A-Z Romance Paperbacks: Julia Quinn

Too often romances and other pieces of genre literature get accused of "bad writing." And the truth is, there is a lot of bad writing out there--it just doesn't obediently keep itself to paperbacks and sci-fi/fantasy. It shows up everywhere, including in so-called literary fiction. 

These posts will address good writing in romances (and, using the broadest definition of "romance," some other genres).

Quinn, Julia is a sweet & steamy romance writer who is now best known for her Bridgerton Netflix series. I have read a number of her books. I started the television series but lost interest (if it comes out on DVD, I may give it another try). It began to slide into a kind of Downtown Abbey/Upstairs Downstairs drama, and I honestly don't watch those types of shows (despite numerous people being absolutely convinced that I do--I confess that I do watch The Crown but only after a full season has been released; I can get through it in one day and get back to my murder mysteries). 

This is the Colin from the series--

not a bad choice!

One of my favorite Quinn books is Romancing Mr. Bridgerton. The main characters are members of the gentry. They are also writers, and the novel includes one of the best discussions of how to write descriptively that I've ever read (see below). It is the ultimate show-don't-tell argument in which Penelope praises Colin for using sensory adjectives and similes to put the reader in the moment. She explains, possibly better than any creative writing instructor ever has, why a simile needs to be creative and common rather than clever and "literary." 

"I could feel the water," she says. "It was so clever of you to describe it the way you did. Everyone knows what a bath feels like a half hour after it has been filled." 

The story is interesting overall because the tension between the hero and heroine is not only the classic tension of one party wanting to protect the other but artistic jealousy, which the hero needs to overcome if he is going to prove that he is as upstanding a guy as Penelope thinks he is.

Quinn Excerpt

A-Z Romances: P is for Probabilities

Reading Mary Jo Putney's novella One Wicked Winter Night, I was reminded of one of the many Jane Eyres I have reviewed. In it, Jane Eyre and Helen behave like modern teens snidely telling off the ridiculous headmaster, snarky swaggering that in that time period would have gotten them sent away from the school--or worse. 

With historical writing, there is always the problem of trying to stay faithful to the time period while capturing behavior that we modern readers recognize in ourselves. T.H. White pulls this off in The Sword in the Stone, despite the anachronisms (anachronisms to fourteenth century medieval England) because (1) he is obvious about what he is doing--the anachronisms are part of his style; (2) he captures the essence of human behavior across time. 

I suggest line between "okay, they didn't talk that way but that dialogue does capture the time and place" and "I can't take this seriously" gets crossed when human behavior becomes itself improbable. Jane and Helen behaving like quick-witted teens who have lawyer fathers at home is not believable--the anachronistic behavior stands out more. 

Putney's novella, unfortunately, has both anachronisms and unlikely human behavior. At one point, the couple discuss the hero's evil (dead) father. Apparently, he had an affair and fathered an illegitimate daughter. Although he sent an allowance, his unwillingness to do more for the daughter is discussed with hot indignation--in a Regency novel--by the main characters. 

In fact, by Regency standards, the fact that the evil father took responsibility and sent the equivalent of child support is impressive. He is no longer evil. A reader who understands the time period begins to suspect that he had a softer side (except the author doesn't want me to believe that). Moreover, illegitimate children--while they might be supported and even adored by parents--were rarely openly discussed using those terms. Mr. B's illegitimate daughter in Pamela is cared for and supported by Pamela, but she is also carefully shielded against any suggestion of an inappropriate background so she can eventually marry well. 

Those conditions may be unfair. They are reality. The righteous condemners are virtue-signaling like crazy but in reality, they would be causing more problems for the people they label "illegitimate." 

More unlikely human behavior comes earlier in the novel when a young woman writes, "Once more I give thanks to my wonderful visit with you in India because that led to me being captured by corsairs on the way home." 

 What? What?! 

That's the kind of off-hand remark that is either a huge joke or demands that the character stop and reflect: Ah, yes, she mentioned being captured by corsairs in her last letter. 

Yet the text keeps going without pause. 

There were aspects of the novella that I enjoyed. The hero is a duke; his responsibilities are honestly spelled out (his dukedom isn't just an opportunity for him to collect ghastly statues as in the 2005 Pride & Prejudice). The heroine has invested in trading, which is entirely probable. She also makes a point that traveling is not romantic: it takes a great deal of "commonsense." Moreover, the BIG secret is big enough to explain the heroine's reaction, and it is quite believable for the time period. 

And there are lots of pet cats! 

Nevertheless, it is a pity when a not-too-terrible-plot with not-too-terrible-protagonists is ruined by everybody having to think properly...by modern standards. And it doesn't help when even by modern standards, they seem a little too coy and accepting.  

