The Problem with the Romantic Spy Novel

Agent Smith is NOT a nice guy.

On Votaries, I post about Spies & Spouses. 

The below is a repost.

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The problem with the romantic spy novel is that (realistic) spies are not the kinds of people who should inspire commitment.

I argue on this blog that dysfunctional relationships can work as long as all the people involved know what dysfunction they're signing up for. But there are lines. And a firm line stands between ordinary-dysfunction and con-artists/grifters.

Spies--actual spies--fall into the latter category. Someone like Philby comes across not as clever, resourceful, daring, or even dangerous (in the James Bond sense) but as someone essentially hollow.

Lee, from Scarecrow & Mrs King, is

more like Seeley Booth.

John Le Carre's chilling depiction of spies in The Spy Who Came In From the Cold (wherein the sincerely loyal-to-his-country character is sacrificed by an amoral agent for the sake of protecting a sleazebag asset) is a far more realistic depiction of spies than the noble secret agent who wants to protect his/her country.

A variation to the amoral agent who protects a sleazebag asset is the tough assassin. The problem here is that generally speaking, tough assassins are like the mafia hitman serial killer in an episode of Criminal Minds: a fascinating character with a great deep voice who has no soul.

Every romance writer wants to create Jason Bourne (who doesn't?)--as opposed to the schemer in the backroom. But unless the character IS Jason Bourne and has a good reason to protect himself without becoming callous, amoral, and deranged, the romance writer is stuck. (In Person of Interest, John's determination to regain his soul means he has created a set of personal criteria that he sticks to no matter the cost--he is constantly watching himself--plus he already walked away from being an official "spy".)

Spy movies should not even try to be

realistic--put the secret agent in a tank!

The end result: spy romance novels often end up being (even more) unrealistic (than the average adventure movie). In one I read recently, the spy handed a gun to the object of his assignment, the mark (and love interest), within 24-hours of their meeting. At that point, I rolled my eyes and gave up on the book being anything more than a series of chases (well-written, I'll grant, but still--). A hard-headed, intelligent, resourceful, non-novice, non-amnesiac expert spy simply HANDS over a weapon to a wild card?

Where did my suspension of disbelief go? Oh, there it is, wafting out the window...

I love the "but love conquers all doubts" theme as much as the next romantic. Only, please, not in a spy novel and not in the first three chapters. Even Leverage gave its grifter several seasons to "repent" (and she was a nice grifter).

Favorite Kleypas Couple: Sebastian and Evangeline

On Votaries, I am discussing characters. I've reached "K" authors. From romance novelist Kleypas...

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In Devil in Winter by Lisa Kleypas, the hero agrees to marry the heroine for money. He then, of course, discovers that she is beautiful and charming and witty and great in bed (not necessarily in that order) although his distress--cash shortage and unhappiness/boredom--is still a factor. 

However, part of his new wife's dowry is her father's club, which has fallen on hard times. To protect his assets, Sebastian becomes directly involved in running the club and subsequently discovers he has a knack for business. 150+ years later, the guy would get an MBA and buy up a bunch of resorts: same principle.

I find the subsequent relationship satisfyingly believable on a psychological level. Running a club is a bit low-class, but the guy has nothing to lose and everything to gain by taking charge. His reaction to the challenge is also believable: his lovely wife doesn't inspire him to take an interest; he takes an interest because he (initially) wants to sell the club at a good price. The impulse comes from him, not her endearing example. 

In other words, he works to find a purpose for himself in life; he doesn't wait around for his wife to nudge him into finding a purpose.

And the spousal relationship moves back onto voluntary grounds and how Sebastian and Evangeline relate to each other. A redeemed rake who honestly falls in love, Sebastian is smart and self-aware enough to know that this time he had better make this relationship work. Evangeline is soft-spoken and gentle with a spine of steel. She has a sense of her own worth, to which Sebastian responds. 

Believable relationship--one of the more satisfying romance couples.

A-Z Romance! Chase

Loretta Chase is one of my favorite romance writers. She captures the Regency time period alongside screwball comedy banter and various set-ups that require strong pay-offs.

I reread Knaves' Wager, one of her earliest. Her later novels are somewhat more complex plotwise, but this early novel indicates Chase's strengths. It provides characters and conflicts that are resolved through more than an abrupt death or sudden change of mind, both the equivalent of deus ex machinas.

 

Loretta's characters are clever; her problems demanding. The set-ups demand clever and demanding resolutions.

 

In terms of character growth, she does a decent job with her "knave," Lord Julian Brandon, who comes to realize how much he wants to seduce widow Lilith Davenant and spend time with her, even to the point of discussing...drainage!

 

Her heroine, strong-minded and somewhat regal and more than a little shattered by her past marriage, is likable. Strong-minded heroines will come up again and again in this list. If they have reasons for their strong-mindedness, including their fundamental personalities, they are far more likable than if they are operating within some kind of slated role. Chase's strong-minded women are always well-rounded characters. 

In fact, my favorite Chase is Mr. Impossible, which takes place in Egypt, involves a rascally hero and a smart, strong-minded, somewhat tunnel-visioned heroine (in the Temperance Brennan tradition). It delivers hilarious dialog alongside a Rider Haggard adventure.

 

Chase brings home to readers that romance is a story; it is an art in its own right.

A-Z Romance! Ashford

On Votaries, I have several A-Z Lists where I work my way through fiction and non-fiction books, usually in some type of alphabetical order (though non-fiction was by Dewey Decimal number).

