Caged Slave: Gendering and Fan Fiction

Tsukasa to the left.

In an earlier post, I remark that the main character of Caged Slave seems far more similar to female characters in early Harlequins than to either female or male characters in contemporary romance and yaoi.

An overriding trait of nearly all narrators in yaoi--who are, with few exceptions, ukes--is their phlegm and self-analysis. They endure a great many things from S&M to the loss of fingers (in yakuza-focused plots) to kidnappings. Sometimes they fight back; sometimes, they keep going. They nearly always retain their love and affection for the seme.

This fortitude differs from the passive elements I defined in the prior post. What makes Tsukasa, for instance, so atypical is not his endurance. Endurance, or ganbaru, is a common element to all manga and works remarkably well in romance--the role of the doubtful romantic may be uncomfortable but ultimately the point is to persist. More often than not, such persistence will culminate in the confession or kokuhaku (告白). (Caged Slave does include Tsukasa's kokuhaku, one of the most powerful parts of the book.) Protagonists may decide not to act, but deciding not to act is a world of difference from not deciding at all.

What makes Tsukasa different from other ukes is his reluctance to analyze his situation. Yaoi and shojo and light novels are brimful of analysis and inner reflection. It's a self-critical paradise! And quite reminiscent of Austen novels but since Tale of Genji is so much older, it will have to be credited first.

I don't greatly care for An Kanae's

illustrations, so I replaced it with 

one of Yugi Yamada's--hey, guys in suits!

Without the usual extensive inner self-analysis, Tsukasa comes across as somewhat absent: a prize to be won rather than a character with whom to negotiate. When Konishi, the bad guy and prior abusive lover, confronts Tsukasa in the breakroom, he taunts Tsukasa, claiming that his relationship with Takeshima, seme protagonist, is temporary. Tsukasa is instantly floored by self-doubt and breaks down.

Yeah, not the behavior of a self-respecting romantic. 

Not that self-doubt isn't common to yaoi and shojo protagonists (see the Doubtful Romantic), but Tsukasa's utter dismay struck me as highly unlikely. Instead of collapsing in the face of that particular taunt, I rewrote the passage to have Tsukasa realize that if Konishi now suspects a relationship between Tsukasa and Takeshima, continuing their relationship will expose Takeshima to Konishi's vile rumor-mill. He should give Takeshima up for the sake of the other man's job.

Everyone in yaoi and shojo does this. Everyone. Sacrifice is the name of the game.

Fan Addition:

   Tsukasa glared. He didn’t need a jerk like Konishi to tell him the obvious. His pride in Takeshima’s success--his pride in his contributions to that success--was separate from the inevitable result. Tsukasa was tired of being the clueless guy who never saw the obvious coming. He knew this relationship would end. He didn't need Konishi to point it out.
   “Bet you let him take you.”
   Konishi was throwing out loose gossip—he was always dropping salacious hints about the female secretaries, his co-directors, the president.
   What did I ever see in this guy?
  Of course, the gossip in this case was accurate—which meant Tsukasa’s relationship with Takeshima would have to end. Tsukasa couldn’t expose Takeshima to  crass innuendo and the accompanying fall-out. Tsukasa had heard far too many stories of business executives self-imploding due to whisper campaigns. 
   Being found out would have happened someday. Tsukasa tapped down an engulfing rage that Konishi would be the one to end everything. You never cared what happened to me. Why couldn't you continue on your self-absorbed path?
   “Beat it,” he said and looked past Konishi as if the man was an insignificant intrusion.
   Konishi neared Tsukasa, tongue circling his lips. “You know I did what was necessary to make Erina think I actually wanted her. Once that blowhard Takeshima is gone, I’ll transfer you back to my division, and you can be mine again. I’ll treat you well.”
   Tsukasa flinched and retreated, hitting the counter. He must have looked his disgust because Konishi’s brows creased in disbelief, then—
   “You are--! With him--! You don’t seem his type.”
   He clutched at Tsukasa. Tsukasa twisted, caught against the counter, still holding the cups.
   “Let me go!”
   The coffee cups shattered on the floor. Tsukasa pushed against Konishi’s bulk, mind whirling.
   If anyone should see us—Takeshima’s reputation—what will Konishi tell them—?
   “What are you doing?” came an angry roar.

   Takeshima heard Konishi and Tsukasa as he left the elevator. He paused—he had anticipated finding Tsukasa alone, perhaps talking to him about their future.
   He heard Konishi’s invitation, and his heart dropped. Tsukasa looked so above-it-all; Takeshima had assumed he was not the type to sleep around. His utter abandonment with Takeshima was a fluke or—said Takeshima’s ego—a product of their unique relationship.
   Except now he was learning that Tsukasa had slept with a co-worker before him—another director in fact. In the break room, Tsukasa wasn’t protesting, wasn’t saying anything at all.
   And then Tsukasa’s outraged voice broke over Konishi’s leers:
   “Get off!”
   China broke. Takeshima moved.

There is a rescue--there's always a rescue. (I confess my favorite is still Asami's "rescue" of Akihito in Finder. Instead of begin grateful, Akihito bawls him out for not coming sooner.)

Romance Writing Problem: The Rising Action

Connie Willis has developed the

"ridden by ordinary problems like how

to get a ride" plot to an art-form.

Rising action in romances usually falls into two categories: shoe-shopping or interpersonal conflict.

Shop-shopping refers to rising action that deals almost entirely with the day of the heroines or heroes: whom they talk to, what they do at work, the jolly times they have with personal friends, their family obligations, etc. etc. etc.

I am not terribly fond of this type of romance, hence my use of "shoe shopping." But it does have its place. When done correctly, it can provide more information about the protagonist; in "realistic" romances, it can ground the protagonist in everyday problems and conflicts. In adventure romances a la Georgette Heyer, "shoe shopping" becomes a series of ongoing exploits: carriage chases, unintentional kidnappings, mistaken identities.

When done poorly, this type of rising action becomes an ongoing check-list of stuff to do that leads nowhere: I did laundry, then I went to visit my grandmother, then I saw my friends. I read one fantasy romance where the female protagonist stopped worrying about the end of the world, so she could go to the mall to shop for clothes--which is not too different from the old-fashioned suspense novels in which the heroine sets aside worrying about the murderous ghost who wants to eat her brains because she has to stay and wash the floors of the haunted mansion. Seriously?

Of course, if the ghosts are like this, she should stay!

Generally speaking, I prefer interpersonal conflict because (1) it keeps the heroes/heroines and heroes center stage; (2) it keeps the rising action from turning into a list of things to do.

I am, however, completely opposed to the Ross-Rachel approach to rising action: continuous, ongoing, boring fights. They remind me of a great comment in a review of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. The reviewer points out the childishness of the main characters. When they discover they were "manipulated" by their friends into getting together, they should thank their friends, not have another fight, full of personal offense.