 

Heyer's Instead of the Thorn and Why It Isn't a Terribly Good Book

When she gained clout as a writer, Georgette Heyer had her earlier books removed from publication.

I have mixed feelings about these decisions. In Heyer's case, I put the action down to an excess of writerly fastidiousness. After all, she removed from publication books that are arguably not so good but also books that readers requested be republished once she died and her estate took over: Simon the Coldheart and Beauvallet.

Of course, now, many of those earlier books are in the public domain. I read one of Heyer's earliest contemporary romances, Instead of the Thorn, and I think I know why Heyer removed that book, at least, from publication. 

As mentioned on Votaries, in the early twentieth century, everyone--not just romance writers--was writing books that delved into the psychology of marriage, from Sinclair Lewis's Dodsworth to Katherine Mansfield's short stories.

The problem? Heyer wasn't that smart about marriage. (She was married when she published Instead of the Thorn but being in something is not the same as being smart about something.) 

Now, Heyer is a good writer. She created decent characters who within her travelogue, adventure, comedic shaggy dog stories entirely work! 

Rather than telling a story, however, Instead of the Thorn attempts to describe why a marriage went bad and then how it was repaired. And Heyer seriously has no clue. 

She tries to argue that a prim & proper upbringing equals a young woman being disgusted by sex. I knew WAY too many young women at the religious university I attended in my late teens/early twenties, many with prim & proper upbringings, who greeted sex with immense relief and satisfaction, whether or not they had the "talk" with their mothers beforehand. 

That is, they were more like Samuel Richardson's Pamela--and, for that matter, Jane Austen's heroines--than anything out of...I have no comparison. Anybody who writes realistically about young women would recognize Heyer's portrait as downright bizarre. Elizabeth, the protagonist, might imitate her aunt. She would quickly shed her aunt's influence the moment she went out into society. 

Unless she was inherently turned off by sex. In which case, no amount of "growing up" could save that particular relationship. 

To be clear, I'm not saying the wife or the husband is right or wrong in regards to Elizabeth's "love me but don't touch me" behavior. Nor am I arguing that men and women react the same to sex; overall, I don't think that they do. I am saying that so immense a gap between "I like the idea of courtship and marriage" and intimate congress would spell the end of any relationship (one young woman in college announced, when she broke her first engagement, that physical attraction and desire are important, adding emphatically, "You can't talk yourself into feeling stuff even if you admire someone"). 

In fact, weirdly enough, Heyer resorts to a kind of sitcom explanation of the central relationship in Instead of the Thorn: Elizabeth, the protagonist, cannot feel desire until she feels true love. 

Really? Because the history of teens and STDs and pregnancies pretty much disproves that idea to the nth degree.  

Heyer's approach here can't be blamed on the romance novel genre. In one sub-genre of the romance novel, a female protagonist will sleep with her husband and have children before she ever figures out that she actually likes him, let alone loves him (and this sub-genre is quite old). Many romance heroines--including Austen's--have been perfectly capable of feeling attraction/desire without knowing exactly what they feel. 

Heyer's approach--pairing sexual interest with so-called grown-up insight into "the other"--is an attempt at psychology, not practical observation (see Christie's novels for innocent young women who gladly leave their family homes to marry attractive ne'er-do-wells because, well, that's life!). Arguably, women are less likely to enjoy "friends with benefits" than men, but a young woman like Heyer's Elizabeth would be FAR more likely to convince herself of an attachment than to run screaming to the hills because her husband wants to have sex. (And if she did run screaming, I'm not entirely convinced she would come back.) 

In fairness, Heyer makes solid points about the difficulties of a young person moving from a "helicoptered" household to one where she has to behave like an independent-thinking adult. Nevertheless, the book doesn't have enough substance to stand beside similar books from the time period.

It's entirely possible that Heyer came to despise her "modern" psychological novels for exactly the reasons I've detailed above. She was married for 54 years, had a son, who married a divorced woman, and three grandsons. As mentioned above, people can do something without understanding it. However, Heyer's experience may have come to bear some weight in her assessment of what she wrote when she was much younger. 

And it's possible that Heyer never liked the book. She wrote Instead of the Thorn in the first place to make money/break into an industry (fiction) that had become fascinated with the problem of marriage.  

In the end, Heyer was a smart writer who ultimately figured out her genres--Georgian and Regency travelogue romances plus murder mysteries--and stuck to them.

Figuring out one's gifts: THAT is impressive.   

A-Z Romance! Andrew Grey

Since I am reviewing "G" authors, I thought it might be appropriate to mention a rare male romance writer (they do exist!): Andrew Grey.

Grey's The Best Worse Honeymoon Ever was one of the first male/male romances I read, and I enjoyed it.

