Becky Flade, Author

Check out this article by Philly Voice magazine Some time ago, but not so long ago, my cousin’s wife sent me a copy of an ad she saw on craigslist – a couple were looking to unload their hand-crafted BDSM play room. This confused me. Why would she be sending me this? And that’s what I asked her. “I know you read the Fifty Shades books.” Was her answer, to which I replied, “I also read the Hannibal Lecter books. Want to come over for dinner Saturday?” She laughed.   And the awkward moment was over. But this interaction has lingered on the edges of my subconscious since. Why is there such a stigma on romance, especially erotic romance? No one assumes I’m a cannibal because I read Thomas Harris’ books. Or that I practice witchcraft since I’ve read the Harry Potters. That I abuse my children (I have every book by V.C. Andrews); or intend to kill all my neighbors in a televised fight to the death (Hunger Games). I have eclectic taste in books, as evidenced by ...

I call bullshit. First, you see Jack & his friend win tickets at a poker game minutes before the Titanic launches. You see him board the ship, etc. If he was a figment of Rose’s imagination or a symptom of a psychotic break, we wouldn’t have seen him – on screen – until his first interaction with Rose when he convinces her not to kill herself. Further, no one else would address him in the remainder of the film, make eye contact, have a conversation like his private conversation with Molly Brown regarding his tux size, or any of a number of interactions between Jack and other persons on board the ship: Cal, Cal’s majordomo, the ship’s porter, and on. ♪ My heart will go on… sorry I digress. As I was saying, bullshit called. The only recent movie theory to annoy me more is the one claiming Sandy from Grease was dead or dying the whole time!  I mean come on. Really?   I figured out more than twenty years ago that the car flying off into the clouds while Sandy waved g...