No, no, not this.

Some of the best romances I've read were quiet in their rising action--more similar to Persuasion than to Pride & Prejudice. Don't get me wrong, within the "arguing couple" genre, Pride & Prejudice is one of the best (the arguments aren't simply manufactured; they rest on real misunderstandings). But the quieter Persuasion is in some ways more satisfactory since Anne and Captain Wentworth are continually interacting, overcoming their past assumptions and rethinking their futures. When I wrote my Persuasion tribute with Mrs. Clay and Mr. Elliott, I attempted the same approach. No fireworks, simply a slow recognition of mutual attraction and compatible personalities.

Although, again, I prefer the latter (interpersonal conflict) to the former ("shoe shopping") approach, both forms of rising action can work. Within manga/light novels: 

• Only the Ring Finger Knows by Satoru Kannagi is a well-written example of "arguing couples" and ongoing misunderstandings that revolve around a series of activities: tests, school fairs, and jobs. One of the few "shoe shopping" series I like. 
• Cat Sebastian's Ruin of the Rake is a good example of "slowly getting to know each other." This book is definitely all about the interpersonal relationship. Although stuff happens (as a plot requires), it happens not as a series of activities but as a set of consequences predicated on previous behavior. 
• Captive Prince by Pacat--like S by Aiki--is an example of "slowly getting to know each other" despite the background of ongoing action: "shoe shopping [with swords]" and interpersonal combined.

Advice for Romance Writers: whether you choose shoe-shopping, arguing, or getting to know each other, make sure the rising action RISES. Classic plots must move forward.

Yaoi is Not About Women, Except: Caged Slave Review

Apparently it isn't about men either.

Yuuen to the left.

Despite my Complaint that men are as interested in romance as women (yet pretend that they are not), I typically see the pairings in yaoi as physically male yet gendered archetypal.

By "archetypal," I don't mean "androgynous." Androgynous characters in yaoi seem, if anything, to be gendered female--even sometimes so radically female in appearance that if I was reading Wild Rock in Japanese, I would assume Yuuen was a young woman.

Archetypal pairings refer, rather, to "introvert/extrovert," "pessimist/optimist," "satirical/serious," or, to get all Jungian, "mentor/disciple."

Caged Slave, a light novel by Yuiko Takamura, surprised me since I began to think of the main character as female while I was only about half-way through reading.

Believe it or not, this rarely happens. I didn't react this way to the main characters of Guilty or S or Only the Ring Finger Knows. It surprised me so much, I went back and threaded my way through the slim novel more slowly. Why would the main narrator of Caged Slave be gendered female? That is, what stereotypes or assumed traits usually associated with female characters are associated with Tsukasa?

Akihito doesn't attract Asami's attention

because he is passive--rather, he attracts

it because he jumps off a building.

The gendering comes down to one overwhelming trait:

Passivity

I should state immediately that passivity is not a female trait. It is a gendered female trait--at least literarily. In older romance novels, it involves several linked behaviors all of which can be witnessed in the main male character of Caged Slave, Tsukasa:

1. Willingness to be Kept in the Dark. 

Yaoi often utilizes a seme (dominant) and uke (submissive) pairing. However, the roles rarely denote passive behavior, at least not in contemporary manga. Ukes are often overactive and curious (Akihito, Finder), bad-tempered (Seyun, U Don't Know Me),  reflective and inwardly tough (Ryo, Fake), aloof and organized (Katsuragi, Blue Morning).

Women in romance novels fall into an equally broad range from optimistic Phoebe (Total Surrender) to brassily self-confident Sophy (Heyer's Sophy), from sardonic Elizabeth (Pride & Prejudice) to otherworldy Jane Eyre.

Note the woman's

passive posture.

The attachment of passivity to the female character is an applied historical cliche more than a literary or even true historical typing--that is, we tend to think that women in the past were passive even though they were not. But older Harlequin romances are responsible for presenting generations of passive female characters who suffer at the hands of fate, i.e. the dominant male character.

Tsukasa's passivity in the face of his nameless lover who refuses to reveal his identity is far more similar to Celia's behavior in Grace Livingston Hill's Best Man, written in 1914, than to any uke's behavior from contemporary manga. Celia is forced to the altar to save her family; weak and pathetic, she marries the wrong man, who then takes 1/2 the book to confess his true identity. Celia never questions her "husband," assuming he miraculously altered his entire personality in their few years apart.

2. Preference for Verbal to Physical Action. 

Tsukasa's passivity shows up not only in his amazing willingness to ask no questions (to be fair, his reluctance to ask no questions is in keeping with his overall personality and bad dating history) but with his tendency to verbally rather than physically spar.

Verbal defense can be a powerful weapon, one that Elizabeth uses with such effectiveness that Darcy is only capable of responding through a written letter. This technique is typically gendered female rather than male despite the clever verbal quips of the sons of Frasier and the cops of Barney Miller.

Physical responses are not only gendered male, males are assumed to be invulnerable to physical assault.  Not so in reality: according to Nursing Standard, 37% of gay men had been in an abusive relationship--these abusive relationships were physically violent over 50% of the time. It is also often assumed that women don't act out physically at all, yet studies on abuse reveal that women hit and throw things as often as men.

However, the gendered perception is that women are less violent and aggressive--a perception likely encouraged by the fact that male violence tends to have more noticeable and irrevocable outcomes.

3. Docile Acceptance of Being Indulged.

Tsukasa and Takeshima meet at a

fancy hotel.

Tsukasa is surprisingly willing to be wined and dined by his wealthy lover. This is a trope in paperback romances although many romance heroines protest, as Jane Eyre does, at being overwhelmed by gifts.

Tsukasa's reaction stands in stark contrast not only to romance heroines but to a great many yaoi heroes; poor lovers of wealthy men generally fiercely protect their independence--Akihito not only keeps his job as a photographer but becomes embroiled in independently investigating Asami's enemies ("Everywhere I look," Asami says, "you're covered in bruises.") while Toya from Guilty refuses to move into Hodaka's penthouse in order to keep his work role (as Hodaka's editor) separate from his private role (as Hodaka's lover).

The assumption that Tsukasa won't protest at gifts and special dinners--and is actually pleased to be treated so well--seems to be based on the assumption that a wealthy lover is what everyone is looking for, which is probably kind of true (it's not like anyone is going to turn money down). But it is an assumption usually applied more to women than to men.    

Eleanor of Aquitaine makes everybody

look passive.

To sum up:

1. The gendering of woman as passive is not true to history, to contemporary life or, for that matter, to all literature. It is simply a gendering that readers recognize.

