Romancing the Blog | Romance Authors and Readers Who Blog

Ingrid had a perfectly logical reason for being in this part of the city at 2 a.m., wandering through alleys infested with as many criminals as cockroaches, and that reason was—

A knife-wielding man wearing a Darth Vader mask leapt from his hiding place between two dumpsters. “Gimuffled mumble, yereally muffled, anchovy unintelligible.”

“No habla gibberish, Darth. Enunciate.”

He tore off the mask. “Gimme your money, your jewelry, and your Manolo Blahniks.”

She glanced at her feet. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

“Don’t argue with me, lady! I’ll cut you!” He jabbed the blade at her to clarify he wasn’t talking about a papercut.

“You’ll cut me anyway when you realize these shoes came from the bargain bin at Payless and have a resale value of half a penny. Note how the color is flaking off the ‘leather.’ You don’t have much of an eye for designer quality, do you?”

Overly sensitive to criticism—or perhaps profoundly peeved by her discount footwear—her assailant shouted an obscenity and lunged in her direction.

From the shadows, a dark figure emerged—tall, lean, wearing the night like a second skin. The knife flew from the mugger’s hand. Fists thudded against flesh. Bones crunched. A man’s scream rent the air, provoking a chorus of howls from every dog within a half-mile radius.

The mugger fell at her feet, whimpering and cradling his oddly bent wrists against his chest. She nudged him with the toe of her cheap shoe. “Oh, quit your whining. Be thankful you’re not in part of the world where thieves get their hands chopped off.”

He sobbed. “You’re not… very nice.”

“I maxed out with a 2.1 GPA at the Heroine Academy. If you want sympathy from a woman you just tried to stab, you have to attack a B student. An A would nurse you back to health. Guess you know as little about heroines as you do about shoes.”

She inspected her rescuer more closely, now that he was more than a blur of violent movement. Dark hair partially obscured a face that was compelling rather than handsome, one that would never bore her with symmetry and classically ordinary features. A scar slashed from forehead to jaw, glowing silver as the crescent moon—the mark of a warrior, what her granddad would call a lucky-to-be-alive scar.

She’d bet he had other scars, gnarly ones in interesting places that frightened away squeamish women. Her gaze traveled lower, only to be thwarted by clothing and lack of light. She suppressed a sigh. She could be patient. She’d get him naked and spilling his sordid past soon enough. He was her hero, after all.

She doubted a punk with a paring knife could even scratch a man of his experience, but she felt obligated to ask, “Are you all right?”

He answered with a subtle rise and fall of his chin, uninjured by the scuffle or the stoic type who wouldn’t complain while stuffing his organs back inside a gaping gut wound. Either way, she appreciated that he didn’t milk the situation like the sniveling crybaby at her feet.

“Thanks for your help. I’m Ingrid. Do you want to—”

She was interrupted by a swoosh that announced the arrival of a man wearing a cape, unitard, and spandex briefs that covered his groin region in a noteworthy asexual manner. For a moment, she detected the faintest hint of theme music. “Who are you?”

“I’m Captain Hero, the hero of this story.” He smiled. On cue, a light clicked on in the building above, the illumination spilling from the window to glint off his ruler-straight, Clorox-white teeth.

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A couple months ago, I performed my last bit of volunteering for a while, teaching some computer savvy to the residents of a local retirement community. The minute the discussion turned to the internet, one of the ladies wanted to know if she could order books online, followed by a chorus of support from the others.

I made some joke that they needed to slow down if they were reading faster than book donations come to the rec center. There were snorts of disgust, which I attributed to it not being a very funny joke.  (I’m in a slump.)

While I was demonstrating the search function of one bookseller’s site, one of the ladies asked for a particular book that I knew I’d donated less than a month earlier. I said so. Her response: “That’s very nice, dear, but most of those donations are in the trash before we ever see them.”

We snuck down the hall (with all the stealth you’d expect of a group of twenty, two with walkers, one in a wheelchair) to the room designated as a library. I gasped when they turned on the lights. Floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall shelves.

ONE of which had books sitting on it.

