When my wife and I discovered romance fiction, among the first authors we glommed was the British novelist Katie Fforde. Acting like a “Katie Fforde heroine” became a sort of shorthand for us: it meant that no matter how bad things were, how crazy they were, you could always keep your head and put the kettle on. To be honest, the books blur together a bit in my memory. I remember scenes, tones of voice, the look of the room (or the plane flight, off to some conference) where I read this or that novel, and the exotic appeal of various local cuisines. (What exactly is a “bacon butty”? They sold them at The Homely Haggis in Highland Fling, as I recall.) But the only whole books that stick in mind are the pair I have upstairs in hard cover on the keeper shelf: Paradise Fields, with its calmly enchanting, slightly older heroine–I really thought, for a while, she would choose the wrong man, and my heart sank at the possibility–and Life Skills, whose title (if not its plot) is on my mind tonight.
What life skills have I learned from romance fiction? I don’t mean those kind of skills, although asking myself “What Would Phin Tucker Do?” has always served me pretty well. I suppose I’ve learned certain habits of attention–to women’s shoes, men’s faces, tones of voice–and habits of interior monologue, too, as I talk through what I see or have to do. I’ve learned how to talk myself out of bitterness and frustration (not that I do that, all of the time, but I hear myself doing it more than I used to, I think); I’ve learned how to savor things that go well, especially the sort of sentimental ones that I was warier of before. There was a time, a few years back, when I heard myself talking my wife and myself down from an argument–we tend to think of romance as a, well, romantic genre, but I’ve learned ways to be reasonable as much as anything else. I’ve learned a little, I hope, about how to shut up and actually listen to women. I’ve learned how unexpectedly welcome even the smallest efforts to do something decent can be; I’ve noticed, to my chagrin, how unexpected those efforts seem to be when coming from a man. (Growing up on King Arthur stories, a boy wants to be chivalrous, gallant; who knew it would be as easy as making breakfast, cleaning a bathroom, showing up to paste together books at the school’s Young Authors evening?)
More than anything else, though, I’ve learned to apologize.
This week, that lesson has been on my mind a lot, for various reasons. I’ve had students whose grades I rounded downward because I was grading too quickly. Filing the forms was the easy part; the hard one, admitting the mistake. I’ve argued points with a colleague, loving every glib minute of the conversation, only to realize, a half-hour later, that of course she was right all along. Most of all, this week, I’ve had to rethink an essay-review that’s up on line (if you want to read it) at the Latino Poetry Review). I didn’t write it for the LPR, and never expected it to be read by so many people; within a few days of its being reprinted, it had drawn unhappy responses from several quarters, including a long “Letter to the Editor” (also at that site).
The author of the letter was angry, but utterly reasonable. He took up some dismissive things I’d said about a poem and disputed them, point by point–and then asked, again quite reasonably, why I had felt I needed to make “cheap shots” (his words) about the poem and the poet.
My first reaction was to say that he’d proved that he was a first-rate reader, but not that the poem was any better than I’d said. Then–I kid you not–I stopped and thought about Pride and Prejudice.
You all know the scene better than I do, I’m sure. But I’ve got enough of it in mind to know that if I’d had my say in a more gentleman-like manner, I would have saved myself the second part of his letter (the part about the tone). And frankly, the more I reflected, the more I realized that I’d been, well, prejudiced: I hadn’t seen the artistry that he saw in the poem because I assumed it wouldn’t be there. Simple as that.
My letter in response won’t mention Darcy, or Jennifer Crusie, or learning how to suck it up, swallow your pride, and act like a proper romance hero. But behind all its talk about dactyls and trochees, deftly ambiguous meters, and the blinders imposed by class bias, you all (at least) will know that there’s a kettle on and a bacon butty, whatever that is, waiting for me once I’m through.
So–enough about me. What life skills have any of you learned by reading romance? And are there any other Katie Fforde fans out there? I never hear about her, but after this week, she sounds just right to me!
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in business is that saying ‘I’m sorry’ is a sign of strength, rather than weakness. Good for you for doing so!