2. I don't consider these literary passive women to be an example of chauvinism. I think they represent a kind of wish-fulfillment. Like the passive heroine of Twilight who never just leaves her small-town weirdness behind, these passive heroines temporarily set aside the cultural insistence that they safeguard their virtue, look after their families, and bolster their men. They can simply . . . rest.

3. It is perfectly okay--as much as it is okay for anyone--for men to be passive. The issue here is characterization, not what reality should or should not be.

4. Caged Slave has a decent, clean (not "clean" in the erotic sense but in the organizational sense) plot. It is also incredibly reminiscent of older (pre-1990s) Harlequin Romances.

Fruit of the Poisonous Tree, Coincidences in Fiction, and Human Behavior

Snow White should have asked more questions:

"Where exactly does that apple come from?"

I apply the same rule to "suspension of disbelief" as the courts do to "fruit of the poisonous tree."

Law & Order 101: the detectives discover evidence based on an illegal search warrant; the judge determines that since the warrant was illegal, anything coming from the warrant is also illegal.

BUT if the detectives/lawyers can prove that they would have come upon that evidence in a different, legal way, the evidence is allowed to stand. It is no longer "fruit of the poisonous tree."

I apply the same caveat to plot points that rely on coincidence, last minute revelations, or random miscommunications. The coincidence, last minute revelation, or random miscommunication leads to the murderer being caught, the hero/heroine being saved or the lovers miraculously changing their minds and not getting on the boat.

And I roll my eyes. Unless I decide that the outcome would have occurred anyway. Then, I let it go.

In Only the Ring Finger Knows, Wataru and Kazuki fall out of communication while Kazuki is in New York because Kazuki's friend's medical condition worsens; Kazuki then gets into a minor car accident and has to go to the hospital for X-Rays; then Kazuki assumes he'll have time to call Wataru about why he mailed back his ring but he ends up having to return to the hospital, etc. etc.

Kind of ridiculous. But the point is to highlight the tension that Wataru and Kazuki, an 18 and 19-year-old,  feel after being away from each other for so long and to point out the understandable fears and assumptions that a couple can develop apart. It is actually quite believable, however seemingly manufactured.

Likewise, Steel Lahti in Blue Sheep Reverie coincidentally taking Kai as his lover--before realizing that Kai has an ulterior motive--seems a bit daft until one realizes that Lahti already knew who Kai was (from Shiki) and was willing to run the not-too-terrible risk of keeping him close in order to discover Kai's intent (he runs a similar risk later with Salir--so his behavior is consistent).

Sometimes, when a possible plot point seems too outrageous--but I like the story anyway--I simply shorten the time frame in my head. So yes, okay, it is kind of difficult to believe that it would take over a year for someone to discover that Mizuki of Hana-Kimi is a girl in a rough and tumble boys' school. Still, women have passed as men before and if one simply decides that everything happened in about four months . . .

And sometimes--if I REALLY like the story--I just decide that the whole thing is taking place in some alternate universe where ordinary rules of probability apply differently. But not because the whole thing is a dream. Some rules have to apply; otherwise the story ceases to be fun at all.

See Votaries for non-manga examples.

What Makes a Good Manga Short Story Continued . . .

Of course Sam was going to return at the end of

"Scarecrow"--it's still satisfying to see him do it.

Reasons 1 and 2 are discussed in the prior post.

3. There is a decent pay-off.

Artsy types may try to convince readers that nothing needs to end because life doesn't end and resolutions are too simplistic, blah blah blah. I tried to argue that myself at one point.

Ignore them.

A good narrative has a good pay-off. A great narrative has a great pay-off.

Great pay-off does not mean "surprise". Sometimes, the surprise pay-off does work. Agatha Christie knocked that type of ending (you thought the murderer was X but really it was Z) out of the park.

But surprise for the sake of surprise can get irritating after awhile. It truly is okay to give the reader/viewer the expected ending--the couple runs towards each other with hands outstretched; the child is returned to his or her parents; the underdog wins the fight/gets the good grade/finds a new planet; Sam and Dean get back together . . .

Readers and viewers love this stuff! I love this stuff! I like it even more when it makes sense, dovetails with previous information, delivers that warm glow of "a ha" or "I knew it!" or "thank goodness."

*Spoiler.* Regarding light novels, the end of S makes perfect sense, specifically Godou's confession. Yeah, sure, we all knew he was responsible for Shiiba's sister's death. However, the way in which he acknowledges it and how that information matches what we previously learned about the character--is perfect.

With manga short stories, the rather odd but engaging "When 'Lie' is Read 'T-r-u-t-h'" at the end of Rabbit Man, Tiger Man, Volume 1--in which the action switches back to the young prodigy imagining his (accurate) future with his mentor--delivers a cute, more sweet than bitter twist. The middle story to Wild Rock--in my opinion, a far better story than the volume's title story--is Romeo and Juliet for grown-ups. The protagonists don't die; they return to their clans and take up their roles as chiefs. While the short story "That's All From Me" by Yugi Yamada, which revolves around the game Go, shows us two protagonists acknowledging their attraction in a typically roundabout way (typical for the protagonists, that is).

A powerful short story is like a piece of exceptionally good chocolate--it may not be as filling or as reliable as a full Hershey's Bar (and I love Hershey's). But it delivers a wallop of memorable "wow" satisfaction.

Dysfunctions Continued

In the prior post, I address 2 elements that separate "oh my gosh, they so need to break up!" dysfunctional relationships from workable dysfunctional relationships in manga and light novels (in a later post on Votaries, I'll address how #3 below works with Agatha Christie).

When the dysfunctional relationship works . . .

1. The narrator is likable, even if supposedly passive.
2. The narrator is self-aware

3. The couple's problems are less soap opera and more everyday reality.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of The Guilty is that it revolves around a publishing firm. The problems are so basic and local, they ground the entire series in reality. Yes, okay, Hodaka is the typical overly rich, overly aloof, overly everything romantic hero (think Darcy taken to the nth degree). But the issues--you owe me another book, the mail service lost the manuscript, I work with more writers than just you, etc.--are entirely commonplace and relatable.

Cold Fever is pure soap opera but has such a fascinating premise that I wanted to enjoy it: Toru suffers amnesia and becomes one type of person; he then loses his amnesia and reverts to the person he was before: memory as personality. Will the relationship survive?

Amnesia stories of this type have no scientific merit (see post on Votaries) although the connection between memory and personality does. Nonetheless, I find them utterly fascinating artistically anyway since they usually revolve around determining the "self"--What makes us us?

And the action of Cold Fever--Toru leaving one type of work for another--is entirely plausible.

Unfortunately, the soap opera revelations (I remember my horrible past now!) are way too charged to leave me feeling comfortable. The same holds true for Sweet Admiration by Yuuki Kosaka. I reached a Tess of the D'Urbervilles' rolling-of-the-eyes state of mind with Sweet Admiration and had to skim the end.