I decided to approach new paperback romance authors in the same manner.

I started with Jane Ashford and was impressed enough to look up a second novel.

The book was A Gentleman Ought to Know, the fourth book in a series. Generally, the writing is solid though in a few places the point of view shifts unexpectedly--disconcerting though not enough to disconnect the reader.

The characters have substance. I was especially impressed by the family-feeling amongst the Deepings. Some contemporary historical novels feel a little too modern; some feel a little too "mannered." The family in this novel struck me as natural. They are gentry, rather than aristocrats, so the kind of people Darcy would know and they behave like Darcy at home (as opposed to Darcy in London or Netherfield).

Darcy at home.

The main characters also have distinct personalities. Charlotte is a very independent, outspoken woman etc. etc. (This character type will come up many times on this list.) However, Ashford does a decent job making the independence and outspoken prickliness part of the character's personality rather than some kind of laid-on set of character traits. Charlotte comes across as a full person.

And there's a mystery! It is more suspenseful than clue-laden--though the Sherlock-like character, Merlin, appears in a later book--but I'm a fan of romance novels resting on something other than the courtship. An actual "case" helps.

Unexpectedly good start to this list!

Elements of Classic Romance: Letter Writing As Romance

Several classic, paperback and M/M romances use the trope of letter writing to build romance.

84, Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff

84 Charing Cross Road is the exchange of letters between the author, Helene Hanff and bookseller Frank Doel. There is nothing salacious or ribald about their correspondence. Theirs is the romance of the mind. The book was turned into a play and eventually a fantastic movie, starring Anne Bancroft as Hanff and Anthony Hopkins as Doel.

Love in the Afternoon by Lisa Kleypas

In this M/F romance, Beatrice Hathaway, who loves animals and stands slightly outside society despite her natural friendliness, befriends Captain Phelan through letters. Although she uses another woman's name, he recognizes the content of his true lover through the content of her letters.

The Gentleman's Captain by Cristal Crowley

A M/M novel. Many years earlier, Fitz and William fell out of contact, mostly due to Fitz's choices. When they meet up, they repair their relationship by renewing their correspondence.  

And naturally, Persuasion by Jane Austen

Letters abound in Austen. I address Darcy's letter to Elizabeth here. 

The famous letter in Persuasion is written quickly by Wentworth when he overhears a conversation between Anne and Captain Harville. 

Despite Wentworth's quickness (and some of my own references to email in the linked post), the fact is, email isn't the same. The power of the letters in these romances is their palpable nature, their realness. The lovers can fold them up and put them into wallets, under pillows, behind wall hangings. Elizabeth, for instance, can read and reread Darcy's letter until it becomes creased.

"I printed this out and put it in my trousseau" simply doesn't have the same feel.    

 

 

Every Genre Has Its Fans: Romances

From Pamela, the first English romance!

Re-Post from Votaries, 2014

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I'm a big believer that any genre, topic, hobby, however monolithic it may look to an outsider, appears riddled with differences to the insider.

Granted, I'm preaching a given here. But fans are more likely to defend this principle when it comes to their beloved "whatevers" than when discussing someone else's beloved "whatevers."

Case in point: in my master's program, I argued that country music is just as wide-ranging as classical music. The professor grinned at me. He had proposed that country music all sounds the same; I pointed out that many country music lovers think classical music all sounds the same.

"Oh," he said, "you like country music!"

"No," I said, which is true. I like Reba as a singer, but actually, country music all sounds the same to me. And so does classical music. I just know that fans see extreme differences within their genre of choice.

Romances are another case in point. Here are my entirely personal criteria regarding romances, which I do not perceive as being all the same:

1. The romance has to be well-written. 

This is actually not as big an eliminator as critics sometimes imagine. Your average romance writer has a decent grasp of language and style. In general, genre writers have more skill (and get more practice at writing) than supposed literary writers.

2. It can't take place in Scotland, the Wild, Wild West, or the Middle Ages.

I also read few contemporary romances. But that's not an established criteria (yet).

Any historical romances I read must start around the 1700s (at least); everything else is too cold (Scotland), too scratchy (Wild, Wild West), or both (Middle Ages).

Subsequently, I read a lot of Regency romances.

3. It has to be historically plausible.

Some of these Jane Eyres are more accurate than others.

Not totally accurate--because let's face it, not many books are. And I don't mind some anachronisms. However, I dislike historical romances where the setting is merely that: setting. Like little kids playing dress-up, the characters could be anywhere--the rules and problems and expectations of THIS society don't matter.

Considering my own aversion to setting, I may sound kind of hypocritical here--but hey, a need for historical plausibility is why I generally avoid writing historical fiction! And when I do, I research the time period and place to the nth degree. And I try to remember that my characters are bound by certain limitations. 

An indifference to the potential conflicts of an accurate Regency setting is a recurrent problem with chick-lit historical romances; the female characters are way, way too flippant and modern.

For a good example of romance, not ridiculous soap opera,

check out Finch and Grace--played by Emerson's real life wife

Carrie Preston--in Person of Interest

4. The plot needs to focus on the relationship's growth, not on the final declaration of love.

Again, too many chick-lit novels focus on the latter, not the formal. Even if the characters sleep together, the end of the novel feels like the first date. Oh, now, we love each other; I guess we should go out. 

What is the rest of a chick-lit novel about?

