A while back the husband, after months and months of
drooling researching, succumbed to the lure of the high-def flat screen (a 46″), which naturally required upgrading some of our components. And, I’ve gotta say, it was worth it. When watching movies like Open Range, the gorgeousness of the picture is jaw-dropping.
But sometimes, especially with network programming, there’s just too much detail. I think the very first words I said when the high-def signal kicked in was “Wow, her skin’s not very nice, is it?” I don’t want to see the anchorwoman’s pores, thank you very much.
Same with digital cameras. Mine died on Christmas Eve day, requiring an emergency trip to Walmart. I jumped from…I think it was like a 4 megapixel to a 7.1. The clarity is amazing and the color more true, but almost too true. It’s as though the increase in resolution has taken away a slight retouching of the photos—the tall kid’s exzcema shows now, for instance. (I think there may be one or two too many consonants in exzcema, but I’ll be damned if I can spell it.)
The advancing of technology is great, but sometimes it makes everything too…stark.
I’ve begun to feel the same way about erotic romance. As the envelope has been pushed the level of detail, instead of enriching the scenes, is leading to starkness. (Is starkness a word? Not sure, but it’s the word I want.) When every body part, every act, is described in high-def, it starts becoming very unattractive. I don’t want to see the sexual equivalent of pores, thanks.
Anyway, that’s my random thought of the day. I’m getting tired of picking up an erotic romance, not knowing if I’m going to actually get an erotic romance or if I’m going to get a high-def, pore-revealing, over-detailed bludgeoning.
Unfortunately for me—both as a reader and as a writer—just like with TVs and DVDs, high-def sells the best.