When Is Fiction Considered Lesbian?

by Colette Moody

So what makes great lesbian fiction? I think we can all probably agree on what makes it good.

Likeable characters are nice to have, preferably ones that have interesting and believable dialogue. It’s also appreciated when the story itself is compelling. For example, a story about two lesbian accountants going over tax returns together sounds abysmally dry — unless they’re doing it naked. Or perhaps if the one who finishes with the most deductions gets to make the other do whatever the winner asks, provided it involves a ripe nectarine, crotchless underpants, and a shoehorn. (See how your level of interest changed?)

It’s also necessary for any book or story that’s deemed “good” to be well written and properly edited. It’s jarring to come across a sentence like:

Joely felt the warm tingly-tangly vibrations she had of not, assaulting her throbbing love sponge like the divine fingers of a thousand randy cherubs – fat and filled with naughty falderal.

Let’s face it, that sentence is painful and grotesque in a myriad of ways. (Incidentally, the day I fantasize about the stubby Vienna sausage-like digits of cherubim is the day I cash in my chips and head to Las Vegas to have Elisabeth Shue fuck me to death. Huh? What movie?)

So assuming we have the above agreed-upon baseline components, what makes one story stand apart from the others, elevating good to great? Is it suspense? Humor? Adventure? Perhaps a truly great book has all those elements.

Personally, I like books that challenge me as a reader. As much as I appreciate closure and having the loose ends tied up to my infuriating satisfaction, I still love being surprised by plot twists — like being hit by a runaway freight train coming out of left field. (And really, what’s more shocking than a fatal locomotive death on a baseball diamond? See the wonders of the well-crafted mixed metaphor?)

But I’d wager that once we get past the aspects of basic readability it will be hard for us all to agree on exactly what it is that we deem exceptional. Does there need to be a brooding vampire/spellcaster who has difficulty balancing life amongst mortals? What about romance that struggles to overcome a bevy of personal hang-ups, including baggage from previous relationships, issues with self-esteem, and good old-fashioned “Three’s Company” style miscommunications?

Does it have to have racy sex? Or any kind of sex for that matter? Can it truly be considered lesbian fiction without any scenes that imply any sexual inclination at all?

Let’s ponder that for a moment. What is it that makes fiction lesbian fiction? Is just having a lesbian author enough, even if there are no GLBT characters in the story? What if the main character is a lesbian, but the author disapprovingly kills her off in a freak vibrator electrocution accident?

Most probably wouldn’t consider that kind of anti-gay doctrine to be lesbian fiction. But when you look at the repressive history we’ve had, that’s exactly what we’ve done. We chose to ignore the fact that the lesbian or gay character ultimately paid a horrific price for their queerness, most likely because we were so elated to see it portrayed at all that we told ourselves it was still somehow a victory. We gave those kinds of morality plays a cult status they never deserved. Are they lesbian fiction? That’s a bit like calling Leviticus “gay interest.”

But let’s put down the Bible and get back to defining lesbian fiction. I’m not speaking about stories where the main character is in a same-sex relationship but it’s just not a central part of the plot. I’m talking about books where she’s not seeing anyone, and there is no glimpse of her being attracted to anyone – no sign of what intrinsically makes someone lesbian.

It is certainly not as though single women who don’t date can’t be engaging protagonists. But if you were to find out now that Jane Marple was intended by Agatha Christie to have dabbled in college with a supple-bottomed librarian named Sue, would that suddenly turn all those mysteries into lesbian fiction?

If, in reading a book review, you learned that the main character witnessed a murder, was subsequently pursued by the mob, but had just gotten out of a relationship with another woman who simply wasn’t “ready to settle down,” would you be more inclined to read it than if she had been dumped by a guy? Even if the lesbian relationship was only mentioned once and had no bearing on the plot?

Would you buy “The Lesbian Cookbook?” I mean, come on, does the author being a lesbian impact the contents in any way? (Unless there is a recipe included for Baked Alaska with nipples, or hors d’oeuvres shaped like labia…I’m thinking maybe cream cheese filled. Yum!)

Or is it worth it just to be represented? Is having a character’s sexuality mentioned only offhandedly just one more way to work our way into the mainstream? So that main character- the detective, the public defender, the mayor, the doctor — it’s okay that she’s single, dateless, and celibate, because even the vague reference that she has a fondness for full breasts, that she “experimented” with women in graduate school, or that she has a crush on Angelina Jolie, is just one more example of normalizing lesbian behavior.

It does indeed show that we are everywhere, in all walks of life, not to be relegated to the shadowy corners of the big cities and coastlines. But if that’s the case, are these books more for us? Or are they for the people who are afraid to let us get married?

Do you, the reader, need to relate to the protagonist’s sexual identity to fully enjoy it — for you to consider the work “great?” Or conversely, is the better illustration of the argument that romantic love is universal that her sexuality doesn’t matter? Love is love, just as marriage is marriage.

Ultimately, I think we’ll always want to see ourselves represented in all kinds of fiction. And now, that’s actually happening. Never have we had so many options, and never has it been as pervasive as it is now. Years from now, we may look back on this time as a kind of queer renaissance, and I for one, am getting my crispy labia crunchies into my preheated oven.

© COLETTE MOODY