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Burnt Out
A Review by Sacha Zimmerman

For a while, Zane, the "erotic noir" author of best-sellers such as Sock It To Me, Heat Seekers, and Addicted, kept her identity a well-guarded secret -- understandably, in my opinion. All the public was allowed to know was that she lived in the vicinity of Washington, D.C. This lent the writer an enigmatic air -- and led me to speculate on which high-profile D.C. women might have penned these saucy novels, which have sold over 2.5 million copies. Could it be Donna Brazile, who has spoken highly of the mysterious Zane -- perhaps a little too highly? (A few months ago, Brazile told a crowd, ''I read one [Zane book] last summer that just had my mouth watering like I've never had it before.'' My, my!) Or maybe Liddy Dole having her own Bullworth episode? (Can't you just imagine her writing, "Girlllllll, that man is so fine, I'd lick motor oil off his ass"?) Alas, the truth is more banal. Zane, a.k.a. Kristina LaFerne Roberts, is the daughter of a theologian and a schoolteacher; she is 37, the mother of three, and has begun to go on book tours and do press.

Perhaps all the positive reviews she has received have jump-started Zane's interest in publicity. Unfortunately, the endorsements are totally misplaced. Afterburn, her latest addition to the best-seller list, is simultaneously foul, saccharine, and cloying. The two main characters are the sum total of the name-brand clothing they wear, the cars they drive, and the people they sleep with. They are self-righteous, trite, nasty, and superficial. There are foil characters named Conquesto and Boomqueesha (seriously) who could actually be comedically interesting but are just left as base counterpoints to our bland heroes, Rayne and Yardley. These two desire each other but never have the nerve to get together until halfway through the movie -- I mean, novel. Then they have lots of sex and get engaged. That's the whole plot -- oh yeah, except that Zane randomly and unexpectedly kills off Rayne with literally eleven pages left in the novel. It would at first seem that there was no apparent reason for this, except that Zane concludes the book with this message: "To be continued in: Solitaire: Afterburn 2." What?!

This book is pure trash. Even the sex isn't hot; it's vulgar (the words "marinated" and "juice" are used way too often). And yet Zane is the toast of not just every erotic critic, but the mainstream press as well. The New York Times has written that "Zane's good-natured books are filled with smart, believable and self-deprecating young and middle-aged black characters; they are also filled with sex scenes that will smoke your fingerprints off." The Times even tries to distinguish Zane from the dreariness of white romance novelists by supporting her work as "sociologically complex" because her wealthy black characters sometimes choose to have sex with economically disadvantaged characters. Right, that's deep. Entertainment Weekly enthuses that Zane has "pulled off the nifty trick" of appearing on the Times' best-seller list "without any help from Oprah" -- wow, that's patronizing -- and gushes over her "grab-the-back-of-his-head-and-make-him-scream" prose. Actually, Zane's dialogue is so bad that you can practically hear the porn actors' stilted pronunciation:

"Wow, I've never met a chiropractor before. You help people improve their posture and straighten their spines."

"Among other things. Maybe I can show you my office one day. You might find it interesting."

And, after the required foreplay:

"Now I think it's time for you to operate, Doctor."

Or perhaps this is what is meant by "sociologically complex":

"Men care about two things. Money and pussy; in that order. You need to concentrate on the money and intake the dick for financial purposes only."

That little gem, folks, would be Rayne's mother bestowing a bit of matriarchal wisdom on her daughter. Mom has another great moment when she meets Yardley's schoolteacher parents for the first time: "You two come across as the swinging type. Do you ever swing? ... Swing as in fuck around, participate in orgies, get your freak on?" But let's not forget, this is still a romance:

After I was done, I told him, "For the record, I enjoy playing with all kinds of balls."

I winked at him. I was sure he got my drift.

Oh, I wouldn't be so sure; that was pretty subtle. The worst part is that what could be campy and hysterical in the right hands is utterly sincere here and, therefore, utterly nauseating.

So why on earth are the critics giving Zane such a pass? It's beyond me, though I do love the fact that the Times is writing items like "arguably not since ... Nancy Friday has American letters produced a purveyor of erotica with such mass-market appeal" about an author whose roster includes Getting Buck Wild and Chocolate Flava. Another popular way of describing Zane is to use the word "raw," which her writing certainly is, though I think the word "crap" is more accurate. In an interview with The Boston Globe, Zane cites her realism as the secret to her success: "We don't say, 'Oh let me see your privates.' To me, people don't talk that way. But that's the way traditionally it's been done." I see. And I suppose people do talk this way:

"Tomorrow's not promised; this much is true. That doesn't mean you shouldn't look to the future; our future."

"Yardley, you're the most special man I've ever met. I agree that we've been placed together, in this space, in this time, for a reason. ... Right now, let's make some cherry smash."

Aww. (By the way, I am no prude, but I found myself closing the book and doing an "Ew, ew, ew" dance to shake off the effects of learning what a "cherry smash" is.)

Everyone is so thrilled that there's a black suburban wife out there writing erotica after the kids have gone to bed that no one is even bothering to look critically at her work. Are media elites scared of having a Sister Souljah moment? Is telling the truth about this novel -- that it is nothing more than amateur porn on paper -- something the public isn't willing to hear? (Ironically, six years ago, Sister Souljah herself wrote an amazing novel, The Coldest Winter Ever, about a complicated and exceptionally libidinous teenager. She could teach Zane a thing or two about "erotica noir.") Which is just it: Zane's popularity rests in her total lack of taint. People want to read about sex almost as much as they want to watch it and have it, and if they can do so without appearing to be reading something smutty, all the better. I understand that maybe critics and readers were looking for an alternative to "glistening, blooming flowers" and "pulsating members," but Zane's novel is crude and unimaginative writing masquerading as urban erotica. There has to be better smut out there. If you're looking for little aphrodisiac this Valentine's Day, I'd stay far, far away from a novelist who thinks that "Afterburn" is a sexy title.

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