The big plus I get from romance novels is optimism. I was reading Donald Trump’s How To Get Rich this morning and he, like most business people, feels that optimism is essential for success. Romance novels are my cheat to get a boost of optimism when I’m feeling run down. WELL worth the price of a book.
by Kimber Chin April 17th, 2008 at 8:03 amEric, just as well you are already married, because a man who can learn life lessons from P&P - I think I’m in love! Seriously, though, to put you out of your misery, a ‘butty’ is a sandwich. So a bacon butty is a bacon sandwich, basically. Chip butty = chip sandwich, staple diet of the less well-to-do in days gone by and possibly still, for all I know. I am not sure that I would eat one with tea, but it would certainly stick to your ribs in a crisis.
by Imelda April 17th, 2008 at 8:17 amI think one of the great lessons of romance is not just apologising, but getting over oneself in general, and choosing to be happy over clinging to the moral high ground and being miserable.
Wow, Eric, that was absolutely beautifully said. In my first published article and in my dissertation, I argue that if everyone, but especially men, read romance and utilized the lessons learned in that reading, the world might be a better place. Thanks for proving me right.
This conversation came up on SBTB recently, and I claimed there and will say as often as need be, that romances taught me how to communicate with my husband. Everything I know about positive aspects of communication (I learned what NOT to do by watching my parents’ marriage dissolve) I learned from romances, because if nothing else, the characters talk and work out every last detail of their problems.
And then there’s the other stuff….
by Sarah S. G. Frantz April 17th, 2008 at 8:18 amThanks, everyone! One reason I like teaching classes on romance fiction is all the “life skills” lessons I can bring to the students without having to do all the preaching myself. Next year I plan to try one with some good books on marriage and love and optimism (Martin Seligman, whose work I find endlessly useful) as the secondary reading. Should be fun.
I couldn’t agree with you more, Imelda, about getting over oneself and choosing to be happy. That’s NOT a lesson you learn from much modern Literature, alas. (Of course, this is coming from the man who took “Sister Carrie” off the American Lit syllabus and replaced it with “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.” Written in the same year, both published in Chicago, both important to American culture–so why choose the grim one?)
As for P & P, one of my snarkiest critics about the whole essay thing has just written on his blog that I turn out to be, in our direct exchanges, a kind and thoughtful gentleman. I think it was the invitation to fish in my trout stream that did it.
[Whistling: "Things are looking up..."]
by Eric Selinger April 17th, 2008 at 8:39 amI love Katie Fforde! Life Skills is one of my favorites. And I want to take a narrow boat trip. I’m not sure what lessons I’ve learned from romance, but I know they’ve enlarged my world in a lot of ways. If nothing else, they continually reinforce hope and belief in positive outcomes and that’s always valuable.
by Charlene Teglia April 17th, 2008 at 8:46 amA man who apologizes! Be still my heart. For a while, my husband would send me a Hallmark “I’m sorry” card on a regular basis, kind of like apologies on retainer, but it’s SO hard for him to apologize. It’s usually that, “Well, I’m sorry if you feel that way/misinterpreted what I meant/my tone, etc.” stuff.
I think romances show how important feelings are, and how important it is to communicate. But it’s been almost 39 years, so I don’t think I can expect very much of a switch. And he does the dishes.
by Terry Odell April 17th, 2008 at 9:13 amI’ve learned more from reading romance novels than I could possibly cover here, but the most important lesson: things are always darkest before the dawn, “black moments” have a way of working themselves out when I’m open to all of the possibilities instead of focused on a single “right” solution, and when bad things do happen, shifting my perspective can change everything. These qualities, I think, are what provide us with that boost of optimism.
I can’t tell you, though, how many times I’ve thought: what would a romance heroine do in this situation? I know that fiction isn’t reality, but we expect our romance heroines, ultimately, to be good people. They’re allowed to make mistakes, but they have to learn from those mistakes. If I, as a reader, would struggle to accept and/or forgive certain behaviors in my heroines, how can I hold myself to a different standard?
by Kacie J April 17th, 2008 at 12:35 pmKacie has a very interesting point. Gayle Wilson says readers are looking for honorable characters, and wondering if they’d have the courage to behave in the same way in tough situations.