Oddly enough, the excellent series S by Saki Aida, provides various angsty motivations for many of its characters. However, they come across as less Tess and more Hamlet or MacBeth--less "it just keeps getting worse!" and more "tragic flaws to overcome."

The background angst in S also works thematically. The problem with pure soap opera is a mistake made by so many romance writers: that great love can be proved by GREAT, BIG, AWFUL PROBLEMS. Not so. Characters who overcome tragic pasts in order to deal with ordinary life are far more interesting romantically than characters who have to keep climbing that hill in order to prove how noble and worthy of love they are. The first possibility proves that the characters are strong and interesting; the second proves that some people don't know when to walk away.

Dysfunctions Again

Fictional (and real) relationships that revolve around power inequities can function constructively; they can also leave the reader thinking, "That relationship will never work" or "That relationship shouldn't work."

Subjectivity definitely comes into play. Consequently, The Guilty by Katsura Izumi--which includes a relationship based on supposed domination--bothers me far less than Narise Konohara's Don't Tell Mama and Cold Sleep series, specifically Cold Fever, which includes one of the most aloof, submissive ukes on record.

Konohara is a decent psychologist. She sells the plausibility of her novels' relationships. The result is not "That relationship will never work" but, rather, "Yikes!!!!"

What separates a "well, that dynamic is problematic but that couple still has a future" relationship from a "Yikes!" relationship? Here are some possibilities:

1. The narrator is likable, even if supposedly passive.

Konahara, interestingly enough, tends to narrate from the seme (dominant character) perspective--and since her semes are usually rather disturbed, overwhelmingly needy and controlling individuals, reading her novels is rather like reading Hamlet from Claudius's perspective. Not a terrible idea, mind you. And not even artistically invalid. But rather troubling. Since she is a good writer, I always try to plow through her stuff. I gave up with Cold Fever--it included way too many chapters of disturbed, unhappy guy (shoot, I'd pick up Thomas Hardy or depressing French literature if I wanted to read that stuff). I much prefer her short "extra" at the end from the uke's point of view. 

The Guilty series, in comparison, is narrated almost entirely from Toya's point of view. He is ostensibly the uke. Like Taki of Maiden Rose, however, he exercises far more control than even he realizes. In addition, since the novels are from his point of view, the reader gets to see him working through his uncertainties and trepidations. This is a very different experience from feeling that a character is being forced/overwhelmed into a relationship.

2. The narrator is self-aware.

Truth: people aren't always all that self-aware. But it helps if they are. The Guilty series is rather light-weight--lots of snogging to a little bit of psychology (comparatively speaking). Yet, the psychology is entirely believable and well-conveyed as Toya struggles with his assumptions about the relationship and ponders his misreadings of Hodaka (see related post).

Toru of Cold Fever, on the other hand, never seems to know exactly why he is behaving the way that he does--which might actually be more realistic but doesn't make him more likable.

A common thread with romance novels is a narrator who is self-aware (to a point) but throws away that self-awareness/self-respect for the sake of love. Toya almost falls into this category but skirts the edge by walking away when he gets really miffed.

Those narrators--usually ukes--who will do anything for love leave me cold. I'm forced to the conclusion that such characters don't care if their partners have the morals of a sloth or the brains of a turnip. People who do anything for luuuuv will luuuuv anyone.

This is miles away from Jane Austen's Elizabeth who only falls for Darcy absolutely when she learns of his good character.

Interestingly, in the series S, when the protagonist Shiiba tries to argue to his lover that he is that type of guy (I'll do anything for love), his lover reminds him gently that actually, no, no, he isn't--he doesn't truly want to give up his job for the sake of the relationship; he just thinks he does.

To be continued . . . 

Thoughts (and Fan Fiction) on the Psychology of The Guilty

One of the more fascinating aspects of Japanese manga and light novels is the introspective objectiveness, the continual acknowledgement that how a character sees him or herself  is not entirely how that character is seen by others.

American literature will point out the disparity between one's view of oneself versus others' views of one: this revelation is common currency in romance novels and can be quite effective in furthering a plot; the ultimate goal in American romance is to bring the two views in sympathy or alignment with each other.

Japanese romance light novels and manga use the disparity with equal effectiveness; however, characters do not always resolve problems with complete alignment. To a large degree, they and the author assume (1) that the disparity is inevitable and (2) that the disparity will continue. Success is measured by the amount of understanding the characters achieve in a single moment. Reading Japanese romance is rather like reading Pride & Prejudice taken to a whole other level.

For a writer, light novels consequently offer many opportunities for readers and fan writers to "read between the lines"--there's so much of it there!

Below is an extra imagined interior monologue to The Guilty series by Katsura Izumi. The monologue is from the point of view of Hodaka, the secondary protagonist. Most of the novels are written from the point of view of the primary protagonist, Toya, and it is helpful to remember that Toya perceives Hodaka, not himself, as the elusive partner (more character analysis follows the interior monologue):

His lovers in the past never stayed overnight—not that there had been that many. Hodaka had never had the number of lovers conjectured by the scandal sheets.

The few who had crept into his life had been brief liaisons: valued for the moment, released in the next. Hodaka had never seen the need to sustain those fleeting connections. Mutual interest led to enjoyment led to inevitable separation. That was the norm.

Until now.

No lover had ever enthralled him like Toya. No lover fascinated him so much.

Hodaka wasn’t concerned by his fascination (another fleeting emotion). It was his need for Toya, for the type of relationship that Toya offered, that unnerved him.

His heart troubled, Hodaka slid out of bed. He pulled on a robe and quietly leaving the room, headed for the house’s library.

Toya had come to Hayama to fetch Hodaka’s latest manuscript for his employer, Sozan Publishing. Several weeks earlier, he had resigned as Hodaka’s editor, but his devotion to his job was stronger than his disappointment in Hodaka, so he had come to Hayama since Hodaka wouldn’t hand over his manuscript to anyone else.

Hodaka was not sure even now what he had done to push Toya to call off their relationship.  He knew that Toya desired him. Why else would Toya propose his own body in exchange for Hodaka’s manuscript? Especially while he was still engaged?

That engagement was now at an end. Hodaka was not surprised. He had met the woman briefly—a sweet-natured, candid person. Hodaka had already known by then that Toya required something hardier than sweetness. Toya was too complicated a man to be content with a normal, placid relationship.

Toya claimed that he wanted Hodaka’s heart. I’ve given it to you, Hodaka had tried to tell him, but Toya seemed to need something more, something so mysterious Hodaka could only agree to his demands and hope understanding would follow.

