding onto an assistant by the belt while the younger man leans as far as possible into someone’s home, to avoid stepping inside because they have no legal right to be there. That’s a classic illustration of how far rule breaking can stretch in a mystery.

The sub-genre makes a difference. The hard-boiled or noir sleuth can surely get away with worse behavior than a respected one in a traditional mystery. The question of drama comes into play, too. The noir sleuth’s bad behavior is expected, while the other’s isn’t. Some cozy sleuths seem to get away with almost anything as long as it’s funny.

The stakes are important, too. Elizabeth George’s Sergeant Barbara Havers threatened a superior with a gun—when a child’s life hung in the balance. She didn’t get away with this behavior without any repercussions at all, but we didn’t find her turning in her badge and standing in an unemployment line in the next book, either.

Clearly there are a lot of questions I have to ask myself before allowing my sleuth to break the rules, whether it’s her personal ethics or the law of the land:

What are the stakes?
How far out of character is this action?
What consequences—or lack of consequences—can I expect the character to face?
How will the consequences of this action affect the rest of the story?
How will they affect the character’s place in future stories?
How far will readers let me go before they can no longer suspend disbelief?
What rules have I established for the story so far, and how far do I already stretch reality?
What code of ethics does the character usually live by, and how does he justify breaking his own rules?
Do I need to raise the stakes?

This is the aspect of fiction writing that gives me a headache. Maybe I’m too honest. Maybe my character is. Maybe I underestimate the amount of conflict and drama this behavior will provide. Maybe the conflict and drama lie in the internal struggles more than in the actions that follow. Maybe the reader could care less whether a real person in this character’s place would do this, or could get away with it. They just want an entertaining story. Maybe I’m second-guessing myself too much. Maybe I should just sit down and write the thing, and damn the consequences.