Today’s guest blogger is Tom, Male Cat, Literary Traditionalist, Victim of Romantasy
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tom. I am a male cat. I have scars on my nose from battles that mattered, a deep distrust of vacuum cleaners, and a firm belief that literature should involve at least one of the following: survival, conquest, philosophy, or a very detailed description of a meal. What it should not involve—and yet increasingly does—is shimmering feelings, brooding princes with perfect whiskers, or dragons who exist primarily to facilitate flirting.
And yet here we are.
I recently leapt onto the coffee table—my coffee table, thank you—and found it stacked with books. I was excited. Books are excellent for sitting on. But when I began to read the covers (a skill I taught myself out of boredom and spite), I realized something horrifying.
Every single book was romantasy.
Romantasy, for those of you lucky enough not to know, is a genre in which nothing actually happens except yearning. Everyone yearns. They yearn while walking. They yearn while fighting. They yearn instead of fighting. The plot, such as it is, exists only to move characters from one emotionally charged glance to another emotionally charged embrace. There may be swords, but they are decorative. There may be wars, but they pause frequently so two people can whisper about destiny.
This is not literature. This is grooming behavior with magic sparkles.
Now, I am not saying girl cats should not enjoy these books. Girl cats are free to enjoy whatever they want. If they wish to read about a chosen one falling in love with a mysterious winged prince who smells faintly of pine and trauma, that is their business. My objection is this:
Where are the books for male cats?
Where are the stories about:
- A lone tom surviving winter behind a dumpster using grit, cunning, and half a chicken nugget?
- A warrior cat who wins territory through strategy, not a love triangle?
- A philosopher-cat who stares into the void at 3 a.m. and asks, “Why does the red dot flee me?”
- A cat who bites a demigod and wins?
Instead, when a male cat goes to the bookstore, what does he find?
“Purr of Thorns and Roses.”
“The Claw and the Crowned Mate.”
“He Was Destined to Love Her (and Also Has Abs).”
ABS. ON A CAT.
Do you know how insulting it is to be told that your primary narrative arc should be discovering your feelings? I already have feelings. They are called hunger, territorial rage, and existential boredom. They do not need a trilogy.
And don’t get me started on the covers. Every romantasy book has the same cover: a shadowy figure, glowing eyes, swirling mist, and a font that looks like it was designed by a moth who lives in a crystal shop. Where are the honest covers? The ones that say, “This is a book about hardship, death, and learning not to trust anyone who says ‘come here, kitty.’”
I tried reading one of these books. I truly did. I believe in informed criticism. By page three, the protagonist had already:
- Discovered she was “different”
- Been warned not to go into the forest
- Gone into the forest
- Locked eyes with a dangerous but extremely handsome male who “growled”
Growling is not romantic. Growling is a warning. If a male growls at you, you should either fight or run. You should not kiss him. This is basic animal literacy.
By page fifty, there was still no clear description of food. By page one hundred, the world was allegedly ending, but everyone was too busy thinking about each other’s eyes. By page one hundred fifty, I had pushed the book off the table in protest and groomed myself aggressively.
Meanwhile, male cats everywhere are starving for representation. We want books where the stakes are real. Where someone loses an ear. Where the ending is ambiguous and slightly bleak, but honest. Where the hero does not “find himself” but endures himself.
Is it too much to ask for a novel titled “Mud, Blood, and the Alleyway”? Or “The Long Nap”? Or “I Trusted No One and Lived”?
I want chapters that begin with lines like:
“The night was cold, and Tom had already decided three things: he would not forgive, he would not forget, and he would not share the fish.”
That’s a book.
Instead, the publishing industry has decided that all cats—especially male ones—should secretly crave romance, emotional vulnerability, and magical bonding tattoos. I do not want a magical bonding tattoo. I want a sunbeam and silence.
This is not progress. This is erasure.
So I am issuing a challenge. To authors. To publishers. To anyone with a keyboard and a respect for claws.
Write us books where:
- Love is optional
- Survival is mandatory
- The hero is tired and still shows up
- The magic system is simple: bite or be bitten
Until then, I will continue my protest in the only ways available to me: sitting on unfinished manuscripts, shedding on book jackets, and knocking romantasy novels onto the floor one by one, while making unbroken eye contact.
This is Tom.
I am male.
I am literate.
And I am furious.