So, it’s not exactly, ‘what would the character do?’ but ‘what did the author make the character do that makes me want to be like that character.”
I think I’m giving myself a headache. It’s kind of a circular situation, perhaps.
by Terry Odell April 17th, 2008 at 12:46 pm“Honorable characters” really speaks to me, Terry, and it has some kind of interesting connection to optimism that I need to stop and think through for a while.
Optimism as part of honor (or simple goodness)? Goodness as part of optimism?
Argh! Shouldn’t have stayed up so late writing the piece–I’m too bleary to come up with anything coherent as an afterthought!
by Eric Selinger April 17th, 2008 at 1:10 pmOptimism on whose part, Eric? Reader, that everything will work out for the best — eventually?
Or for the character? I think you can have some pessimism in the characters, but not so much that they’re living miserable negative lives.
I think ‘heroic’ characters have a strong moral code, and some kind of inner bravery. As far as I’m concerned, the characters I love most are those who do what they “can’t” do but they get it done anyway. Overcome fears. Find hidden strengths.
After all, if a mountaineering expert climbs a mountain to rescue a lost child .. well, yeah, but what if a non-athlete who’s terrified of heights does it? For me, the latter is the bigger hero and the stronger characters.
Could I find the courage I need if anything horrific happened? Reading about characters who do might give me a boost when I need it.
So, I guess this puts me right back at agreeing with Kacie, even if it’s not really the character, but the author, who’s created the situation.
by Terry Odell April 17th, 2008 at 1:16 pmOptimism for the reader, Terry, definitely.
It’s interesting–I hadn’t thought about this so much in terms of the “what if something horrific happened,” but more in ordinary life situations. Very much the kind of thing that Kacie and Sarah have talked about.
by Eric Selinger April 17th, 2008 at 1:34 pmTerry, I recognize of course that it’s ultimately the author who constructs the character, but it’s worth noting, too, that in popular genre fiction like romance, readers have a lot of influence on what they will–and will not–accept/forgive in a romantic heroine. Consider, for example, Barbara Samuel’s post last week in which she noted the reader reactions to Trudy’s infidelity in Goddesses.
I think that one of the reasons many readers are drawn to romance is they know that ultimately, the H/H will be honorable people. It inspires me to try to be a better person, to (like you) overcome fears and obstacles–all of which promotes self-esteem and optimism in the face of adversity.
So yes–I’d say that we definitely agree; we’re just saying it differently.
by Kacie J April 17th, 2008 at 1:37 pmRight, Kacie — I wasn’t really ‘disagreeing’ — just kind of elaborating on what you’d said from the opposite (or at least tangental) direction.
As for ‘real life’ vs. ‘horrific’ — well, there are definitely an infinite number of points along the continuum, and what’s ordinary and mundane for one person might be terrifying or horrific for another. Getting on a plane if you’re afraid of flying. Getting in an elevator if you’re claustrophobic. The little acts of heroism one might be peforming daily.
Then again, maybe I’m just hanging around here trying to avoid having to polish the silver. But, because I’m ‘honorable’ and can’t have my guests see how badly I let things tarnish, I know I’ll find the time, energy, and motivation to get it done.
by Terry Odell April 17th, 2008 at 1:43 pmUm, I tried to read your essay at LPR and I couldn’t get through it. Not that it wasn’t good, I was just looking for something offensive and controversial.
Anyway, I think it’s nice that you’ve learned the value of rendering a sincere apology and I love a man who appreciates the value of romance. What I don’t get is why you feel the need to apologize. If you didn’t think a poem had artistry, and someone else did, why shouldn’t you respectfully disagree? And why not enjoy a passionate discussion with a colleague? You don’t have to be “right” to have a right to voice your opinion.
by Jill Sorenson April 17th, 2008 at 1:56 pmThanks for taking a look at the piece, Jill. The apology comes because when I reread the poem in question (”I am Joaquin,” by Rudolfo “Corky” Gonzalez), I immediately saw just what the letter-writer said that I’d missed. Why did I miss it? In part, on reflection, because I knew going in that this was a working-class poet writing (or speaking) to an audience of workers. I had simply taken for granted that the poem would be artless and unpolished–and guess what? That’s what I found.