Mix-ups. Misunderstandings. Mis-appraisals. Misery. "He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not."

Bleah.

A sub-set of this type of novel is the heroine versus the other woman, both vying for the hero's attention. It's downright tiresome.

A Heyer "rake" novel: it is very funny,

but I prefer Heyer's Venetia since I

I don't really believe in this rake's reformation

(to be fair, I don't think Heyer expects me to).

If I'm going to read a romance, I'm doing it because I want romance--to watch the couple figure each other out, learn to enjoy each other's company, forgive each other if necessary, etc. Sure, there has to be conflict, but this is Scully-Mulder conflict, stuff that draws people closer together, not "I thought he went out with my cousin, so I decided to pay him back by dating his best friend" pointlessness.

Consequently, I'm actually quite fond of the "reformed rake" motif because it forces some kind of personal growth.

Of course, it helps if . . .

5. The romance exhibits some understanding of human nature. 

Instant reformation doesn't work anymore than instant forgiveness or instant understanding.

The most common problem with romances (though an understandable one) is the same problem faced by mystery writers: a series of things MUST happen in order for the plot to unfold; how does the writer get those things to happen without completely distorting the characters' fundamental personalities?

When I first started out with romances--the read-and-discard part of whittling down preferences--I encountered a number of these scenes:

"Ooooh, I hate the domineering hero with his sultry looks and pushy ways. Oh, wait, in this one scene, I guess I totally understand him. No, he actually makes me SOOOO mad. Oh, look, he helped a puppy. I guess I love him."

Insert rolling-of-eyes.

As Jane Austen shows, the move from (imagined) aversion to (true) affection is possible and delightful. But Austen does it carefully (far more carefully and cleverly than the light tone of Pride & Prejudice suggests). Darcy and Elizabeth always behave within the probabilities of their personalities. (So do Pamela and Mr. B; unfortunately, Mr. B's initial crime of kidnapping kind of overshadows all other hints that Samuel Richardson gives about his personality.)

Traditional Romance Post: Solving the Hero's Problems

These are re-posts from Votaries. I will be posting, then responding to them on Romance & Manga. This first post is from 2009.

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Rake's Progress by William Hogarth

In traditional romances, the hero usually has two problems:

1. He hasn't been able to commit to one woman. In Regency parlance, he is a rake. He has slept around; he is an expert in love-making; he has seen it all, done it all. He just hasn't found the right woman. When the right woman comes along, he will change his rake-making ways and become monogamous.

2. An external or internal distress. Modern romance writers have expanded this distress to the psychological. The hero's problem isn't just boredom or a war wound or a displeased father. His problem is depression, mood swings, etc.

Both problems have to be solved and/or confronted in the course of the novel. Usually, the heroine's appearance is the catalyst that solves both problems.

I consider the first problem somewhat more solvable than the second. Granted, it is hard to credit that a promiscuous man will automatically stop being promiscuous just because a wonderful woman shows up in his life. On the other hand, a great many people find the dating game so inherently distasteful, the possibility of a one and other is a relief as opposed to a strait-jacket.

The only snag here, romance-novel-wise, is that so many of the heroes are described as insatiable sex-machines who enjoy displaying their great sexual prowess (they are almost always Alpha males). A good insatiable man might be monogamous; he also might come up with a few excellent reasons he should be allowed to marry several wives (and yes, I am writing that as the product of polygamous ancestors).

However, committing the hero to monogamy still seems a more solvable problem--especially since romance heroines, no matter how virginal, become instant experts in this department--than fixing the hero's distress, particularly if the distress is psychological. I particularly balk at the romance-novel solution of the "good woman." Anyone who has been in a psychologically traumatic relationship, or has read about Charles & Diana, knows that trying to solve other people's psychological problems is a bad idea; trying to solve other people's psychological problems by being "good" for them is a lesson in masochism.

I'm not talking about showing love and support and putting up with the other person's bad side. I'm talking about trying to fix things that now-a-days get a person medicated. Specifically, I'm talking about trying to make another person happy; this, I maintain, is a complete impossibility. A positive relationship can be a source of strength and happiness, but it is the relationship that supplies the strength, not one person taking on the emotional baggage of the other person (i.e., fixing the other person).

That being said, I understand the fantasy: in the romance novel, the heroine who "makes" her hero happy (cures his distress) becomes indispensable. He needs her. It's the sort of thing that makes (some) feminists, me included, nervous: here is this woman subordinating herself all over the place in order to make a man happy. But our nervousness kind of misses the point--an indispensable woman will keep her man and therefore, her security.

And I can understand the impulse to chase after such security even if I don't believe it is possible. It is, frankly, terrifying to enter a relationship knowing that the other person is not under one's control--and yes, I know that sounds vaguely psychopathic. But this lack of control is the risk of relationships: love is not a guarantee, only a hope. In a way, guaranteed love is what makes genre romances not only satisfying to read but also rather fascinating--can the writers solve the hero's problems in such a way that the heroine will still remain indispensable? Contrawise, can the problems be solved without leaving the reader with the impression, "Boy, that marriage is doomed!"?

Or is there a third option?

In one novel (Devil in Winter by Lisa Kleypas), the hero agrees to marry the heroine for money. He then, of course, discovers that she is beautiful and charming and witty and great in bed (not necessarily in that order) although his distress--cash shortage and unhappiness/boredom--is still a factor. However, part of his new wife's dowry is her father's club, which has fallen on hard times. Our hero becomes fascinated by the club. To protect his assets, he becomes directly involved in running the club and subsequently discovers he has a knack for business. 150+ years later, the guy would get an MBA and buy up a bunch of resorts: same principle.

