by Kerry Allen
An old flame recently discovered I’ve written a romance novel and asked to see it. I’ve never known him to read anything other than Sports Illustrated and we weren’t one of those I-want-to-share-everything-you-do couples even when we were together, so I questioned his motives. He responded, “You are the least romantic person on the planet, and I’m dying to know what passes for romance in your twisted mind.”
Excuse me, I’m not romantic? I was reading Harlequin Presents and Silhouette Desires when my contemporaries were still on Dr. Seuss. I have romance implanted in my DNA. (All right, so when I see the commercials where the guy leaves the jeweler’s bag hanging on the snowman’s arm or tucked under the tree at the Christmas tree lot, my thought is, “Somebody would steal that.” That’s a lack of faith in the goodness of humanity, not a lack of romance.)
Contrary to the recurrent insinuation that readers of romance novels have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality, I believe we have a keener appreciation of what constitutes true romance than someone who, just as a totally fabricated example, bases his concept of it on a Valentine’s Day sale rack at Walgreens. Believe me, we are acutely aware that we are real women, not romance novel heroines.
A romance novel heroine has an unlimited number of hours in the day and never requires sleep, whereas a real woman is limited to twenty-four hours and must be unconscious for at least three of them (eight if you expect any semblance of civility, attractiveness, or motor skills the following day).
If a romance novel heroine does housework, it’s one tiny thing to demonstrate her domesticity, as opposed to the two dozen chores a real woman must perform daily to maintain even minimum standards of household cleanliness.
A romance novel heroine’s job provides her with ample opportunities for socialization, recreation, and adventure, while a real woman at work has to actually, you know, work.
A romance novel heroine is childless… or has children who never get sick, never need help with their homework, go to bed right after school, and are entirely self-sufficient… or are in boarding school… or has a beloved nanny who is part of the family yet never oversteps her bounds as an employee. At this point, a real woman is laughing too hard to read any further.
At the end of the day, a romance novel heroine has all kinds of free time, is full of stamina, and looks as fresh as she did when she put on her lipstick that morning (lipstick being the only makeup a romance novel heroine ever applies, as her skin is always perfect, cheeks naturally rosy, and eyelashes thick, long, and dark). A real woman’s day doesn’t end until everything is done, by which time she is physically and mentally exhausted, shambling like a zombie, the makeup she carefully applied that morning to make her look naturally radiant frightened away by the glare from her oily T-zone.
The romance novel heroine needs the guy who drapes her in jewelry, writes poetry in homage to her perpetually waxed legs, and beats up/duels/turns into a creature and eats any big meanie who threatens her life and/or self-esteem. Anything short of such grand gestures threatens the continuity of the drama present in the rest of her fictional existence.
Every real woman’s idea of romance is going to vary, but all will agree it’s a whole lot easier to feel warm-hearted when not stressed and overburdened. Real-life romance can be found in a gesture as simple as loading the dishwasher so she can take five minutes to relax, telling her a story that makes her laugh, doing anything that helps her forget for a while all the things that make her feel drained, unhappy, and put-upon.
Isn’t that lifting of the spirit the reason we’re drawn to romance, in fiction and in real life?
Or is a Cupid snow globe truly the pinnacle of romance?
It’s Easy to Be Romantic When You’re Fictional
An old flame recently discovered I’ve written a romance novel and asked to see it. I’ve never known him to read anything other than Sports Illustrated and we weren’t one of those I-want-to-share-everything-you-do couples even when we were together, so I questioned his motives. He responded, “You are the least romantic person on the planet, and I’m dying to know what passes for romance in your twisted mind.”
Excuse me, I’m not romantic? I was reading Harlequin Presents and Silhouette Desires when my contemporaries were still on Dr. Seuss. I have romance implanted in my DNA. (All right, so when I see the commercials where the guy leaves the jeweler’s bag hanging on the snowman’s arm or tucked under the tree at the Christmas tree lot, my thought is, “Somebody would steal that.” That’s a lack of faith in the goodness of humanity, not a lack of romance.)