However, Grey's writing is an interesting example of how a writer can do a decent job in one area but not in another. Grey's books always have a plot, always, which I much appreciate since romances can sometimes feel like a bunch of "meet-cutes" tacked together with some random alarming revelation tacked on at the end. One of my favorite Greys involves an art/coin legal case; the other a mystery/corrupt judge case. Both books pay off their conflicts!

Unfortunately, Grey's characters tend to get--for lack of a better word--really preachy. Not in the political sense. They don't preach at the reader. They preach at each other. I have no idea why since I would run screaming for the exit if any so-called lover ever did it to me.

That is, in a number of books, at about the point where a character is supposed to have an epiphany, one character explains to the other the purpose and meaning of life. I suspect Grey was told that exposition is better delivered as dialog. I still sigh.

Interestingly enough, one of the best Grey books that doesn't speechify is Organic Chemistry in which one character has a form of Asperger's. Since the characters have to stay in character, the resolution cannot resort to "it is now time for you to understand your life--here is the requisite monologue by me" lecture. In fact, I think the book ends too soon!

Grey's writing proves a general point about authors. I excel at dialog (and considered becoming a scriptwriter at one point) but struggle with description/setting. One of the writers I edit for delivers description/setting as easily as breathing--but struggles with plot. Still another captures individuality with characters--and remembers each character's individuality but doesn't always pay off those characters.

We admire our greats for a reason. Which doesn't stop the rest of us from giving another story a go!

Bad (as in Boring) Marriage Advice

I intended, a year or so ago, to write a series of posts about marriage advice and where that advice shows up in romantic fiction. 

I started with Gottman, who has actually done studies on what makes marriages work and has challenged a few sacred cows. 

I gave up. 

The reason: even Gottman's books get very samey. 

In fact, most books on marriage are about three or four pieces of decent advice wrapped up in entirely generic language with examples pulled from therapy sessions--and workbook pages. 

The writing--with the exception of the examples--reminds me of AI-generated writing. 

It is not that hard to create AI writing. Here is a made-up passage of a typical marriage advice book:

Of course, good communication starts with honest appraisals. The couple should matter-of-factly and frankly report their reasons for getting upset. Only when the couple can candidly face the true grounds for lashing out can the problem be resolved. 

In short--don't lie. 

Every time I try to read a marriage advice book (because relationships interest me), I start skipping the long-winded passages for the stories (which can be quite insightful). I also conclude that the whole thing could be reduced to a 10-page article and make a stronger impression. 

In any case, my brief foray into marriage counseling books convinces me that my underlying argument for this blog and the romance genre is correct:

The best way to learn about love is to learn about individuals.

Historical Romances That Don't Use the Material They've Got: Paget and Drummond in Victoria

"Bury your gays" is a negative term in romance. It refers to the trend of presenting loving gay characters, only to have them die tragic deaths. 

E.M. Forster refers to this trend whimsically in his note on Maurice. When debating whether or not to publish, he states:

[The happy ending] has made the book more difficult to publish...if it ended unhappily, with a lad dangling from a noose or with a suicide pact, all would be well, for there is no pornography or seduction of minors. But the lovers get away unpunished and consequently recommend crime.

One reason for HEA in male/male romances is to counteract the trend of punishment. Writers sometimes see themselves as correcting a wrong, opposing bigotry. 

I'm not sure it is entirely fair to designate killing off certain characters as homophobic. After all, in Victorian literature, an innocent, virginal young girl in white was pretty much doomed from the start. And if she had a cough? Hey, where's the coffin?! 

However, while watching Victoria, Season 2, I had to conclude, "Burying the gays is exactly what the writers did."

Victoria pretty much gives up being plausibly historical by the end of Season 1. The relationship between Lord Alfred Paget, Chief Equerry and Clerk Marshal to Queen Victoria and the father of 14 children, and Mr. Drummond, Personal Secretary to Prime Minister Peel, is highly unlikely, not just because of the 14 kids but because Drummond was 50, not 23 at the time he and Paget would have met. A 20+ gap in age doesn't preclude a relationship. Still, sorry, folks, the two were by all accounts not in love or on their way to becoming lovers.

However, again, by the time Victoria hits Season 2, it is rather like an alternate history, so, hey, why not?! 

Here's where things get weird, writing-wise. Drummond was shot by Daniel M'Naghten (see M'Naghten Rules). In fact, there were a tremendous number of assassinations and assassination attempts in the Victorian era, which puts paid to the belief that the past was so much more civilized or calm or regularized or whatever immensely silly people like to believe about "then" versus "now."

Drummond was shot by accident, M'Naghten thinking he was Peel, not because Drummond heroically stepped in front of the bullet as he does in the series. Unlike in the television series, he did not die immediately. 

Yet the episode has him die right away, after which Paget receives the devastating and shocking news. 

My reaction was, "Are you kidding me?"