I found it rather satisfyingly believable on a psychological level. Running a club is a bit low-class (within the context of the novel), but the guy has nothing to lose and everything to gain by taking charge. His motivation is also believable: his lovely wife doesn't inspire him to take an interest; he takes an interest because he (initially) wants to sell the club at a good price. The impulse comes from him, not her endearing example. In other words, he works to find a purpose for himself in life; he doesn't wait around for his wife to nudge him into finding a purpose--I suppose the latter works for some couples, but generally,  being someone's personal standby pep rally sounds enormously tiring.

Competitive Couples

An interesting hate/love romantic couple is the couple who compete.

Early CSI includes an episode where a husband deliberately alters his wife's mountaineering map, so he can beat her time. And Law & Order: Criminal Intent presents a Hitchcock-like episode where a lawyer husband frames his lawyer wife for supposedly trying to kill him--mostly because she made him look bad at the office.

Romances, of course, need happier endings. So how does the competitive couple resolve their sense of competition? I mention B'Elanna and Tom Paris in an earlier post--they resolve their competitiveness by not competing over the same stuff.

In the Lords of the Underworld novels, Strider--who carries within him the demon of Defeat (he feels challenged by everybody and everything)--resolves his feelings of competition by aligning himself with his lover, Kaia: her desire to excel becomes something he wants her to exercise as much as she does (I consider this book and its resolution one of the best of the series).

Many M/M sports novels revolve around the problem of competition. I especially appreciate how the writers--who obviously know their milieu--so rarely resolve the issue by having the male leads sacrifice opportunities and positions for each other. Because, okay, this is sports, and players just don't do that. Wanting to be the best and achieve the best, to make it to the World Series or Stanley Cup Championship or Superbowl or Olympics is the point. Take that away and come on, it's lazy kids sitting on a couch (says this writer who loves to sit lazily on her couch).

The intense level of competition makes the romance harder to solve. The best authors take the same approach as Goalie Interference by Avon Gale and Piper Vaughn--the players recognize that their competitiveness makes them better: their games have improved.

The goal--ha ha--is construction rather than destruction: the couple who can build on their competitiveness and create a unique relationship are the mature couple with a potential future.

Romance Writing Problem: How to Keep Characters Apart

The bodyguard and guardee is one of the

most romantically charged tropes.

In children's fantasy, the writer often has to figure out a way to get rid of the parents. It is so much easier for children to get into wardrobes, takes trips with Greek gods and goddesses and find themselves in the care of witches and warlocks if hovering parents aren't around.

In romance, the writer often has a to figure out a way to keep the romantic leads apart (even when they are working together) in order to build romantic tension. Here are some common approaches:

The Job
The romantic leads are captain and subordinate, boss and assistant, teacher and student. These roles are surprisingly effective since even when no legal or official rules separate the romantic leads, the characters will feel social pressure to stay apart, especially if either character is ambitious.

Class & Age
Class actually has more impact than most romance writers (and modern Westerners) will admit. People still tend to date and marry within their social class. Family and personal expectations about lifestyle still hold sway.

However, this reason is rarely directly addressed in contemporary romance. Social expectations regarding age, on the other hand, still hold sway. The May-December relationship is a classic trope.

Historical Expectations
Historical expectations--courtship should take this form--are the most effective, largely because they belong in the under-the-water part of Freud's superego. That is, they are powerful precisely because they are unstated. Good contemporarily-written historical romances will try to do what Austen and Bronte did unconsciously: not explain themselves.

Past Trauma/Pain
This form of separation--the leads can't get together since they are both so haunted by past misery--brings the violence trope into play. It is inherently problematic. It can be effectively done, but if too extreme, the reader might doubt whether the relationship will last past the couple's meeting followed by separation (due to unresolved personal issues) followed by reconciliation. Then what?

Past Bad Relationship
One or both members of the couple has trouble trusting again. This is probably the most common reason presented in romances, and it can be effectively written. As with the past trauma/pain reason (see above), it can leave the reader wondering, "Can the relationship survive so much angst?"

Enemies
Jane Austen! Yup, Darcy and Elizabeth are the most classic example of romantic leads who think that they dislike each other when they really don't. I discuss romance between enemies more here.

Different Species/Beings
Love between humans and vampires or live humans and ghosts or aliens from different planets. Lifestyle and physical conditions complicate not only the romance but the consummation (think Buffy and Angel). 

How writers solve the romantic tension caused by the above situations goes a long way towards determining the romance novel's readers. Readers are attracted to certain types of resolutions and some resolutions are more satisfying than others. I did not include the approach of the romantic triangle. That's because I detest it. 

Small Town Romances: Pros and Cons

A number of romance series have come out recently using a small town as the location. I consider this an interesting phenomenon.

Studies have found that people are more trusting in homogeneous environments. Unfortunately, history has also found that homogeneous, stagnating environments are more susceptible to nasty stuff like long-term grudges and witch trials (Shyamalan's Village is massively problematic).

What is interesting about these current small town romance series is that they combine modern and progressive beliefs with all the positive markers of small town homogeneity and neighborly affection.