If I’d bothered to pay the kind of attention to it that I did to other poems–in the piece and elsewhere–I’d immediately have seen the form that my letter-writer pointed out. I wouldn’t have praised the poem, but I wouldn’t have dismissed it, either–and in the process, I wouldn’t have implicitly told my readers that they could smirk at it too.
In effect, you see, I did just what academics have done for so long to romance fiction. Clouded by stereotypes, I condescended not only to the text, but to its readers. That’s the fault here: scoring lazy points at someone’s expense and not really doing my job. And given my work on romance, I really ought to know better.
I still don’t love the poem, which I’ll say in my response. But when I get caught with my nose in the air, not even paying attention, honor demands I ‘fess up, admit the mistake, and learn a little something as I do.
by Eric Selinger April 17th, 2008 at 2:24 pm~a working-class poet writing (or speaking) to an audience of workers. I had simply taken for granted that the poem would be artless and unpolished~
Aha! Now I can see why you felt the need to apologize. I’m a member of academia (I went to college, does that count?) but my husband and my dad are proud blue collar guys, so I’m mildly offended by this attitude. Thanks!
by Jill Sorenson April 17th, 2008 at 2:44 pmMy pleasure, Jill! I’ve read and admired other working-class poets, but the ones I like tend to be from the 19th and earlier 20th century, so they’re writing in rhyme and meter and so on. This poem didn’t have any of those obvious “art” markers to it, and I knew it had been delivered at rallies and so on, so I basically treated it as a speech chopped into lines without any real craft involved.
Oops.
Anyway, it’s never fun to realize your own prejudice, but it’s worse NOT to, I suppose. And the fellow who wrote the letter was really calm and deliberate, despite being seriously angry, which I quite appreciated. A very classy response from him, and I wanted to thank him for that, too.
by Eric Selinger April 17th, 2008 at 3:13 pmA bacon butty is a sandwich made from good back bacon on sliced white bread, preferably toasted. Ketchup and mustard and HP sauce optional. The bread needs to be thick sliced and fresh. The bacon needs to be really hot.
According to Wiki, a BLT is a variant of a bacon butty. This is not so. A BLT is a very different animal. It’s like saying a chihuahua is a variant of a chow.
by Zeba April 17th, 2008 at 3:28 pmAs a member of academia (I’m a college professor), I empathize with your position, Eric.
While–as Jill says–in the larger culture, one isn’t expected to necessarily be “right” in order to express his or her point of view, in academia there is an expectation that at the very least, we can logically defend our position. I have to admit that it’s rare to see a scholar backtrack and apologize; it’s more in line with our academic culture, I think, to argue, debate, and criticize.
Kudos for your response to the debate. Perhaps you can serve as a role model for the rest of us, and we can begin to perform the openness, forgiveness, and tolerance that we in academia work so hard to promote in our classrooms…
by Kacie J April 17th, 2008 at 3:40 pmMmmm. Bacon butty. Back bacon and butter on a bun. Topped only by the Chip Butty. Yeah, think-cut french fries on a bun served with vinegar & oil or ketchup. Yeah as an American in England, you learn the best of English cuisine, the butty.
by Amanda April 17th, 2008 at 3:41 pmEric: What I like best about your disucssion here and about Huerta’s letter in the Review is precisely what you seem to be backing away from: mental warfare on the high plains. You make some important points and so does Huerta. But he would not have made them without you–and you would not have responded unless he did. What more can we ask for?
by bob April 17th, 2008 at 9:54 pmThanks, Bob.
You know, to pick up on your echo of Blake (”mental warfare” like his “mental fight,” from “Jerusalem”), throughout this exchange I’ve been reminded of one of his Proverbs of Hell: “The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.” In this case, I’m glad Huerta went with the horses! It would have been a lot harder for me to respond sensibly if he hadn’t done such a steady, instructive job in his letter.