Granted, the first time I watched the episode, I didn't know about Drummond dying at all. But then I read up on him and thought, "Are you kidding me?"

Dying Keats

Drummond initially survived the shot and the bullet was extracted. He died five days later, likely from infection. This is the age before antibiotics and surviving a deep wound was mostly up to the patient's robust immune system though even at the time, some doctors blamed the immediate removal of the bullet--without sterilization--and blood-lettings, which latter procedure was coming in for more and more criticism. 

From a dramatic point of view: why not have Drummond live those five days? The writers spent the entire season setting up the relationship between the two men--long glances, quick conversational exchanges, affectionate smiles, finally a kiss--and then, He's dead dead dead. Oh my, time for modern commentary on how it's so sad and unfair that Paget can't even claim his rightful place as Drummond's lover at the funeral. Dead dead dead. Sad sad sad. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley

In other words, yup, the writers were burying their gays. 

Suppose the alternate timeline/history is at work, but the culture, expectations and accoutrements of Victorianism remain as well as certain events. Would Paget be able to visit his lover-to-be in those five days before that lover's death? 

Absolutely. The Queen's Chief Equerry would have no trouble at all being admitted to Drummond's household. The two could have a final goodbye. After all, maudlin scenes of young dying men are entirely appropriate to the time period (see Keats and Shelley). If the Queen and Prime Minister Peel were currently on the outs (they weren't), possible tension could cause some dismay for the grievers. For that matter, why not have the mourning Paget attend M'Naghten's trial and be furious at his acquittal? 

Rather than using the alternate history intelligently, the writers seemed to have aimed instead for cheap shock. The season set up the characters just so the relationship could be dramatically ended and viewer distress gained. And I don't see why gays--or naive coughing girls--should have to pay that price.

Something Else is Going On: Romance and...Childcare

Two tropes arise with romance and childcare:

1. The child pulls the couple together, either by being sweet and charming or by being insistently needy.

 

The trope here is more or less the idea that underlies Parent Trap. It is also the underlying motive in a Blue Bloods' episode in which a daughter gets herself kidnapped to force her separated parents to work together. As Danny wryly points out, her plan works--but it works at the expense of at least 2 lives and a lifetime of trauma.

 

In truth, as numerous studies point out, people may love their children yet children are more a source of stress than anything else--worth it in the long run but a drain on the relationship in the present.

 

I've always admired Charlotte Bronte for having Jane Eyre react to her ward in an entirely objective fashion. She doesn't romanticize the little girl or make her the center of her existence. She feels some obligation to her. She feels some pity. But her relationship with Adele is about discipline and objective analysis. It also does not bring about her relationship with Rochester. Adele is the excuse, not the motive.

 

2. One member of the couple defends the child to the other.

 

There is more merit to this trope since attitudes about child-rearing often directly relate to a character's past or worldview. Rochester's willingness to take charge of Adele, who is likely not his daughter, underscores his gentle heart (beneath all the bombast). Jane's willingness to care for Adele without prejudice indicates her egalitarian views and her understanding of what an individual child may suffer.

 

The BL live action drama Right or Wrong handles the childcare container quite well. College student Fei Sheng Zhe takes over the care of Shi Yi Jie's child when he visits the home and finds it a mess. He calls out the divorced dad on some of his behaviors, using his own childhood as an example. He and the divorced dad grow close and eventually date and then marry. (Same-sex marriage became legal in Taiwan in 2019.)

 

The relationship has many fine points of its own. One is Shi Yi Jie's willingness to approach Fei Sheng Zhe's mother directly and ask permission to court her son. Once he makes that leap--oh, I like men too--he doesn't hesitate, and he expects the same degree of non-waffling commitment in return.

 

Another intelligent characteristic of the relationship is that the younger man, like Jane Eyre, is actually the more level-headed member of the couple, who, as he gets older and gains more confidence, will definitely be the guy who keeps the family on-track.

 

The child of the drama is a tad too cute and open-minded. I entirely accept the idea that children will embrace whatever is stable and normal for them. What appears "odd" to others will not automatically appear "odd" to them. So, yeah, a kid will accept two dads.

A child will object to being "ousted" (losing attention), to changes in rules, changes in expectations, and peers' criticisms. So I accept that Yo Yo would entirely accept her new dad--not that she would actively further the relationship.

 

Setting aside the overly cutesy kid, the childcare trope works here since how Fei Sheng Zhe and Shi Yi Jie handle Yo Yo indicates how they perceive family and a couple's responsibilities. Childcare becomes a way of learning each other's blueprints (see Romance and Families).

 

However, the teach-us-about-each-other childcare trope can go too far. One final positive with the Right or Wrong relationship is that both men are willing to engage a babysitter to get an evening together alone. Although the child--and at one point, the child's irresponsible mom--provides the series's drama, the relationship is NOT all about the child. The couple love each other anyway. 