So, for instance, May Archer's O'Leary series--which I quite like since it takes place in upstate New York--is filled to the brim with gay couples and lesbian couples and non-binary individuals and traditional couples...young, old, with kids, etc. etc. etc. Everybody knows everyone's business. People help out in a pinch. All town citizens attend the multiple festivities.
 
It's Amishness without all those pesky things like religious leaders and taboos.

I have mixed feelings about these series. On the one hand, I quite like the social contract business. I find many of these novels charming and often, quite funny. I also appreciate that such romances concentrate on the couple/relationship. External challenges take the form of letting people in on the "secret." Otherwise, the couple focuses on "solving" each other.

On the other hand, I sometimes feel--as when I was reading one of the Vale Valley novels--that so much utopia is not exactly realistic.

Yes, yes, I know that romances are part-fantasy. But not entirely. Real life is, in fact, filled with people getting over loss, finding true love, standing up against the odds, locating their bliss. It isn't so much that I want characters to suffer (although the writer part of me would argue that sometimes they need to) but rather that the true romantic in me wants to see romance thrive even in unlikely environments.

Stack all the cards in Romeo and Juliet's favor, it's not just that there is no plot. Rather--

Okay, bad example. I don't really care about Romeo and Juliet.

Stack all the cards in Jane and Rochester's favor, and Jane might as well be Blanche Ingram. And who cares if Rochester marries Blanche Ingram?

Love in an imperfect world is what makes romance romance. Love in a perfect world is sweet but a little less engaging.

Generally, I switch between perfect small-town romances where people find "home" and utter security (think Anne of Green Gables) and city or urban romances where people have to find their feet among strangers. Both sides of my romance soul get satisfied--and I roll my eyes a bit less. 

Learning a Genre: Give Books a Chance

You've read all the Isaac Asimovs--or all the Jane Austens. Now, you're looking for another sci-fi or another romance. How do you find a good one?

It is easy to judge a genre from the outside, to say, for example, that romances are dumb or sci-fi is all about robots or fantasy is too unrealistic. But the truth is, like with anything, to truly know a genre, one has to experience it.

The problem, of course, is that it takes time and energy (and sometimes money) to get to know a genre. And it means potentially wading through the bad stuff.  Or simply uninteresting stuff.

But it is the only fair approach.

I would argue that it takes about 3 to 6 months to really get to know a genre. After that, a kind of "expert" status kicks in.

When I started reading traditional romance paperbacks, my first forays were all over the place. I was reading good stuff, bad stuff, okay stuff, weird stuff, boring stuff. I would go to a nearby bookstore and ignore the snobby comments by the cashier and her friend about how they NEVER read romances (I'm not kidding; you'd think people who ran a bookstore would be more tactful with potential customers).

The initial stage of winnowing involved noting down authors, reading the backs of covers, borrowing books from the library, trying a few chapters. I will tolerate pedestrian writing for a good story but a lack of fundamentals--consistent viewpoint, intelligent vocabulary choices, coherent paragraphs--eliminated a number of writers from consideration.

On the other hand, humor helped as a hook. A fascinating story-line helped as well. Good characterizations were a draw but could backfire if the characterizations didn't match up to the plot.

In the next stage, I began to focus on reading everything by writers I liked. Many of those writers led to others, so one of my first finds, Eloisa James, led to Julia Quin, who had written complimentary reviews of Eloisa James. Eventually, I ended up with Lisa Kleypas. (It was perhaps the other way around, but these authors were all linked by reader and writer reviews.) 

After awhile, a kind of sixth sense developed, leading me to authors like Loretta Chase. This sense isn't infallible, of course, and it is difficult to explain. But it honestly isn't all that different from art experts who can spot forgeries without fully explaining how they know That's a forgery. One becomes an expert in a specific type of writing; consequently, one feels drawn to the type of books within a genre that one prefers.

But it all starts by giving the genre a chance to begin with. 

What is Chick Lit?

I reached a definition while reading, interestingly enough, M/M Romance. Here's my definition:

Chick Lit focuses on the state of being in love.

When I first started reading romance, I determined that chick lit involved the female protagonist buying shoes. Seriously. It seemed like every chick lit novel I picked up involved a discussion about shopping (for shoes), a break to go to the mall to shop (for shoes), a conversation (while buying shoes). So much so that in my second Donna Howard novel, which is my partial foray into chick lit, I have Donna and her friend Theresa go shopping, except Donna ends up with a crepe pan rather than shoes.

However, a book can be "chick lit" even if no shoes or malls are involved. And it can be "chick lit" if it involves two male protagonists. And it can be "chick lit" if written by a man.

The archetypal narrative arc involves a conflict followed by rising action followed by a climax followed by a resolution. Both chick-lit and non-chick lit use these same elements. In chick-lit, however, the narrative arc takes a back-seat to the process of love.

Here, for instance, is a classic romantic narrative arc:

In Power Play by Avon Gale, hockey players Misha and Max meet up years after an accident on the ice led to Max's forced retirement. Now they are coach and assistant coach of a ECHL team (minor league hockey: the things I learn about when I read romances!). Internal conflict: moody Misha still feels guilty about ending happy-go-lucky Max's career, even though the accident truly was an accident. External conflict: the team is new, owned by a used-car-salesman type guy (who is excellently portrayed throughout the novel). Think Coach's NFL team in the sitcom Coach.