Waiting to learn more about his lover meant a long-term relationship, something Hodaka had never felt the need for before. Now, he felt its allure—due to Toya, no doubt, but Hodaka also sensed a growing dissatisfaction with his own past attachments. Were they truly not enough?

If he pursued a long-term relationship now, he would depend on Toya. Toya claimed to love Hodaka. He had said it again and again when he arrived in Hayama. And yet—

Toya was so much more contradictory than Hodaka. He was intelligent, ambivalent, self-effacing: a mass of circuitous thoughts.

The only way Hodaka could stay ahead of Toya was to demand what he, Hodaka, wanted and trust Toya would agree.

But would his demands be enough to keep Toya beside him? Suppose he decided that enjoyment with Hodaka was not enough to outweigh his misgivings? Suppose Hodaka handed over the manuscript, and Toya ended their association for good?

Hodaka’s latest novel was unlike anything he’d written before. It was a mystery, of course, with a strong psychological component. It was also a love story, something Hodaka had never felt impelled to write before. So many empty, unsure nights without Toya—Hodaka felt impelled to express the uncertainty of love as if he were a young man again, poised on the edge of confused attraction.

Suppose Toya read the manuscript and was alarmed by Hodaka’s new approach? Toya claimed to be a fan of Hodaka’s work, and Hodaka had to admit that Toya discussed his work with all the fervor and enthusiastic dissection of a true fan. Suppose, like many fans, he’d wanted Hodaka to write more of the same—not try something new?

Toya was a gifted and reliable editor—he could set aside his disappointment as a fan. But suppose Hodaka’s expanding emotions embarrassed him? Away from Hodaka’s arms, Toya could be fastidious and absolute in his self-sufficiency.

Part of the fascination of Toya and Hodaka's relationship is that it begins in betrayal--namely, Toya's betrayal of his fiancee. This false start adds an extra psychological burden to the relationship, which explains why, generally speaking, relationships between cheaters don't last.

Alongside all the normal doubts and fears is Toya's unhappiness with himself. He doesn't entirely trust the "him" who behaved so badly; he isn't a playboy by nature and had no idea he had such devious cruelty inside him.

Consequently, he is constantly trying to put on the brakes with Hodaka, to rein in their relationship, to establish lines between the personal and work--to not be the guy he was when he hurt his fiancee.

Hodaka, unfortunately, reads this behavior--Toya's retreat to "company manners"--as disinterest or, worse, as Toya moving on, "trading up." Hodaka is perceptive enough to recognize that Toya is not (usually) the playboy type: he doesn't go around picking up partners right and left. Yet Hodaka is also perceptive enough to recognize that Toya did walk away from a supposedly steady relationship despite being a normally dependable man. Who is Hodaka to say that Toya won't walk away from another relationship? After all, if one wants to know how people will behave in the future, the past is the best indicator.

There's a reason Volume 2 is called Original Sin. It isn't merely a clever title--it highlights the problems brought about when relationship ills originate in tainted first contact. Both characters carry the weight of their first mistake, yet both are sure that the other person has everything all figured out. Consequently, they both interpret the other person's behavior in terms of confident resolution (arrogance) rather than blustering uncertainty (fear)--which naturally leads to misunderstandings. And . . . problems ensue. 

All this psychology packed into a few slim volumes--light novels are remarkable fare.

Interview with a Translator, Part 2: Reading Culture in Japan

Kate: Critics of contemporary culture often bemoan the decline of novel reading (they also often seem to be disgruntled academics whose tomes don’t sell). How does reading fare in Japan? Do books sell?

Eugene: Japanese bookstores sell on consignment (returns are allowed), and books are sold under a resale price maintenance (RPM) system that disallows discounting. Online retailers like Amazon compete on the convenience of "one-stop shopping," huge inventories, and free shipping.

Family reunion--yup, everybody's reading.

That makes it possible for small and niche bookstores to compete. Japan's high population density makes distribution more efficient. And I do think public transportation--along with a long literary culture and high literacy rates--is key in fostering "disposable" reading habits. If the ride might be long, grab an easy read.

(Like the habit we and our siblings had growing up of always carrying a book with us whenever
we went somewhere "just in case" we found ourselves stuck somewhere with nothing to do. The horror!)

The A6 format is truly pocked-sized, with lightweight but durable paper and flexible spines. A big bestselling novel like Daughter of the Murakami Pirates was initially released in two volumes of 474 and 499 pages at 1,728 yen ($15) each. The mass-market paperback was released in four A6 volumes of around 350 pages and 680 yen ($6) each.

I suspect as well that the doujinshi culture helps create a printing industry adept at doing economical short runs. Along with a devoted fan base willing to spend money on their hobby.

Seriously, think of the economic impact of almost completely eliminating the automobile from the teen to thirty-something budgetary balance sheet. Which just happens to overlap with the otaku demographic.

And yet, while CDs and DVDs are (at least) two to three times more expensive in Japan, books are often less expensive, manga compilations being half what you'd pay for a translation in the U.S. In other words, the "gateway drugs"--manga and light novels--are always affordable.

Kate: How about downloading books--is the idea of "Kindle" as prevalent in Japan as it appears to be in the United States?

Eugene: Amazon is pushing the Kindle platform hard in Japan. Amazon competitors like Honto have their own ebook publishing platforms. But Japan has been slow to embrace digital media. Distribution is still about pushing physical products. Tower Records went bankrupt in the U.S. It is thriving in Japan: "Globally, 39 percent of all music sales are physical CDs and vinyl, but in Japan the figure is double that."

When it comes to CDs, DVDs, and Blu-ray, distributors are loath to give up their sky-high profit margins. The convenience factor is not as critical a variable given Japan's high urban population density and resale price maintenance laws that make possible a "nation of shopkeepers" (Adam Smith said it first). And Japanese seem to like collecting physical "stuff" (that's easy to store), not just information.

A manga shelf--with a little bit of Star Wars at the end.

The typical scene of a teenager's bedroom includes a bookcase with thirty volumes of his favorite manga neatly lined up in rows.

Books, on the other hand, aren't expected to deliver those fat profit margins, and they've always had competition from used bookstores. Manga marketing begins with loss-leading. I'm always getting emails from Honto pushing the latest free e-manga: give away the first volume, sell the rest. Plus, once a manga is typeset, it is relatively easy to convert to electronic format.

Shopping online is rapidly growing in popularity in Japan and so will electronic publishing. But in Japan it is a lagging indicator.

Kate: Light novels don't appear to have the same negative status as "grocery store paperbacks" do in the U.S. Is this true? Why?

Eugene: To start with, the printing quality of light novels is pretty darn high. I have a light novel I bought in 1989 for 360 yen (about $3.25). The paper has faded a bit, but the full-color wraparound dust cover and the spine are in perfect condition.