The container of childcare has its problems but can be written well. Right or Wrong does a more than decent job.

Something Else is Going On: Romance and...Mysteries, Candy Color Paradox

I confess that this "container" for romance--mysteries or puzzles of some kind--is one of my absolute favorites. Bones is in my top 10 ever television shows. 

Candy Color Paradox falls into the "mystery as container" category. Although the mysteries don't involve dead bodies, they still involve an investigation of some kind. 

Oddly enough, I found that my reaction to the live-action Candy Color Paradox was almost exactly the same as my reaction to the manga. The congruity doesn't always hold true. I'm a huge fan of Fumi Yoshinaga's manga series What Did You Eat Yesterday? yet didn't care for the live-action show, which struck me as somewhat humorless (I will post more on this show at a later date). 

With Candy Color Paradox, the live-action embodies a respect for the manga that I admire. And it amuses me because my reaction is, as I stated, the same: "Huh, I don't get why I'm fascinated by this series. I don't think I'll read beyond the next volume. Okay, I totally need to read the next volume. Oh, here it is. Why did I order this? Well, whatever, I'll give it a try. Hey, this is really good stuff."

I have no idea why I react this way every single time. But I do.

The premise and plot of Candy Color Paradox is the investigations of two journalists: one a strong researcher and writer; one an excellent (and disillusioned) photographer. They work together on stories for what, as far I can tell, would fall into People magazine territory. Not National Enquirer but not the Wall Street Journal. Splashy, accurate news. 

The cases involve nasty (sometimes dangerous) events, clues, separate and paired investigative tracks, witnesses, and informants as well as, on occasion, stake-outs and undercover work. That is, each case is a story in its own right. The romance steadily progresses alongside the cases, much like Bones & Booth's romance (though much faster). 

I think my overall reaction to Candy Color Paradox is based in my love of all kinds of mysteries, even when they involve long chapters of the detective questioning people. Frankly, I think those long chapters are kind of boring. I'm much more interested in the detective hanging out with the scooby-gang. My favorite parts of The Fugitive (1993), for instance, are Gerard hanging out with his people.

I'll stick with the pages of questioning, however, because I'm interested enough and there's often a decent pay-off. 

With Candy Color Paradox, the stories are well-written enough and tightly structured enough that the investigations produce strong and plausible pay-offs. And the romance is connected to the investigations, namely the problem of honesty in both: how much does one admit? how much does one keep private?

However, one of my favorite scenes from the live-action series involves the scooby-gang, specifically the two bosses. When Onoe argues that Kaburagi has borderline ethics and will "do anything to get a scoop," the bosses respond, "Yeah! That's awesome!"  

Something Else is Going On: Romance and...Competition: Mr. Heart and You Make Me Dance

A number of anime, manga, yaoi, and BL use competition as the container for romance. 

Often, as indicated in the post on Chihayafuru, competition is the arc.

When it becomes the container, the trope can take two forms (sometimes combined): a competition must be won in order for the romance to take hold, such as in You Make Me Dance. Or the competition between the leads must be resolved or accepted before the romance can take hold. 

The Korean BL Mr. Heart does a great job combining both plot approaches: Sang Ha is a pacemaker to marathon runner Jin Won. Sang Hu is burdened by his family's debt to loan sharks. In order to pay them off, he ends up running with Jin Won and then winning the marathon. The series has a very amusing--and not atypical--scene where the loan sharks become invested in Sang Ha's success (see image above). Sure, they want their money. Isn't a race a great way to get it?! 

Sang Ha is sure than Jin Won, who was training to win the marathon, will be angry with him, but Jin Won is a true sportsman. He wants to win; he also wants to win against a worthy opponent. Rather like Saitama, who is becoming nearly nihilistic due to the lack of challenge, Jin Won--in a somewhat less slacker-guy way--needs someone to re-inspire him. 

Excellent series by the same creators of Where Your Eyes Linger.

You Make Me Dance, another Korean BL, pits the love interest directly against his debt collector, who sacrifices his plans (he thinks) to give the love interest a chance. The two fall in love. Although some reviewers worry about the power imbalance in the relationship, the power imbalance bears little weight alongside the theme--namely, artistic inspiration comes from hard work and challenge. The true villain is the "friend" who can't bear to even compete with his rival. Rather than improving himself, the "friend" tries to sabotage the protagonist to keep him from performing. 

In comparison, the dancer's debt-collecting boyfriend tracks him down, pushes him to practice, protects him (without his knowledge), fixes equipment for him, admires his ability, and accompanies him to the competition. 

When the judges ask the hero to name his dance, he responds in English with controlled passion, "You make me dance," a reference to his lover and a line that will break your heart--in a good way. 

