Those who follow the ever cool, ever useful, ever hysterical romance novel blog
Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books know that over the past few days they've discovered a systematic pattern of plagiarism in the works of Cassie Edwards.
They posted what they found (through the work of a third party who found something hinky in the tone of some of the narrative) and the whole thing snowballed from there as more readers got in on the action. I believe the series is now up to five parts, demonstrating habitual plagiarism from secondary sources about Native American life, tribal culture, practices and, I think, flora and fauna of the American West. To be fair to Edwards, she isn't the only author to get hit with this - even Ian McEwan was accused of plagiarizing from the memoir of a WWII nurse-trainee. Quite often in the process of writing, authors will absorb details from real life and spit them out again in prose and the question of what constitutes plagiarism when fact is mixed with fiction is an ongoing debate (see Malcolm Gladwell's "
Something Borrowed" from the New Yorker). Personally, I fall down on the "if you use someone else's words, you're copying. If you rewrite someone's words without attributing them, you're copying" side of the line - basically, if my philosophy prof would fail me for it if I did it in an essay I'd handed it, it's plagiarism and it's not on.*
But in the eyes of fellow romance-writer Jennifer Crusie, whether or not Edwards is a plagiarist is not the issue. What's at issue, in Crusie's mind, is whether or not Smart Bitches is being mean to poor old Cassie Edwards. What Crusie wants to know is not whether or not Edwards has been systematically ripping off the work of other authors but whether or not Edwards
ran over their dog because we all know that what really counts in the world of journalism, which I submit the Smart Bitches posts are, is whether or not the journalist likes the subject.
Edwards, who writes those buckskin and feathers bodice rippers where a pure-hearted Native American stud brings the joy of good sex to misguided white pioneer women across the Southwestern United States that every girl I know read at least once in high school, is regularly slated on the blog for being, well, not a very good writer. And she isn't, not even by the somewhat bell-curved standards of the genre. Then again,
Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books is a blog who's stated
raison d'etre is no bullshit reviews of romance novels. My favourite section of their blog (after the semi-weekly round-up of cover art horror perpetrated by romance publishers worldwide) is called "Good Shit vs. Shit to Avoid". My point is that the collected oeuvre of Cassie Edwards is an egregious offence against the canon of English literature but she's hardly the only author who's ever gotten a bad review on their site, even if they did call one of her books the worst book ever and another "the literary equivalent of maggot infested cheese". Smart Bitches is a review site, this is the internet, people say mean things and, seriously, anyone who thinks that the Smart Bitches treatment of Cassie Edwards is unfair have never read an English gossip column because, holy hell, they make Candy and Sarah look like kittens.
Crusie's statement that Edwards "doesn't deserve the constant humiliation this site heaps on her" irrespective of the fact that any humiliation derived from the latest series of posts is entirely down to Edwards own shoddiness in failing to properly attribute her sources or her own outright mendaciousness is boneheaded, logic-free bullshit and, frankly, I'm surprised at Crusie for perpetrating it. How Smart Bitches feel about Cassie Edwards is irrelevant to the issue at hand: either she's a plagiarist or she's not and whether or not anyone thinks
Savage Moon is the greatest work of fiction ever or something one would normally expect to find only after it has passed out the working end of a sheep is neither here nor there. Shame, Ms. Crusie, shame.
Luckily for me and the Intertoobz at large, we have Nora Roberts, speaking for the forces of reason and sanity and
hot monkey sex with Irish multi-billionaires (if she made Rourke a Scot, I'd probably spontaneously combust):
Reporting isn’t bashing, and very often reporting isn’t nice.
I don’t know Cassie, and would never bash her. But I will bash, again and again, the act of any writer copying another’s work--and calling the work his/her own.
Tolerating it or defending it isn’t standing up for the writer, it’s standing up for the act of copying.
(care of
Fandom_Wank)
No love from Queen Street for you, Ms. Crusie. I am officially rededicating the portion of my fiscal planning otherwise reserved under "oooh, does Jennifer Crusie have a new book out I might find cool" to Nora Roberts who is, as Stephen King said, ice cold and continues to be a one classy and stand up lady.
Ms. Roberts, you are made of awesome.
Tip of the hat to the ever linkalicious
cleolinda for the original FW link.
*FWIW, McEwan did acknowledge the bio he cribbed his line about 'daubing Valerian on ringworm' or some such from. Whether or not that constitutes sufficient attribution is an argument that pro- and anti-McEwan critics have been banging on about for six years now (this is England, Tall Poppy Syndrome is definitely a factor). I do not know what, if any, attribution or credit Edwards gives the secondary sources she borrowed from.