From the original article on September 11, 2009. Author: Chateau Heartiste.
The Open Borders Journal has an article about the growing popularity of Amish pulp romance novels. It seems women — Amish and heathen alike — are snorting these books like chocolate-covered eight balls.
Most bonnet books are G-rated romances, often involving an Amish character who falls for an outsider. Publishers attribute the books’ popularity to their pastoral settings and forbidden love scenarios à la Romeo and Juliet. Lately, the genre has expanded to include Amish thrillers and murder mysteries. Most of the authors are women.
Beverly Lewis, who sets her novels among the Amish in Pennsylvania, has sold 13.5 million copies of her books.
13.5 million copies. I’ve long said that if you are a man who understands the mind of women you should write hackneyed romance novels under a female pseudonym and CASH THE FUCK IN. Forget the noble goal of writing the next Great American Novel; the money is in forbidden love and hoary cliches aimed at bored middle-aged wives and tweenies experiencing their first gina tingles.
But surely, I need talent to amass such a large audience, you may wonder. Well, let’s take a look at an excerpted passage:
“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, they parted.”
There’s your answer. No one ever went broke underestimating the poor taste of the distaff masses. Of all the “literary” genres, cheeseball romance is probably the easiest to write and, idiocratically, the most lucrative as well. It’s the female equivalent of single position porn and egg white plus yohimbe-fueled money shots under cheap lighting. All you need to know is one simple rule, and then you can count your benjamins: You’ve gotta tap that inner ape core in every woman by appealing to her base sexual instincts. This means having a good grasp of concepts such as:
It also helps to have an eye for detail and knowledge of colors beyond red, green and dark green.
I think another reason besides the concept of forbidden love that explains the popularity of Amish romance novels has to do with the cultural milieu in which they exist. When the country is going to pot around you (read: it’s getting more diverse and distrustful as people greedily scramble for their slice of the taxpayer-funded pie), you find solace in fictional worlds of order and stability. And what’s more orderly, more mundane, than the Amish? If I’m right, we’ll soon see a literary trend toward traditionalism and small town esprit.
I’ve thought about writing pulp romance under a female pseudonym, but I don’t think I could resist the urge to subvert my readers’ expectations.
“His warm, gentle lips moved over hers, and she returned the favor, until Hannah thought they might both take flight right then and there. Finally desperate for air, she squirted. Her nether furrow drenched in warm moisture, she thought perhaps she had urinated, and ran away from him in shame, her legs shaking the whole way like a dog shitting olive pits. Wherefore this strange new feeling?, she begged to the god whose eyes she felt burning judgement into her soul. Finally home, panting in confusion and ecstatic pleasure, she stumbled across her parents’ open bedroom door just in time to see Papa plunging an unwashed zucchini deep into Mama’s womb — the same zucchini Hannah had harvested that morning while murmuring prayers to Mary Mother of God to give her the fortitude to resist sinful temptations. Frozen in place by shock, Hannah’s bonnet slipped to the floor. Mama looked up, frowned, and threw an oil lamp at her. Papa laughed, the zucchini in tatters in his hand.”
I remember driving through Amish country during the spring, after a soaking rain. In the fields, two boys had hitched a plow-like contraption to horses and were whipping the horses into a gallop as they stood behind the great beasts, getting pulled around at a pretty good clip. Earth was flying up, and both of them were covered head to foot in mud which obscured everything but their wide, happy smiles. What a life, I thought. What boy today wouldn’t find that more fun than another blast em up round of Halo?
So what do the Amish think of Amish-themed porn romance novels?
Ms. Esh said some Amish customers snap up the Amish fiction she stocks, but others tell her they don’t like the way the books portray the community.
“There will always be people who say we’re getting too exposed,” said Ms. Esh, a 48-year-old member of the local Old Order Amish community.
Speaking of exposed, I recall the Amish girls were good-looking. Very fresh-faced and wholesome. Not too many fatties among them. There was the occasional ugly inbred mishap, but thanks to the Amish fashion sense those girls didn’t have to suffer the indignity of hotter, skimpier-dressed peers shoving their ugliness in their faces every minute of every day. Still, even with head to toe clothing covering all but their faces and hands, I was able to make fairly accurate assessments of the Amish women’s looks from many yards away. The power of male discernment of female beauty is a finely tuned instrument, indeed. The hyperjealous harem guarding Muslims know this, which is why they invented the burqa.
Amish mothers hit the wall hard, unfortunately. No MILFs in that community. It’s 30 and stick a fork in them, no exceptions. Living off the land must age a person faster.
Some Amish have nevertheless become avid fans. An Amish woman in Lancaster told Ms. Lewis that “all the women in our church district are reading your books under the covers, literally,” Ms. Lewis said.
Amish men, listen up! You’ve allowed a sliver of the heathen slut culture to invade your oasis. Your womenfolk are reading crass female porn under their bedcovers. And make no mistake, it is PORNOGRAPHY. Cheap thrills to tingle ginas. It’s just a small step from there to Amish women demanding equality in the fields and nagging you to do more housework. Then comes Amish feminism (6th wave? It’s all the same briny crap) and finally Amish bukkake. Give an inch, and they’ll make you yearn for the relative modesty of Rumspringa. If this doesn’t scare you straight, try picturing a guy like me seducing one of your bonnet-wearing daughters, my hand first touching her forearm, then her thigh, a neg lighting up her eyes, and a makeout behind the hay bales as I promise her a world of adventure and excitement.
During a recent visit, Ms. Woodsmall [non-Amish author of an Amish romance novel series] sat on a swing outside the Flauds’ [Amish couple with six children] 133-year-old farmhouse and peppered them with questions for her sequel to “The Hope of Refuge.”
“This is one of those questions I hate to ask,” said Ms. Woodsmall. One of her characters, a schoolteacher, wants to modernize some aspects of Amish education. “What are some things she might want to change?” Ms. Woodsmall asked.
The Flauds’ 13-year-old daughter, Amanda, piped up. “The bathrooms,” she said, explaining that many students at her school wanted to replace outhouses with indoor plumbing.
Some of her inquiries drew a blank. The Flauds couldn’t come up with Amish expressions for the word “quirky” or the phrase “women’s rights.”
The Amish will be the salvation of America, if there is to be one. May they continue pumping out kids at quadruple the rate of the SWPLs, post-integrity equalists, and warlord-wannabes who currently buttfuck themselves on the levers of power.
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