I’ve personally donated enough books over the past ten years to fill up that library, and I’m not the only one. I’ve served on committees to organize book drives that each collected nearly a thousand books for that library.

ONE SHELF?!?!

The ladies explained (after I wound down from my rant) that someone has taken it upon themselves to impose “community decency standards” upon the library, which means the residents—who range in age from 65 to 102, who have lived through several wars and the Depression and civil unrest, who have spawned countless children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—must be sheltered from reading material which contains coarse language, violence, and—shield your eyes, precious innocents!—sex.

I called the administrator the following day to express my dismay about the state of the “library.” She explained that one resident had taken responsibility for maintenance of the library. We went round and round about the unfairness to the rest of the community, the final outcome being that the administrator would rather deprive the entire community of reading than cause offense to anyone.

She was not impressed by my suggestion that “anyone” could avoid offense by staying the hell out of the library.

The other half of my book donations go to a women’s shelter, and I began to wonder if that was another route straight to the landfill. The administrator there assured me all book donations are appreciated. Their library overflows and spills out into the hall once or twice a year, at which point they cull the books that get the least attention, sell them, and put the proceeds back into the shelter.

I asked if she was at all concerned about exposing the women in the shelter to coarse language, violence, and sex. Her response: “For most of these women, a significant element of abuse is having their choices taken away from them. We don’t do that here.”

I’m trying to rally the bawdy broads of the retirement community to reclaim their library from its self-appointed censor. Until they stage their coup, I’ll be sending all my cussing, fighting, and smutty castoffs where I know they’ll be put to good use.

Everybody knows how a romance novel ends. That’s the explanation I hear most frequently as to why someone doesn’t read them: “The guy gets the girl, and they live happily ever after. There, just saved myself a couple hours of reading.”

I subsequently have to explain what, to me, is obvious: “There’s a lot more to any book than the last couple of pages. A story is a journey, and even when the destination is the same, no two paths to that destination are exactly alike.”

When I describe the journey in a romance novel, I rarely mention the “romancey” bits—the meet-cute, the flirting, the kissing, the sex, the I love yous, and the HEA—all the predictable elements dismissed as formulaic.

Instead, I focus on the conflicts, the obstacles that cast doubt on the potential for a happy ending, and these are legion in the realm of romance.

Oh no, James has gone from playing along with Georgina’s adolescent boy disguise to making out with her—now she thinks he’s attracted to adolescent boys.

Bowen won’t shut up about his attraction to Mari being solely because he believes she’s the reincarnation of his long-dead fiancee—Mari, for some bizarre reason, isn’t overcome by warm, fuzzy feelings upon hearing her present incarnation is of no value to him.

Summer’s abducted at scalpel-point by a guy she finds naked on an embalming table and refers to him only as Frankenstein for two-thirds of the book—yet those crazy kids manage to not only stay alive while on the run from a killer but also fall in love.

Not to mention the rivalries, the lies, the misunderstandings, the meddling family members, the plane crashes, the crimes, the natural disasters, the curses… Any conflict you can imagine can be—and probably has been—incorporated into a romance novel.

A straight, unrutted path to the destination would make for a very dull read. We want to see the characters making progress toward their HEA or HFN, of course, but reaching the finish line with them is a lot more satisfying if we’ve seen them sweat and struggle and put some effort into it. The setbacks are what move the journey forward and keep readers turning pages.

What are some romance-novel conflicts that have made you unable to put a book down until you found out how they resolved?

Have you heard the one about the young woman who decided to auction off her virginity to fund her master’s studies in marriage and family counseling?

It’s not a joke, actually, and “Natalie Dylan” (as she’s calling herself for the duration of the stunt) isn’t the pioneer you might think. Dig past the recent entries in the Great Big Book of Google and you’ll find several such stories, though Nat’s aggressive marketing strategy promises to rake in the highest profit to date. This situation has led me to ponder many things, such as:

1. Who wants marriage and family counseling from someone who prostitutes herself with international news coverage of the event? Silly question. The same people who’d buy a parenting book from Lynne Spears.
2. What’s the point of using an alias when pictures of your face and nearly naked body are all over the internet, television, and print media? It’s like she attended a Clark Kent seminar on identity concealment.
3. Where are the bidders coming up with all this money (the bidding is allegedly at $250,000 at the time of this writing)? Imagine that meeting with the loan officer. “Yes, I’d like to take out a second mortgage on my home so I can purchase one-time use of a virgin.”

