Romance Writing Problem: The Lie

I still consider 1995 Wickham the slimiest.

Actually, the most common rule of romances is "a character who cheats is usually a bad guy."

Consider Wickham: although he doesn't sleep with Elizabeth, his behavior is the behavior of a cheat. He flirts with her. Then, without warning, he switches his attention to Miss King. Ultimately, of course, he steals off with Lydia. But his willingness to switch his affection from Elizabeth to Miss King (for the sake of personal gain) is a big red flag--even though Elizabeth excuses him.

It is extremely difficult (but not impossible--see The Guilty by Katsura Izumi) to restore the reputation of a protagonist who cheats.

Despite cheating being such commonly undesired behavior, the fundamental rule of romances goes deeper. What truly upsets a romance? What separates protagonists? Undermines relationships? Creates plot tension (a storm is a-brewin'!)?

Lying.

Of course, the "lie" can get ridiculous, such as romances where the "lie" is that a protagonist forgot to disclose basic information (I have a kid! I'm living with my ex! I have a debilitating disease!) at the outset of the relationship. The reader rolls her eyes. Seriously? I can see the denouement coming from waybackhere!

New Mad Creek book comes out

tomorrow!

When done effectively, however, the "lie" will tie together the external and internal conflicts. In Eli Easton's Mad Creek series, various dog/human shape-shifters tread an uneasy line between keeping their secret and trusting their human lovers. Their distrust is understandable. Their responsibility goes beyond their personal inclinations to the security of their community. Their unease at lying--since they are good, upright, honest people--is also understandable.

This type of "lie" dovetails neatly with the necessary lies of the spy--although it is most effective if the spy is an amateur. A non-amateur spy would spend less time fretting about the moral implications of withholding information.

In addition, a number of M/M romances effectively deal with a protagonist's desire to keep his male lover a secret (from society, from family), which leads to tensions in his integrity as well as in his romantic relationship. (Though even this secret can get a little tiresome after awhile, especially when it is unrealistically solved--see Fumi Yoshinaga's What Did You Eat Yesterday? for more realistic family "acceptance".)

Romance novels--unlike much other supposedly more

"realistic" fiction--is aware of the gators.

So cheating is the more egregious of the sins, but many romance problems, including
cheating, circle back to THE LIE. It's basic. And arouses unquestioning antipathy in the reader's heart. Romances--like horror stories (see Stephen King's analysis)--are conservative texts. The fear of lying (and its ramifications) is atavistic, wired into our brains alongside the fear of the stranger. After all, lying turns the lover into a stranger. Who did I give my heart and my secrets to? How have I made myself vulnerable? Am I regretting it?

Just as we can, with effort, overcome the fear of the stranger, romance protagonists can, with effort, overcome the fear of the lie. Therein lies the tension--and the reality--of the good romance.