In Japan, the rift between "literature" and "stories for the masses," as Dean Wesley Smith puts it, never really developed. Sure, there are literary snobs but publishers see no point in surrendering to those pretensions. Publishers make a point of publishing and licensing just about everything that shows potential (see the comparison to commercial television production above).

Daughter manga

Along with the mass market paperback, Daughter of the Murakami Pirates was also released in a manga version. Someday there will likely be an anime and a live-action historical drama. The Moribito series recently added a high-budget (for Japanese television) live-action series to its publishing arc (light novels, manga, and anime).

The long-running Rurouni Kenshin manga series, first published in 1994, added a trilogy of live-action films in 2012-2014, adding to a catalog that includes an anime series, several anime movies, and light novels.

Even the radio drama (distributed on CD) remains a viable medium for popular culture in Japan.

Japan actually figured out how to make literacy "cool" and to hook kids on reading, from elevating calligraphy to a pop culture art form (see Barakamon), to creating the visual novel video game format that requires more reading than most novels, to publishing school textbooks that look more like manga rather than the heavy, ponderous boat anchors used in American schools.

Kate: Along the same lines, manga appears to have never had the same negative status that "comic books" has/had in the United States. When "comic books" get serious treatment in the U.S. they become "graphic novels" but manga have always been manga. Why?

Eugene: Back in the 1950s, the comic book panic briefly swept over Japan too. Writing then for the short-lived rental book market, horror manga artist Shigeru Mizuki briefly fell victim to it. Fortunately for him, as the "rental library" business dried up, so did the protests. Or everybody was too busy growing the GDP at double-digits to care.

Once his manga found a wider audience in the 1960s and made their way to television, his reputation was never in doubt, and he became one of the grand old deans of Japanese popular culture.

Every now and then, a manga artist will "go too far" (meaning WAY further than what would be acceptable in the U.S., especially for a teen audience) and get push-back from politicians and social activist types. But publishers are quick to respond and pull back just far enough to make everybody happy. It rarely turns into a sweeping indictment that sticks.

Part of this may the attitude that it doesn't matter what the kids are reading as long as they are reading.

Perhaps nothing illustrates the Japan's reading culture better than the visual novel. It's the oldest video game format in Japan. A classic visual novel like Clannad has over a million words of text in all its branches, and most contain at least in the high five figures.

Clannad clip: It may be a video but it has lots of words!

No matter what the language--

The visual novel is the "interactive novel" that American prognosticators are always promising is going to be the next big thing in e-publishing. And never is. While in Japan the visual novel has been a big thing in e-publishing for three decades.

Kate: Returning to light novels, will they ever find a home in the U.S.? To the same degree as manga?

Eugene: As mentioned previously, the success of the visual novel genre in Japan does point to profound differences in the "reading culture."

Nevertheless, I think that kids who grow up reading R.L. Stein and K. A. Applegate and Nancy Drew, the equivalent of light novel series, would read light novels if they could find titles in the genres they like.

The problem is building a critical mass of supply when current demand doesn't justify the investment by a publisher big enough to negotiate the licensing agreements. That critical mass has been achieved with manga and anime (it only took a quarter century).

With manga, the American publisher can work from the original print-ready PDFs, erase the speech bubbles and type in the English. A novel has to typeset from scratch. On current budgets, there is never enough editing (and often there is barely any).

A light novel that finds the right audience can do just as well as any other "long tail" genre novel, which is not all that great in any case. It's a market segment that needs to be husbanded in the short-to-medium term and shielded from the blockbuster mentality.

"Science fiction" as a genre is itself "long tail," making up about five percent of the publishing market. The "light novel" would be a fraction of that. These are the small numbers we're talking about.

Yen Press is co-owned by Kadokawa and Hachette, Kadokawa is the majority owner, so they have a vested interest in the long term. That bodes well for the future.

I don't think the light novel will ever be as successful as the manga, but it should be able to find a niche if given enough time to grow its audience and become self-sustaining. Along the way, a few break-through titles sure would help.

Interview with a Translator, Part 2: Light Novel Publishing in Japan

As with Interview with a Translator, Part 1, these posts will appear first on Romance & Manga and then on Votaries of Horror, my main blog. There will be six posts total.

Eugene, the translator, is a votary of Japanese literature, art, and contemporary culture as well as a writer of fiction. More of his thoughts can be found on his website and blog.

Part 2 delves into the world of light novels, Japan's reading culture and, of course, more translation challenges.

Kate: What is a light novel? Does its designation depend on subject matter or word count? If word count, why are U.S. publishers so obsessed with 100,000 words or more when the light novel clearly does well in Japan?

Light novel equivalent.

Eugene: The "light novel" is a mass market novella format in Japan, a paperback of around 40,000 words, most often printed in the A6 (4x6 inch) format. The content is genre fiction, with a dozen or so pen and ink illustrations. Furigana are included to help with the pronunciation of difficult kanji.

The equivalent of the light novel used to be a thing in American publishing too. Back in the day they were called the "pulps," after the cheap paper they were printed on. And like the pulps, light novels can be diamonds in the rough and they also can be barely good enough to pass muster. 

Dean Wesley Smith explains on his website about how the paperback novel grew from true "pocket-size" into a doorstop:

"Publishers forced writers to write longer books, not to make the books better, but to justify their need to raise book prices because of other costs. (Paper and printing were cheap, so most of the extra costs were in overhead and could be made up with just fatter books.)"

Kate: Why is the publishing industry in Japan willing to play for supposedly lower stakes?

Eugene: An established Japanese publishing firm was likely founded by a guy who started from literally nothing after the war. Most of Japan's 3,700 publishing companies are privately-held companies with less than 10 employees. Only 30 publishers have more than 1000 employees.

So keeping overhead low and spreading the costs (and risks) around is standard practice (true of Japan's movie industry too). There's no blockbuster mentality. If Your Name had made 30 million dollars instead of 300 million, everybody would have counted it a success.

This means publishers can throw just about anything against the wall to see if it sticks. In this respect, the manga and light novel resembles the Hollywood television pilot (on a much smaller scale). And it can be surprising what sticks, like this.

This is a mom.

The standard publishing contract in Japan is so standard (no advance and 10 percent of list price paid on publication) that agents usually aren't involved. Rarely to never will a Japanese publisher throw six or seven figures at an unknown who is going to be "the next big thing."

Of course, things get more complicated once the licensing deals begin. But unlike his American counterpart, the Japanese author retains most creative rights by default. And because there is no one big payday in the offing, licensing far and wide is standard practice.

Japanese publishers will publish periodicals out of the same offices, and use loss-leading manga magazines to "audition" series and artists. The cream of the crop become source material for light novels, anime, live-action television, movies, and even stage productions.