As Misha and Max grow closer, the team slowly improves. However, the team's cohesion is threatened by the troubles of the team's goalie. In order to help the goalie, Misha chooses to reveal information about himself that may put his relationship with Max in jeopardy. In a way it does--though not entirely as expected. The relationship's conflict--Misha's doubt and guilt--are faced as the team regains its cohesion. No instant perfect ending--they don't walk away with the Kelly Cup, not in this book--but things do end on an upbeat note.

This is the story. Sure, there are discussions of feelings. And sex. And holiday moments. And, well, not exactly skate or shoe shopping but some discussion of clothes, such as what to wear on a date plus descriptions of sports gear. But the story itself takes precedence. We are promised an unveiling of information, a discovery or turn (a climax will effectively turn a story from one direction to another).

So what about chick-lit? What's the difference?

Another M/M hockey romance illustrates the difference: in this book--Game Changer by Rachel Reid, which is reasonably well-written--the problems on the team influence the protagonists' romance but only as a distraction (in fact, I spent most of the book waiting for a particularly obnoxious team member to be paid-off; he disappeared 1/3rd of the way through the novel and never re-emerged; yes, that happens in real life but...).

The novel focuses on will-they-won't-they issues (Should they live together? Will the NFL player come out of the closet? Will his boyfriend change his job?). Rather than the relationship dealing with conflicts, the relationship is the conflict.

Think of a novel as climbing a mountain. With the classic arc, the conflicts--Hey, I'm not hiker! Hey, it's snowing!--inform how the mountain will be climbed. With the second approach, the conflict is the hike itself. The reader is encouraged to climb the mountain alongside the protagonists.

To bring this back to romances, with the classic narrative arc, the conflicts--Can I forgive myself? Can the team move forward?--shape the romance. In chick-lit, the conflict is the romance, specifically, in this case, a relationship between a barista and a NFL hockey player.

Castle's "The Final Frontier" combines romance

with the sci-fi instinct for details.

That is, in the second novel (chick-lit), the reader is invested in watching a relationship unfold from first meeting to first fights to family/friends introduction/intrusion to final resolution. The novel details what the couple eats during the first date and how they decide to tell their families they are dating and how many times they phone each other during a work trip and what they decide to do for Valentine's Day.

Both types of romances, the classic arc and the "chick lit" approach, can be well-written. And the truth is, although the term "chick-lit" is often used in a derogatory manner, many novels--even those without romance--use a similar approach. A passion for the precise number of decks on a Starfleet starship is not that different from a passion for the precise description of an engagement ring. Yes, fans of both genres tend to mock each other, but the desire to enter into someone else's imaginative world and experience it as a friend or a neighbor (interested third-party) is the same.

I do enjoy chick-lit, specifically romance travelogues. And I have my own Star Trek fan fiction. However, I have to admit, I enjoy the classic narrative more, possibly why I prefer historical and mystery and suspense/supernatural romance novels.

To be continued . . .

Romances with Humor: Loretta Chase

Humor in romances has followed a weird path. Go back to the nineteenth century and one gets wit and biting social commentary.

During the twentieth century, with the notable exception of Georgette Heyer, romances were often tiresomely serious. Irony was dead. "Funny" took the form of teasing and cute: cute puppies, cute romance cards, cute children, cute proposals. Think of the dead seriousness of high school prom invitations. In my day, a high premium was placed on being over-the-top sweet, meaning inviters were expected to issue the invitation in a really, really adorable and unusual way: through a cassette, through a balloon bouquet, etc.

This is the level of humor suffusing a great deal of romance literature in mid-twentieth century romance novels. "And then they both ended up on the same cruise! It was so funny!!"

Where's Daria when you need her?

Nowadays, it is almost de rigueur--thankfully--for romances to use humor of the more rigorous kind: sarcasm (which can backfire), wit (which doesn't).

Loretta Chase is one of the best at humorous romances. She writes traditional romances (M/F), and they never fail to appreciate (this is difficult since romance writers, like any writers who have to continually produce, can run out of steam).

Some of my favorite Loretta Chases:

Mr. Impossible
Mr. Perfect
Lord of Scoundrels
Scandal Wears Satin (my favorite of the Dressmakers' Series)
Don't Tempt Me

Manga version of Mr. Impossible

Chase has the skill to create feisty female characters who are not simply defined by their feistiness. And she creates heroes who are ironic in a blithe sort of way. In Mr. Impossible by Loretta Chase, the hero Rupert Carsington--who was sent off to Egypt by his father to keep him out of trouble--wonders "if [the heroine] was counting to ten. People often did that when conversing with him." Chase's heroes and heroines have brains and hearts, interests and goodness and wit.

In conversations, the exchanges can ramp up to The Thin Man territory as in the antique discussions in Lord of Scoundrels. This exchange from The Thin Man echoes the cadence of Loretta Chase's novels:

Nick: Now, how did you ever remember me?

Dorothy: Oh, you used to fascinate me. A real live detective. You used to tell me the most wonderful stories. Were they true?

Nick: Probably not.

Chase's novels are also clever--with plot lines that converge like those in an Oscar Wilde play. Scandal in Satin is a particularly good example here, employing wit, disguise, break-ins, and other entanglements. Plus a very witty heroine. And an amazingly insouciant hero. 

A full list of Loretta Chase's books can be found here.

Romance Writing Problem: What Does Love Excuse

A core problem haunts romance literature, namely, every society--no matter how tolerant--draws the line at certain relationships.

Don't believe it, ladies! (Kate's addition.)