Something Else is Going on...Actually, No, the Something IS the Thing That is Going On: Chihayafuru

In August, I will be posting about sports as therapy in anime and manga--as well as the all-consuming relationships within sports in anime and manga. 

The post here focuses specifically on the Taichi-Chihaya relationship in Chihayafuru. 

In many fairy tales, the character who undergoes the strongest internal arc is the female character. From Cinderella to Snow White, the prince is little more than a cipher, a stand-in for the heroine's triumph. 

Chihayafuru impressively switches these roles. Although the catalyst or action figure is Chihaya--the teenage girl who draws together her elementary school friends and motivates them to remaster the game of karuta--the character who undergoes the most change is Taichi, as he comes to grip with his own ambition and abilities. 

He also comes to grip with his romantic feelings--but those romantic feelings are not divided from the game. The game is not even the container for the romantic feelings. The two are inexorably woven together since Taichi's supposed rival, Arata, Chihaya's inspiration for the game, is also his rival at the game and his friend. The two young men maintain a relationship separate from that with Chihaya. 

At the same time, the three form a trio: their energy, vision, and insight galvanize other characters.

Since it is relatively obvious to an outside viewer that Chihaya has conflated nostalgia, personal ambition, and her passion for the game with Arata--a conflation that would end if Arata lived closer and became more than a memory-on-a-pedestal--the actual relationship between Chihaya and Taiki is allowed to thrive. 

In any case, the use of romance in the series is less about romance and more about the multiple threads of desire--that is, desire to win, to be part of a team, to understand the poetry, to beat one's personal record, to achieve a specific goal, to see one's friends again, to regain the past, to simply play, to learn more, to look cute...everything is woven together.

The same can occur in murder mysteries where romantic disillusionment can become hopelessly entangled with greed, others' goals, and physical needs.

Chihayafuru, of course, handles the entanglement far more positively.

Romance Writing Problem: Squandering Power Imbalances

Separating the couple in a romance is nearly a given. The reason for the separation varies. One common reason is a power imbalance. Boss and intern. Boss and employee. King and courtier. Professor and student. Homeowner and handy man. And so on.

In many cases, despite some initial hesitation, the power gap can be ignored or easily overcome, in large part (most of the time) because the relationship is accepted by society (to a degree). 42% of people have dated a co-worker while 16% of couples met each other at work. Likewise, though far more negatively viewed these days, a college professor and student is fairly common fodder. And hey, for king and courtier, there's always Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley. 

I recently encountered such a relationship in a novel that I just couldn't defend. The relationship was a parolee and the equivalent of a parole officer--actually, the supervisor of an early release program. 

IT working relationship--quite believable!

The same writer created a similar earlier book with a relationship that I could endorse, namely, the parolee was sent to the ranch to work but the immediate parolee's supervisor was not running the program.

With the more recent book, however, I kept thinking, "Man, they are so going to lose their funding." 

The program gets state money, and no one at the state level is going to fund a program where the person in charge slept with one of the parolees before the program ended. Absolutely, no way. 

The writer makes a fundamental mistake, which I address elsewhere, including here. Because we readers see inside the protagonists' heads, we know that there is no power imbalance, nobody is taking advantage, and everybody truly loves everybody else. Consequently, when one of the other parolees makes a sarcastic remark about the relationship, the reader is supposed to view the sarcasm as misplaced--an obstacle for the lovers rather than a red flag. 

Nope. It's a red flag. No way would anyone in the program be able to trust the supervisor from that point on--any more than students can trust teachers who play favorites or sleep with students in the same program/course (which is why that relationship, though relatively more common, still raises eyebrows). 

And no way would the state--the bureaucrats who require documentation for everything--ever fold in the face of "but we feel so strongly!" reasoning. I have an image of completely unimpressed inspectors nodding away sympathetically right before they walk off with all the money and equipment. 

Basic professional behavior is expected, folks. The money can go elsewhere.

The sad thing to me is that the writer respecting boundaries here would have created more tension. In our increasingly democratic age (whatever doomsdayers like to believe), it is more and more difficult to create external barriers for lovers. In the charming Thai series, The Boss and the Babe, the barrier of boss and intern is little more than a temporary snag. The greater barrier, intelligently, is Cher's tendency to take the weight of the world on his shoulders while showing a smiling face to the people around him. Psychology has to be the fall-back position.

Which means that if an actual barrier exists, don't squander it! Use it in some way. 

In the aforementioned book, the parolee could leave the program, then return as a civilian. The supervisor could step down. The parolee could move to a different team. They could both wait until the program ends. Ramp up sexual tension and solve the problem creatively! 

Rules Help: 609 Bedtime Story

I mention elsewhere that Thai dramas are generally far longer than they need to be--so much so in some cases, that the original premise gets lost. 