Kate: In one light novel series, the main character is an editor at a publishing company. The major author with whom he works has contracts at several different companies—this author produces one to two books per year for each company. Is this flexibility (a major author coasting between several companies) typical?

Eugene: According to Robert Whiting (author of baseball books like You Gotta Have Wa and The Chrysanthemum and Bat), most of the time a Japanese publisher will ask a writer to do a book "without a contract or an advance." Then when the book is published, "the author gets paid on books printed, not sold."

This is the opposite of how traditional U.S. publishers work. First, it means that Japanese publishers don't contractually lock down an author from the start. Second, it means they have more skin in the game once the book gets printed. A U.S. publisher can do a run of 100,000 books (and boast "100,000 books in print!"), get 50,000 returns, and pay a royalty on the 50,000 (a year later).

The Japanese publisher, by contrast, is down a 7-10 percent royalty right out of the gate. Returns can't be so easily shrugged off. However, shorter printing runs and supply more carefully matched to demand results in books going out of print faster (at least that's my experience with manga). And then you have to anxiously wait around for another printing or edition to come out.

Kate: How do Japanese writers get noticed?

Eugene: My sense is that there's a lot more going on at the grassroots level in Japanese publishing. Authors can start at zero in the doujinshi arena and build a fan base. Think of the way sports stars emerge from the gauntlet of high school and college sports. Once the professional teams get involved, they have a pretty good idea of who's worth recruiting.

One big sorting and recruiting tool are literary prizes. We tend to think of literary prizes as rewarding "Literature" (with a capital "L" because it's "high art" and it's "good for you"); or celebrating a "body of work" from a known and respected quantity (at least known to and respected by all the critics who "matter").

The two biggest literary awards in Japan are the biannual Akutagawa and Naoki prizes, the former for "the best serious literary story published in a newspaper or magazine by a new or rising author" and the latter for "the best work of popular literature in any format by a new, rising, or (reasonably young) established author."

Naoki Matayoshi

Kate: Are these awards more the equivalent of the Nobel Prize in Literature or the Nebula? Or something even less hoity-toity?

Eugene: It does seem that the jurors try not to let too much pretentiousness govern their selections. Although, as in Always: Sunset on Third Street, a common writerly stereotype is the guy scribbling away in his hovel with high hopes of winning the Akutagawa prize while actually earning a living cranking out serial novels.

The serial novel is still going in Japan and many light novels start out that way.

The 2016 January Akutagawa prize was awarded to Naoki Matayoshi (no relation to the Naoki prize). He's a comedian, commentator, and occasional actor. Especially since winning the prize, he's been a regular on the chat and news show circuit. He hosts a weekly show about applied economics for NHK. He never attended college.

His biography is not terribly unusual for media intellectuals. In Japan, a diploma (the "Ivy Leagues" aside) is not a necessary credential for having smart things to say. (The protagonist in Hero passed the bar exam and became a public prosecutor without ever attending college or law school. Rare but possible.)

Daughter of the Murakami Pirates by Ryo Wada won the 2014 Japan Booksellers Yoshikawa Eiji prize for new writers, not for being "great literature" (nobody claims it is) but for being a great read. The Kodansha Manga Award has been awarded to hugely popular series like Ace of the Diamond and Attack on Titan.

As with college sports, in Japanese publishing there's the equivalent of a weekly MVP award and an annual Heisman for just about any genre in any medium. They serve a similar purpose: to reward up and coming talent, and to get the word out to the press and the public.

Kate: Why is it comparably more difficult to track down light novels in the U.S. than manga? Isn't manga harder to publish due to the art work? Is word count the reason light novels don't get translated more often?

One of the most popular yaoi light

novel series in the U.S., the later

volumes are far superior translations

to the earlier ones. Readers read

them anyway--but they complained.

Eugene: As far as books go, a light novel that finds the right audience can do just as well as any other "long tail" genre novel, which is not all that great. The term "manga," on the other hand, identifies it as a unique print and reading format. Expectations are met before the reading begins. A light novel is, at the end of the day, just another "book" among tens of thousands, and light novels have the additional expense of licensing fees to contend with on the balance sheet.

Along with Justin Sevakis, I also think that light novel adaptations have been slow to take off for the same reason visual novel adaptations have been slow to take off--all those words. 

Like American television producers, Japanese publishers try to cover every genre and demographic and hope that something catches fire. That includes, of course, chasing the latest trends.

The problem outside Japan is building a critical mass of supply when the still nascent demand doesn't justify the investment. That critical mass has been achieved with manga and anime (it only took a quarter century). It's tougher with a non-visual medium like traditional books.

The steepest cost in localizing a Japanese novel is the translation. A manga can be translated in a week or two, as opposed to a month or two (with no editing). With manga, the American publisher can work from the original print-ready PDFs, erase the speech bubbles and type in the English.

A novel has to be edited and typeset from scratch. On current budgets, there is never enough editing (and often there is barely any).

Good anime and manga can survive mediocre translations. Not so much novels. Especially when it precedes the manga, anime, and movie adaptations, the text has to stand on its own.

Coming next: Japan's Reading Culture!

Dysfunctional Relationships: Sometimes They Work and Sometimes . . .

One could argue that ALL relationships are dysfunctional. For the purposes of this post, I am addressing relationships where there is an obvious imbalance within the relationship dynamic: the woman who wants to marry a daddy figure; the man who wants to marry a mommy type; the ill person who marries a caretaker (where caretaking is the element that holds them together) and so on.

My perspective is that however off-putting I might find this type of dynamic, if it works for the involved parties, good for them!

Problems occur when (1) the people involved in the relationship change, thereby dropping the roles that run the dynamic; (2) the people involved in the relationship want outcomes incompatible with the dynamic.

Dollhouse by Ibsen is a good example of both. The relationship between husband and wife is a father-daughter one. Nora is a little-girl woman, being endlessly cared for by her husband, Torvald. Until it turns out that Torvald is lousy at being a father figure. When Nora realizes that he wants her to be both little girl who follows his lead AND independent woman who makes difficult choices for the family, she figures, "Why bother?" and leaves.

I don't see this as necessarily a feminist message (and other critics agree) since I maintain that the original dynamic was okay so long as the people involved were also okay with it.

Konohara uses a similarly disturbing

relationship dynamic in About Love: needy

guy demands constant reassurance from

his kind but teasing lover--however, in

About Love, the characters both seem

okay with what they have signed up for.

Not-being-okay-with-it reminds me of a YA book I read ages ago, whose title and author I have since forgotten. A young man "rescues" an overweight, non-popular girl in his high school. Once she gains confidence and loses weight, she moves on. The young man is dismayed and feels rejected, but the book  doesn't automatically defend his viewpoint. The girl was tired of being treated like a project--except treating her like a project is precisely what enthralled the young man. He wasn't going to change, so she did.