This is distressing in a genre which rests on the premise that love can conquer all. I am not opposed to this premise--though I prefer that it be objectively addressed. If Romeo is going to marry Juliet, I prefer they know what they are getting themselves into.

The best writers agree with me and tackle the problem of same-but-different or love-ain't-easy with panache.

Even the best writers, however, stumble over the limits of tolerance. Some things people are just not okay with.

I'm not only talking about obvious limits like incest and pedophilia and abuse (and even those limits vary by culture). Many writers, like most societies, draw lines at certain dynamics. BDSM is okay--except when . . . Role-playing is okay--except when . . . Traditional roles are okay--except when . . . Non-traditional roles are okay--except when . . .

In the Law & Order episode, the parents play power games

with each other. Fine! Except they use their kids to do it.

Throw children into the mix and the whole things gets even more complicated.

And the truth is, intelligent and insightful people should make distinctions about what works and what doesn't. Love is not an overwhelming justification for abandoning spouses, significant others, family members, and social responsibilities. Shoot, even Lois & Clark agreed that Clark should leave the relationship to save his planet.

However, making distinctions immediately raises the issue that distinctions ought to be made at all. Once the possibility occurs, the question becomes, "Well, then, what are the distinctions?"

Where's the line?

The fear here is that acknowledging the line (some things are not okay; some things are absolutely okay) will lead to bigotry and/or imprisoning/damaging relationships: people who leave due to social pressure; people who stay due to social pressure. If we agree that a father abandoning his wife and child for another woman is not okay, does that mean that a father abandoning his wife and child for a man is also not okay? Wiring, rather than just lust, has now entered the equation. Does that change the equation? If we agree that it is okay, are we giving tacit approval to deadbeat fathers? If we agree that it's not okay, are we saying that all gay men should stay in the closet? Whatever we decide, what is to stop us from making other designations about who belongs together and who doesn't?

Spencer Tracy's Matt Drayton in Guess Who Is Coming to Dinner has to face the reality that his classroom liberalism isn't strong enough for him to fully accept his daughter--raised quite trustingly on his principles--marrying an actual black man. (Not at first.) It's Sidney Poitier, so the entire audience rolls its eyes at Drayton's hesitation. (I mean, come on!) More interestingly, however, Poitier's character, John Prentice, has to deal with his parents' reservations.

The line obviously doesn't have to end in bigotry. The point is: the issues are there and need to be addressed. Not every romance novel has time to tackle such issues completely, to explain why these dynamics are okay but those are not. However, I will maintain the following:

All romance writers should know their personal philosophy regarding acceptable versus non-acceptable relationships. Even if not addressed in the story, the writer's philosophy will become apparent through the writing.

The most basic definition of acceptable is a relationship of consent in which no one is harmed. Versus non-acceptable, a relationship lacking consent which involves harm.

Here's the complication: "consent" and "harm" don't mean the same thing to everyone. And even if we (the readers) know what the characters mean, that doesn't mean both characters agree. And even if both characters agree that doesn't automatically make other characters bad/evil/unsupportive if they don't immediately climb on-board. 

Writers need to figure out what they mean, so they can convey the relationship's development honestly. How else can the writers' characters achieve a happy ending?

The Deathless Romance as Social and Political Statement

One defense of HEA (Happily Ever After) M/M (Male/Male) romances is that too many movies and books kill off the gay couple, and it's time for that to stop!

E.M. Forster makes a similar gleeful point in his notes to Maurice when he points out that if he'd ended the book with a suicide pact, it would have been embraced as great literature.

He's right though I must point out two flaws with this argument:

1. A huge amount of romance art ends with the death of the young wife from a wasting disease (Steel Magnolias, Terms of Endearment, Love Story, A Walk to Remember, everything by Poe and the Pre-Raphaelites, etc. etc. etc) and nobody is starting any petitions (so far as I know) to Save Pretty White Women! Okay, maybe when Buffy was on the air but other than that . . .

2. Unfortunately, and sadly, sometimes death does reflect reality. All writers are faced with the conundrum How do I make this story real but right? Yes, I prefer God's Own Country; that doesn't mean Brokeback Mountain doesn't happen.

However, generally speaking, I am not an advocate of death in stories, mostly because I consider it to be a big writing cop-out. It is far more difficult to solve a problem without killing people off.

Besides, the defense of HEAs in gay literature led me to ponder Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. When they wrote their seminal romantic works, namely Pride & Prejudice and Jane Eyre (Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights is more old-school), they marked a profound social shift in the nineteenth century world. People were marrying for love--successfully--without apology or death.

Nowadays, we take this kind of statement for granted. We are even somewhat derogatory about it (since some people are still foolish enough to think sad endings are more realistic than happy ones).

In Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi explains why reading Pride & Prejudice in a dictatorship would be considered subversive even though the work itself rarely mentions the politics of its day. The existence of a proliferation of voices--speaking over and under each other, surviving side by side--is democracy in action. Austen allows Mrs. Bennet to exist alongside the Bingleys; Darcy to exist alongside Mrs. Reynolds; Wickham alongside the Gardiners. They all have different attitudes and characters and desires and opinions. Yet Austen doesn't kill them off. The novel is inherently tolerant.

Romance literature falls into this category. Yes, some of it can be rather shallow and silly. And some of it can be rather badly written. But hey, I know so-called great works that fall into both those categories. What sets HEA romances aside from everything else is that their ends are inherently constructive, pro-people, pro-individualism. It isn't just that the good guys win--the good folks let other people win too.