609 Bedtime Story at 11 episodes is an exception, and I postulate that one reason for the exception is that it utilizes fantasy rules.

The rules are ostensibly scientific, but the overall premise is more magic than science. Two young men share the same apartment in different universes. The universes only connect for an hour a night. And they operate in reverse order, so Mum visits Dew's universe at the end of their relationship--and sees him shot to death. He then visits Dew over a month until Dew meets him for the first time.

In the meantime, the time in each universe proceeds forward. 

It is less confusing than it sounds--unless one tries to make sense of the time factor, which I don't recommend. I would have to watch the series many more times to check if the writers were consistent. 

In any case, they make no glaring errors, and the attempt to stick to the rules--so (1) Mum and Dew know each other to a differing degree in each episode and (2) even though the end is in the beginning, Mum doesn't figure out the end--the murderer--until his time catches up to Dew's time--forced discipline onto the story. 

The episodes do not suddenly throw in crazy parents and an excess of minor rivals to keep the series going an extra four to five episodes. The episodes have to link up.

Truth is, 609 Bedtime Story isn't my favorite Thai paranormal series. That would be Dear Doctor. But 609 Bedtime Story has fewer story writing flaws than many other series. It also showcases some fairly impressive acting with strong character payoffs.

In regards to the writing, the rules helped.  

(I will address the problem of "cloning"--falling in love with a character who is not the character--at a later date.)

Something Else is Going On But Not Really: Romance and...Approval

Some romances will focus primarily on the romance. The ones that do and fail almost always fail because they focus exclusively on the main characters achieving approval. 

The approval plot rests on the idea that one of the lovers is not acceptable in some way due to--oh, name an issue. However, the other lover stays true...

And, honestly, it isn't a completely horrible storyline since loyalty is very attractive.

The problem with the approval plot is that ultimately there is nothing else there. The Thai drama, Secret Crush on You, is a case in point. Three "misfits" date three handsome, popular young men. Rivals show up, amazed that the popular young men don't know better. The college campus expresses its dissatisfaction through social media (it doesn't seem to occur to any of the characters to simply throw their phones away--yes, one can survive without a phone!). In the meantime, the misfits sit around and console each other. Every now and again, they adopt a stiff, upper lip as they deliver sermons to each other and the camera about the horribleness of the world and the need to believe in oneself.

It's rather like watching a fictional version of a self-help cult. And from a writing perspective, since the characters' stiff upper lips rarely translate into anything that resembles a distinct life choice, there's nothing there. 

In comparison...

Pride & Prejudice concludes with rich, handsome Darcy demonstrating loyalty to Elizabeth and repairing his mistakes through a series of deliberate actions. In the meantime, Elizabeth takes responsibility for her misreading of Darcy. She also stands up for herself with Darcy's aunt even though she believes that the relationship with Darcy has ended.

The final point is an important one. Lydia's behavior could have sabotaged her sisters' chances at good marriages. Yes, it is marvelous that Bingley and Darcy rise above it all--but Lydia's behavior was truly thoughtless and damaging, having actual impact on real life outcomes. Judging the family by Lydia's actions isn't--for the time period--a "bad" or "toxic" (a useless meaningless label--will writers stop using it?!) mindset that "shouldn't" impact "correct-thinking" people. It's a real plot problem from which Elizabeth isn't rescued (the reasoning behind a rescue seems to be that the scandal is sooo unfair, the fallout "shouldn't" be happening). Rather, she manages the problem and maintains her integrity.

Cherry Magic! The Movie demonstrates an Austen-like focus on self-responsibility while taking the real world into account. In the movie, when Adachi is hurt on the job several hundred miles away, both he and Kurosawa are upset that the nature of their relationship means that neither work nor family members contacted Kurosawa. So they determine to tell both families about their relationship. No blame is parceled out regarding anybody's close-mindedness. No lectures are delivered. No labels are applied. No assumptions about "well, you are cisgendered and heterosexual so you won't understand how much harder it is for us" are utilized. 

Instead of "here is how people ought to behave," the two men start from the realistic position of "here and now is what it is--and what we desire might take time." They also treat each family as a group of individuals with their individual perspectives and needs and issues. Everybody has a personal life--here is ours. We hope you can meet us half-way. They brave the unknown and take concrete action rather than waiting around for what they are supposedly owed by society or the universe or...I have no idea. Each man accompanies the other to his family's home. Each man speaks his intent and his future commitment while demonstrating respect for his lover's family.    

The result is more romantic than all the self-help speeches in the world. And healthier.

Likewise, Dew in 609 Bedtime Story doesn't blame his parents or fiancée or society at the end; the terrible events in the alternate universe lie, ultimately, at his door. He takes responsibility.

For a character worth investing in, what-is proves more fascinating in the long-run than what-ought-to-be.