Don't Tell Mama by Narise Konohara uses a similar plot but is far less realistic. Yuichi falls for Imakura when Imakura is a whining, tubby, low self-esteem mama's boy. Konohara--who is a decent writer and character analyst--does a notable job selling Yuichi's attraction to Imakura. Yuichi is a bit of a bully but not enough to want to abuse someone. The relationship dynamic of controlling-man-who-pampers-his-babyish-yet-endearing-lover satisfies his ego and his sexual needs. Yuichi doesn't want Imakura in spite of his traits--he is turned on by those traits.  

This, I maintain, is not only believable (hey, relationships are weird); it isn't a problem. Chacun a son gout or "Whatever turns you on," as Detective Wentworth says on Barney Miller ("I thought [that saying] was about your health," Wojo says. "It is," she replies).

The problem with the novel is not that Imakura will go back to living with his mother once he and Yuichi leave their island love nest. Narise Konohara disposes of this issue by having the mother remarry, leaving Imakura at loose ends. I find it entirely plausible that Imakura would then turn to his lover to supply him with the relationship needs he has lost. Since Yuichi is willing--that's the end of the story!

Actually, it's not. Konohara has Imakura undergo substantial changes--he gets a job doing something he likes, becomes a decent co-worker who looks out for others rather than blaming them for his mistakes, moves out on his own, and even loses weight. Yet she wants to reader to believe that Imakura and Yuichi can still make a go of it.

I get a kick out of the utterly

dysfunctional relationship here, mostly

because--in true academic fashion--both

characters are aware of their problems 

and even capable of (over) analyzing them.

Not that they will act on the analysis.

It's about self-knowledge, dude.

I should clarify at this point that I'm not saying that people in relationships can't change and grow while remaining together. It happens all the time! I am saying that when a relationship is based on a particular set of variables, changing those variables will (temporarily or permanently) unsettle the relationship. And if attraction is based on those variables, removing those variables will inevitably challenge the attraction.

At this point, the die hard romantics may wish to contend that Yuichi didn't fall in love with Imakura's mommy issues, his babyish behavior, and his weight but with his essence.

Except that "falling in love with someone's essence" is about as remote and meaningless as, well, most metaphysical statements. It also contradicts the text. Yuichi clearly falls for Imakura on the island (before most of Imakura's major changes) and falls for all of him, from his personality flaws (passivity, neediness, inexperience) to his physical self. In fact, Yuichi is a little surprised to discover how much the relationship satisfies him at a psychical level. Some link in his mental blueprint of relationships has snapped into place--why ruin a good thing?

In other words, Yuichi does not fall in love with Imakura's potential. He and Imakura discuss what Imakura might do with  his life after the island, but none of those discussions motivate Yuichi in the present. Yuichi is entirely motivated by Imakura being passive, pathetic, needy, inexperienced and a literal handful. 

Consequently, the end of the book leaves one with the uneasy feeling that before long, Yuichi will be forcing Imakura to quit his new job, never take the initiative in the relationship, run to Yuichi for ego boosts, and gain back the weight he lost.

Which could work!--so long as the reader believes that such an outcome is what Imakura truly wants. Otherwise, the guy needs to get himself into a more workable relationship. Yuichi can find someone else to pamper.   

Getting to Know You: Character-Building in Romances

Discussions over meals are a handy "Get to Know You"

technique--see What Did You Eat Yesterday?

One place that romances unfortunately often fail is the "getting to know you" part.

Romances need the characters to get to know each other. If they don't, the reader is left wondering, Why are these people together? The reader also needs to "see" the "getting to know you" parts--not simply be told that the characters spent an afternoon together exchanging recipes and jokes.

The problem for the writer, of course, is how long should the "getting to know you"  parts be? Too long, and the plot gets lost. Too short, and . . . Why are these people together?

Good and bad examples of "getting to know you" montages in manga/light novels follow:

The Aristocrat and the Prince by Ai Hasukawa leaps from kidnapping/rescue to love. It makes a common mistake to many romances by conflating attraction with interest. Many, many romances start with attraction but as Angel points out on Angel, a person can be attracted to the point where he or she sleeps with someone--only to wake up the next morning thinking, "Yikes!"

Takayuki wants to stay with his rescuer--but why? They seem to have no interests in common, not even a common way of looking at the world. In contrast, in Finder (which is fluff but nevertheless well-written fluff), Asami and Akihito have several long conversations about politics, friendship, and even, delightfully enough, fireworks. (I reference Finder here because it is the most classic example of the seme/uke relationship, a relationship that The Aristocrat and the Prince never seems to get beyond: see post about archetypes versus stereotypes.)

Jamal and Leonard discuss a soldier's

duty. Neither are the type of man to

blame the other for doing his job.

Black Sun by Uki Ogasawara accomplishes its "getting to know you" montage using an actions-speak-louder-than-words method. Jamal is, by nature, an action kind of guy. Leonard and Jamal consequently have a number of arguments, culminating either in Jamal walking around unself-consciously naked, flustering Leonard, or in Jamal and Leonard sparring. The arguments, however, never fall into abuse or cruel mockery (by either character).

Over the course of the arguments, personality similarities and differences appear. Jamal is more likely to experiment with a possible answer/action; Leonard is more likely to mull. ("His seriousness," Jamal says, "is his charm. But is also troubling.") Both characters come away having learned more about the other--and feeling more and more enthralled.

One of the most telling pieces of dialog occurs when Leonard, in response to a choice between cozy, lonely imprisonment and "imprisonment" with Jamal, declares, "I must speak to Jamal about this." At this point in the story, Leonard's trust feels right and believable--the reader has learned, as Leonard has, that Jamal is someone that he can speak to. They are the Bones and Booth of the Middle Ages--capable of coming at a problem in two different ways but sharing a fundamental similarity of viewpoint.

The Guilty, Volume 1 by Katsura Izumi contains an interesting variation on the "getting to know you" challenge. The characters do get to know each other in the initial chapters. They have common interests (nature, Hitchcock movies, writing). However, part of the book's conflict is that (1) aloof mystery writer Hodaka is difficult to get to know; (2) the relationship is in fact sexual before it becomes emotionally intimate, a fact that causes editor Sakurai a great deal of guilt. Sakurai's handling of his guilt/the affair--his self-loathing followed by justifications followed by self-knowledge and, finally, a sense of responsibility--are well-captured. His initial impulse to further a relationship based on little more than attraction is the novel's point, not a mistake in the writing.

"Getting to know you parts" are like sports montages: a series of scenes pulled together (sometimes with music) to prove that yes, the athlete did train; yes, the ending where the underdog beats the champion will now be believable.

Don't tell me that the relationship worked out--prove to me that it could!

See my main blog for non-yaoi examples . . .