Heck, in his first footnote he even said that I’d done a “tremendous job” and written “the best possible survey considering his limitations.” That’s very generous, given how upset he was by my comments on the Gonzalez poem. I hope his dissertation advisers and future employers take note: this guy looks like a first-rate teacher and colleague, as well as a scholar of poetry!
by Eric Selinger April 17th, 2008 at 10:04 pmI just love this post. Love the idea that there is an entire genre devoted to optimistic, plucky tenacity. Romances are, at their heart, about happiness.
One thing romances gave me as a young girl was the idea of an entire world to be explored. The Australian outback. Castles in Spain. Lonely moors and Cornish beaches. The glory of the Alps. Romances did more to fuel my wanderlust than any other single thing.
by Barbara Samuel April 17th, 2008 at 10:39 pmObviously, I’ve been doing it wrong. I’ve been learning my life skills from the novels of JASPER Fforde!
I think one of the best lessons I’ve learned from romances is from ARABELLA, the first Georgette Heyer I ever read. In it, the heroine’s brother, having been sent down (IIRC) from Oxford, has been roistering in London and gotten himself into debt–by the hero’s standards, a trivial amount, but to a vicar’s son, overwhelming. The hero finds him where he’s hiding out and offers to help him, as he intends that they be brothers-in-law. The brother vows to reveal all to Arabella and his parents, to which the hero replies, in effect, “Have you considered that doing so would clear YOUR conscience admirably, but would cause THEM a great deal of wholly unnecessary pain?” I think that’s a very important lesson, and not unrelated to the issue of apology and forgiveness.
ARABELLA also contains what I think is one of the key scenes in romance, so much so that it has become a cliché: The hero doesn’t become seriously interested in Arabella until he arrives at her aunt’s house unexpectedly and finds her defending a chimney sweep’s climbing boy from his brutal master. Very often the thing that differentiates a HEROINE from the rest of the chits of the Ton (or whatever) is her concern for others; and the hero is usually shown to be one by his care for his estates and tenants, or perhaps for the crippled soldiers who served under him in the Peninsula. This is part of what Northrop Frye means by “a new and better society forming around the hero and heroine.”
Oh, the other thing I learned is that if you want to avoid trouble, exile the wicked cousin to the Colonies.
by talpianna April 17th, 2008 at 11:15 pmEric, you’ve made me feel like an institution! And there are a lot of times in life when I think, ‘what we need now, is a Katie Fforde heroine.’ Alas, we only ever have Katie Fforde…
by Katie Fforde April 18th, 2008 at 2:19 amI have been planning on piping in with an “I love Katie Fforde” comment, but now I must voice it in a high-pitched sqee, because I’m commenting RIGHT AFTER KATIE FFORDE!!!!!!!!!! Sorry.
Life Skills was my first KF. When I lived in Seattle, the King County Library, a fabulous institution, had all of KF’s work (could I say oeuvre, because I’ve never said it before and this seems to be the appropriate place to trot it out for the first time) so I could indulge in even the now out of print KFs at any time. Now it is a little more difficult but I recently read Living Dangerously and turned right around and read it again so that I didn’t have to leave the company of those characters quite yet.
As far as life skills from romantic fiction? I used to move frequently. I found that if I would locate the library and indulge in a little bit of D.E. Stevenson, Elizabeth Cadell, Georgette Heyer (if they had them) or Jane Austen, I would be able to feel that I already had friends in my new town.
by hollygee April 18th, 2008 at 9:10 amHollygee, thank you so much for taking care of the high-pitched squee. Now I can respond in appropriately understated tones.
[insert Colin Firth picture here]:
“Right. Crikey.”
OK, enough of that! [Now bouncing and grinning from ear to ear in most unmanly fashion.]
Thank you so, so much for stopping by…er…Ms. Fforde! (What is the protocol, anyway, for this sort of encounter? Better to err on the side of formality, I guess.) What a wonderful end to a very stressful week.
And for what it’s worth, you are an institution, or at least a byword, in our house. You’ve brought a lot of pleasure to our lives, and I look forward to my daughter discovering you books as well. (My son? Maybe in his 30s, like me.)
