Thu 18 Oct 2012
I’ve been very, very bad. I haven’t been keeping up with the blog. I’m sorry about that but I’ve been bad for a mighty good reason – I’ve been working hard on Peter’s story – ”A Magical Forever.” It should be out before Christmas so y’all be sure to add it to your wish list.
This will be a quick blog and mostly b/c I saw another blog that caught my twisted fancies. It was by Ellen Arnison and titled: “Why Fifty Shades of Grey Hero Christian Grey Has To Be A Scotsman.” It’s no mystery why that caught my fancy and drug Muse away from Peter’s Regency England.
Anyone who has read my book – “A Faerie Fated Forever” – knows that I love me some Scots. I especially love that rugged, no nonsense breed that inhabits the Highlands. Don’t we all? And notice I said – inhabits, present tense. I’ve not yet had the privilege of seeing Scotland personally. In my imagination the Highlands of that land are still full of warring clans led by lairds who hate the English and still manage to fall madly mad for a lovely English Rose.
And anyone who has read this blog knows that I love me some Christian Grey too. I see him in my twisted mental meanderings – he’s standing by the wall of windows, outclassing everything in his posh Escala condo. His hair is even more rumpled than usual and he’s wearing those pants – yes, the grey ones cut just so.
Instead of Mummy Porn they call it Housewife Porn
Well, they would, wouldn’t they? The French think they invented sex – doing it or writing about it. Dangerous Liaisons, the Marquis de Sade (who gave us sadism, in every sense) Anne Desclos (secret author of Story of O), all French. They even invented the phrase “cinq à sept” – five to seven – that couple of hours where every self-respecting Frenchman nips off to his mistress after work before returning to his family.
All they need to deploy is a well-timed shrug and that erotic accent of theirs for knicker elastic to automatically loosen. Or so they think. I can’t speak for French women, but here it doesn’t work. Oh non, pas du tout.
Ms. Arnison’s article relates that the women in Scotland adore Fifty and “have been snapping up this publishing phenomenon. Mummy porn, S&M lite, call it what you like, the book explores bondage and various other shenanigans in millionaire Christian’s red room of pain.” Having considered all this, Ms. Arnison’s decided that a Scotsman has to play Christian in the movie.
Arnison says “Christian is as your typical Scottish male might be; uncommunicative, finds it difficult to have a normal conversation with a woman, thinks nothing of giving his girlfriend a good slap (on the rump).” And she thinks that all the Hollywood hunks fighting for the role should be out of luck because she believes Christian needs more than “white-toothed, rippling-abs perfection.” Arnison thinks that he needs “that kind of swagger that you only get from carrying a large chip on your shoulder.”
You know, Ms. Arnison might just have a point. Now I’ve got a picture of a rumpled-haired Christian standing high atop a Scottish mountain as bagpipes play in the background. He’s wearing a kilt that’s fifty shades of grey and cut just so … Yes, Christian Grey – the Highland laird.
The mind boggles, doesn’t it? Well, mine boogles and boggles but that’s just me, I’m sure. Now, on to imagine Christian as a Rhett Butler-style Southern gentleman. (Oh, I know. Rhett would deny it but he was as courteous and Southern and gentlemanly as they come. Anyone else would’ve strangled Scarlett long before he didn’t give a damn – or so he claimed, anyway.)