Contrary to the recurrent insinuation that readers of romance novels have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality, I believe we have a keener appreciation of what constitutes true romance than someone who, just as a totally fabricated example, bases his concept of it on a Valentine’s Day sale rack at Walgreens. Believe me, we are acutely aware that we are real women, not romance novel heroines.
A romance novel heroine has an unlimited number of hours in the day and never requires sleep, whereas a real woman is limited to twenty-four hours and must be unconscious for at least three of them (eight if you expect any semblance of civility, attractiveness, or motor skills the following day).
If a romance novel heroine does housework, it’s one tiny thing to demonstrate her domesticity, as opposed to the two dozen chores a real woman must perform daily to maintain even minimum standards of household cleanliness.
A romance novel heroine’s job provides her with ample opportunities for socialization, recreation, and adventure, while a real woman at work has to actually, you know, work.
A romance novel heroine is childless… or has children who never get sick, never need help with their homework, go to bed right after school, and are entirely self-sufficient… or are in boarding school… or has a beloved nanny who is part of the family yet never oversteps her bounds as an employee. At this point, a real woman is laughing too hard to read any further.
At the end of the day, a romance novel heroine has all kinds of free time, is full of stamina, and looks as fresh as she did when she put on her lipstick that morning (lipstick being the only makeup a romance novel heroine ever applies, as her skin is always perfect, cheeks naturally rosy, and eyelashes thick, long, and dark). A real woman’s day doesn’t end until everything is done, by which time she is physically and mentally exhausted, shambling like a zombie, the makeup she carefully applied that morning to make her look naturally radiant frightened away by the glare from her oily T-zone.
The romance novel heroine needs the guy who drapes her in jewelry, writes poetry in homage to her perpetually waxed legs, and beats up/duels/turns into a creature and eats any big meanie who threatens her life and/or self-esteem. Anything short of such grand gestures threatens the continuity of the drama present in the rest of her fictional existence.
Every real woman’s idea of romance is going to vary, but all will agree it’s a whole lot easier to feel warm-hearted when not stressed and overburdened. Real-life romance can be found in a gesture as simple as loading the dishwasher so she can take five minutes to relax, telling her a story that makes her laugh, doing anything that helps her forget for a while all the things that make her feel drained, unhappy, and put-upon.
Isn’t that lifting of the spirit the reason we’re drawn to romance, in fiction and in real life?
Or is a Cupid snow globe truly the pinnacle of romance?
No related posts.
I love an author who can bring realistic romance to life in a Romance novel.
Personally, I think that today’s real women are too intelligent to enjoy any story that is pure fantasy without any semblance to reality whatsoever. Sure, part of the story can be written as the perfect world, but there’s got to be something resembling meat with all that shredded lettuce.
Welll…I’ve been writing romance about “real” women for ten years. My gals sometimes have puking kids (or even puke themselves
), and/or look like hell (puking will do that to a body), have trouble getting their jeans zipped over their stretch-marked bellies, do the whole kid-and-work juggling thing, and definitely know what real life stress is.
Their heroes? The guys who love those real women, not some air-brushed fantasy. Guys who clean up the puke (whether hers or her/their kids’) and kiss the stretch marks and not only unload the dishwasher but put the dishes *in* the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen, too.
Which is, BTW, *my* reality (and probably why I’m still happily married after nearly 30 years) and most definitely my definition of romance. So it only stands to reason that those are the stories and characters I write.
I think romance needs to be a careful balance of fantasy and reality; readers want an escape but they also want to be able to identify with the heroine and the story somewhat–at least, I do, and I write for Presents, which is often billed as ‘the ultimate fantasy in romance’ or some such… yet even in Presents, you have heroines who get tired and cranky, dirty and sick. I think Karen’s right, a hero is someone who loves the heroine even when she’s like that. But she probably will have flawless skin and perpetually waxed legs
Kate
Love the post, Kerry! Very entertaining–it’s true that it’s awfully hard to live to up fictional standards when reality intrudes! Alas, I can barely keep the kitchen table cleared off–don’t have much time to wax and primp
And thankfully my husband’s doing his best to overlook those things, but I’d like some time to indulge myself, for him and for me 