The Hollywood Romance Subgenre and Why It So Seldom Works

It's a rocky ride--if a writer is willing to tackle the rocks.

A number of romance novels center on Hollywood, as in Hollywood stars falling in love, ordinary citizens falling in love with Hollywood stars, directors falling in love with actors, etc. etc.

With few exceptions, the romance-set-in-Hollywood (or with Hollywood characters) seems to generate more failures than successes. Why?

I came across one possible explanation when I recently read a Hollywood romance by L.A. Witt who also writes military romances. The Hollywood plot was strained where the military plots are usually not. The reason why was obvious.

In both the Hollywood romance and the military romance, a character's livelihood is placed on the line by the romance. This can happen in Hollywood, a reality that Blue Bloods tackles in one episode. In the military, despite the repeal of DADT, certain rules against fraternization still remain.

Nobody ever writes a romance like this. Disillusionment

is the name of the game.

In the first case, the characters rail against "the man" (the studio) and the public and their desire to work without being hampered by social disapproval. It's hard to feel any kind of sympathy, NOT because I think those forces don't exist. Or because I believe a person should give up everything for love but precisely because I don't think so. Make the hard choice. Decide whether the relationship is worth the career. Move on.

In the second case, with the military, the characters can rail all they want. The military ain't budging. So they don't. They have more than their egos to worry about: dependents, retirement, long-term career options.

With the military romances, Witt does a good job pointing out that people can't simply flush their lives down the toilet. You enter the military at age eighteen. Deciding to throw it away at the age of thirty-five for love, especially when retirement is a possible option, is seriously stupid. Some of her characters do make that choice, but they make it with their eyes wide open.

This serious consideration can happen with Hollywood plots, and L.A. Witt produced a second Hollywood romance (To My Future #1 Fan) that did work. But it worked precisely because the actual sacrifices and gains of the lifestyle were acknowledged. Is constant scrutiny by the press, which neither one of us can prevent, worth being together or not? Can we learn to play the game? Or should we ignore the game and leave this lifestyle behind? 

Be clever! Use the rules!

No point in complaining about the conditions of the game--not when the characters signed up for the game in the first place.

I've deliberately left many of the plot details of these books vague. Based on reviews I've read, the Hollywood sub-genre romance is problematic across M/M and M/F. That is, using Hollywood to create conflict between romance characters is fraught with lack of reader investment, no matter who those characters are. It can be done. Generally speaking, it might be best to leave it alone.

Secrets & Romance and Why It's a Plot Device That Needs to Die

In Finding Nemo's excellent commentary, the scriptwriter remarks that he originally intended the origin of Nemo's damaged fin to be delivered as a flashback. He changed his mind when he realized that the information about Nemo's mother--however horrible--didn't measure up to the revelation. It was more or less what the audience would expect, and waiting to deliver the revelation didn't add anything to the story.

"So I told the story upfront," he says in the commentary, "which every Film 101 book tells you to do."

Romance stories often revolve on a SECRET. That is, Character A is aware of a fact that could damage his or her relationship with Character B and instead of coming out with it, keeps that fact to him or herself--

Until it is revealed at exactly the wrong moment and everyone is just so upset.

Here's the thing about the SECRET plot device: it's irritating, skin-crawling, and unnecessary.

It's irritating because often the convolutions of keeping the SECRET are highly bizarre. Eventually, the reader is faced with the realization that Character B is some kind of stupid.

It's skin-crawling because either the SECRET is the kind of thing that nobody should get upset about (Why would this information break up a relationship between people over the age of 6?) or it's so creepy and damaging and unsettling that there's no way the couple is coming back from it. Judgment usually revolves on intentions, but let's face it, behavior matters too. Secrets that can be measured in degrees of control rarely bode well for a relationship's health.

It's often unnecessary as two books will illustrate:

The book has interesting descriptions of the Australian outback.

Book 1 Keira Andrews is a good writer who usually produces respectable plots. However, in this book--a variation on Kidnapped by the Pirate, a much better book--Character A keeps information from Character B: namely, they are no longer prisoners, and Character B is free to leave whenever he wishes.

The moment Character A made his decision NOT to tell Character B, I heavily sighed, not because I felt manipulated but because it was so unnecessary.

Not only would telling Character B have prevented the pointless moment of SHOCKING revelation, it would have enhanced the characters' growth. Instead of the issue being, You lied to me! the issue would have become, Now that I know, I still want to leave while you want to stay. What do we do about that?

Ah, a grown-up problem: people wanting two different things despite their affection for each other.

Book 2 In The Little Library by Kim Fielding, Character A (Elliott) tells Character B (Simon) that he has a possible job interview at the University of Nebraska, fairly far from Modesto, CA. Simon doesn't want to leave Modesto (for Nebraska, no less); he wants to be a park ranger in California where he already has experience as a cop and therefore, much of the necessary training.

They like each other; they're falling for each other. Elliott doesn't know if he really wants the Nebraska job or if he is grasping for what appears to be a sign that he didn't completely screw up his academic career. Simon knows what he wants but is conflicted: Elliott never lied to him about the Nebraska job yet he resents that Elliott won't give up on it. He knows his resentment isn't justified, which makes him feel even more out-of-sorts.

The problems are grown-up, interesting, and far more insightful about human desires and personalities than surprising people with information (then being oh-so-surprised when they don't care or don't react well).

In the end, telling Merlin, "Hey, I know it's you doing all that magic" is always better.