Something Else is Going On: Romance and...Families, Chance to Love

In a previous post, I address the "container" (the plot that holds the romance) in Until We Meet Again. 

The "container" for Chance to Love, the sequel to Love by Chance is family dysfunction. 

Hints of the family dysfunction occur in the first season. The second season starts the Can-Tin romance over, softening some of their confrontations but seriously ramping up the family problem. 

And it is very smart writing, very nearly meriting all thirteen episodes. 

The first smart issue is that the two brothers are messed up without being evil. 

Tul and Tin were not physically abused, but they were pitted against each other by the grandmother and the second mother. That is, both young men have emotional and psychological hang-ups; neither is particularly trusting of, well, anyone. 

Both brothers, however, are intelligent, reflective, and objective enough to know that their upbringing stank. They both make efforts to treat the son/nephew better than they were treated--to even advise him, "You shouldn't be like either the younger or older brother."

But they have no blueprint for how to behave instead (so the son/nephew is somewhat spoiled--until Can comes along). The psychology is quite intelligent here: children from dysfunctional households may know "Well, that didn't work" but without outside families or role models to provide a counter, they lack the answering "Well, here's what to do instead."

In fact, when Tin begins to court ("hit on" in his parlance) Can, he states outright, "I don't know how to [court] you." Years earlier, Tul married the woman he got pregnant--and lost the love of his life. Tin's relationships tend to end before they get started. So neither brother is exactly aces when it comes to dating and relationships.

Hence, the amusing and insightful sequence in Season 1 where Tin meets Can's mother and sister--with whom Can has a good relationship. A bright guy, Tin immediately begins to adopt the mother and sister's behavior patterns. His attitude towards Can alters at this point as he realizes that it is possible to challenge Can--without being adversarial--and Can will respond positively, even reassess his positions (Can is very much a live-in-the-present kind of guy). 

In Season 2, without this initial meeting, Tin takes longer to mirror Can's blueprint of behaviors. And he falters, such as the first time Can receives misinformation about Tin from Tul. When Can asks him about the misinformation, Tin throws up his hands in a move that reminded me of Chandler's reaction to Chandler and Monica's first fight on Friends: "We had a disagreement. Okay, the relationship is over!" Can chases him down and yells at him. He wants an explanation. He believes Tin. Once he gets the explanation, he will continue to believe Tin.

The second smart psychology writing move is the father's misreading of his sons. 

Because he lost the first wife, whom he loved, and had to marry again for family reasons, the father assumes that he is doing Tin, the second son by the second wife, a favor by leaving him to his own devices. He understands his sons to a point but not substantively. So he believes that family-oriented Tul benefits from his position in the company and maverick Tin benefits from being pushed away to do his own thing. 

He has miscalculated and his speech at the end, partly to Can and mostly to Tin, is heart-breaking. He has produced two incredibly unhappy sons. He wants to set things right. He doesn't know how--

So he trusts Can's analysis of the family dynamics and puts the matter into Tin's hands, relying on Tin's fundamentally moral nature to clear away all the brush. And Tin does--in his own way and after piecing together multiple memories, some buried in Tin's childhood. 

The psychology here is also quite insightful. Tin and Tul are at odds, mostly due to Tul's actions (though not entirely). Tin has little reason to trust him. However, Tul's flailing about (which takes the form of lashing out in calculatingly cruel ways) is entirely based in his longing for the lover who will keep him balanced. Hey, Tin can relate! The brothers have, at least, one thing in common. 

Tul gets his lover back (when his wife divorces him to marry someone else) and Tin gets to be his father's right-hand man. The series' ending is entirely believable: Tul brings his new family to join Tin and Can at the seaside while the final scene shows Tin and Can spending time alone after Tin's recent return from an overseas trip for the family business. The sons have obtained what they desired and what best fits their personalities. 

The best psychology, of course, is that repairing the family dysfunction dovetails with Can and Tin's successful relationship. Tin is drawn to Can immediately for Can's honesty. 

That honesty isn't mere truthfulness or even (merely) a belligerent pronouncement of opinions. Unworldly Pete is truthful and Tin was never truly interested in Pete, no matter what he said (however, the fact that Tin is friends with Pete indicates that he values certain traits). On the other side, Can's confrontational reactions only get him so far. More usefully, Can not only says what he thinks, he revises what he thinks while he is talking. 

Can values consistency, evidence, and moral action, and he tries hard to bring himself into alignment with those values--out loud. Tin consequently has absolute proof that Can has no other agenda.

I discuss the Can-Tin relationships more in Better in Fiction Than in Real Life: The Mean Lover. 

In sum, although Chance to Love is considerably lower key than many other Thai dramas (soap operas), the "container" for the romance is robust enough to carry the series. 

Okay, sure, I still think it could be cut. 

But not by much.