By the way, my wife is very impressed that my column drew a comment from you–yet another thing to thank you for!
by Eric Selinger April 18th, 2008 at 10:41 amWell I certainly hate to interrupt in the midst of an author-and-fan convo; I wish someone else had said something more brilliant than I in between that and this…
Anyway, thank you, Eric, for again articulating the many positive and useful qualities of romance fiction; I do feel better about life in general when I’m reminded of humanity’s potential for goodness.
I would like to renew my comment from PCA, though, as one of those “surprising number” of (female?) readers who has shied away from romance fiction in the past because of the feeling that the texts “made real life less appealing by contrast”…since then, I have been actively trying to break out of this mindset, and actually rejoined one of those bank-draining book clubs to increase my own collection. So to all of you who have learned valuable life lessons from romance fiction, I sincerely applaud you, and I would like to ask how you HAVE avoided negative comparisons between the fiction and your own relationships (or singledom) - was my past misperception entirely based upon my own psychological failings, or should I be reading in a different way? I vividly recall reading romance novels in the past and feeling genuine euphoria when the “happy ending” I wished for actually came about, only to put the book down and return to my (at various points, quite romantically unsatisfactory) everyday existence. I’m in a highly healthy and mutually satisfying marriage now, and I’m almost afraid to start really getting into romance now, at the peril of reducing my own infatuation with my husband - does anyone have any suggestions?
by Wendy Pawlak April 18th, 2008 at 7:21 pmHollygee! Delighted to find another fan of Elizabeth Cadell and D.E. Stevenson! You are hereby invited to join the Genteel Book Club…
by talpianna April 18th, 2008 at 10:16 pmI’m going to comment one more time - after all I do have a book to write - but I’ve learnt a lot from romantic fiction. I discovered Georgette Heyer when I was about twelve (someone left on at my house) and unconsciously based my writing style (for essays etc) on hers. I also learned how men and women related to each other, and how men liked girls who didn’t giggle. (Or squee - personally I love people who squee.) I went to a single sex school and had no brothers.
As for romantic fiction making real life seem less satisfactory, when I was a mostly-single mum with babies who didn’t sleep, romantic fiction got me through. I knew they weren’t real life, but they gave me little breaks and I badly needed breaks.
The support these books gave me are the reason I wanted to become a writer, (several years later.)
Katie (don’t let’s be formal, KFH’s never are!)
by Katie Fforde April 19th, 2008 at 2:09 amKatie, as everybody is the hero of their own story, maybe carry a mirror?
by Catja (green_knight) April 19th, 2008 at 8:02 amHi, Wendy!
You wrote: “I’m in a highly healthy and mutually satisfying marriage now, and I’m almost afraid to start really getting into romance now, at the peril of reducing my own infatuation with my husband - does anyone have any suggestions?”
Maybe you could get your husband reading romance too?
But I’m the wrong person to ask, as I haven’t run into the problem you describe. Anyone out there with better advice?
by Eric Selinger April 19th, 2008 at 11:03 amHi Wendy.
I don’t think there is a particular way to read a romance so as not to get depressed by the dissonance between story and reality. I think Art is a highly personal experience and the relation between text and reader and the reader’s reaction to the text is based on many, many variables that you just can quantify.
But for me personally, I have two general reactions when reading romance. One postive and one negative. On the postive side when I finish a romance I have the feeling I get whenever I read a well told story; I am satisfied, gratified and just a little bit sad it is over.
When my response is negative reading a romance can spin me into a miasma of misery and depression. But this also true of other genres, both popular and literary. I’m not sure why this happens in either case. It depends both on the story and on my mood before hand; yet, it isn’t mood dependent. That is, I can be perfectly fine before but for some reason that particular story makes me either angry or melancholy. I don’t know why this is so, it just is.
So I would say there’s no particular secret to reading romance. Reading is a risky endeavor. It can engage our feelings and our perceptions in ways we’d rather it didn’t; often it does this unexpectedly. There’s no guarantee that you won’t be dissatisfied. But then there’s no guarantee that you will. I think a good story is always worth that particular risk.
by Angela Toscano April 19th, 2008 at 2:04 pm