As I pondered (and my RTB deadline loomed), my thoughts came around to the sort of sexual history I’m willing to tolerate in a romance novel heroine. The range is fairly broad.

Some readers cannot abide the virgin heroine, but I made it into my twenties intact, so to speak, and therefore don’t find a lack of sexual experience unrealistic even in a contemporary—although, if the heroine gets past puberty without figuring out independently how the buttons work, I do wonder a little about her awareness level.

Some readers can’t stomach a heroine who’s had sex, but never good sex—until the hero waves his magic wand and presto! Instant multiple orgasms ensue. I don’t find that unrealistic because many women have unsatisfying sexual relationships. Okay, maybe the magic wand thing is a bit farfetched, but aren’t we told from the first birds-and-bees talk that it’s special when you’re in love? You just can’t sell me on an HEA if the sex remains lousy, so by all means, bring on the magic.

And then there’s the heroine who’s had a great sex life before the hero came along, but she still can’t win because some readers think she’s too promiscuous. I say, good for her. May she blow the hero’s mind with her unabashed boldness.

This, however, is as far as I’m willing to accompany a romance heroine. I read what was marketed as a romance novel a while back in which the heroine had relationships with two men. I could accept that because they were relationships—she cared about each of them and couldn’t choose one over the other. When she picked up a third guy in a bar, I thought, “Ah, she’s going to get him alone and torture information out of him.” Except she didn’t torture him at all when she got him alone. At that point, the heroine became little more than an ambulatory vagina, and I stopped reading. Limit reached. My real-life standards about indiscriminate sex with strangers are evidently too strong to be suspended for a book’s benefit.

Had the book been marketed as UF (where I strongly feel it belonged), I may have reacted differently, but when ”ROMANCE” is printed on the spine, I have certain expectations, one being that the journey toward true love does not include humping every available protuberance encountered along the way. Similarly, I couldn’t read a romance novel about a heroine who voluntarily exchanged sex for money, launching a publicity campaign to glamorize an activity in which most women involved are exploited, abused, and in many cases literally enslaved, giggling all the while about how clever and progressive she is. She might make an interesting character study in aberrant behavior, but I sure don’t want to see her ride off into the sunset with Mr. Wonderful.

Where are your lines drawn when it comes to heroinely virtue or lack thereof, and do you find they vary between romance and other genres?

You’re a heroine without a hero. Your matchmaker has been sued out of business for breach of contract related to her short-lived TV series. Last week, your mother added Twitter to her numerous methods of nagging you about her lack of grandchildren.

What’s a single girl to do?

Let a friend hook you up. Her true love almost certainly has attractive, interesting, and available friends, relatives, or even enemies in need of female companionship. There’s no shame in being a sequel.

Cast your net in the workplace. Illicit encounters in the copy room can add a lot of spice to a relationship with that sexy boss, partner, or underling. There’s no real danger here—fictional sexual harassment laws are notoriously lax.

Take a class. You’ll know in advance you share at least one common interest with your fellow students, and a man who can admit he doesn’t know everything is a rare and beautiful find. Plus, you’ll have the opportunity to observe firsthand whether he can be trained.

Head to the meat market—literally. Multitask, combining that necessary trip to the store with your quest for love. Pay close attention to how he handles the chicken breasts. If you like what you see, attract his attention by demonstrating your masterful grasp of that pork loin.

Give online dating a chance. It’s no longer the last bastion of hope for losers. (For proof, just look at all the attractive people in the commercials.) Even if you don’t find a suitable mate online, you might attract a sociopath who can help you…

Become the victim of a crime. With the exception of the obligatory rotund, balding, and surly partner, fictional cops are in excellent shape, civic-minded, protective, and bring their own handcuffs (if you’re into that sort of thing).

If all else fails, hit the bars. No, not to pick up alcoholic men. Ply your writer with top-shelf booze until her vision blurs enough that she mistakes you for her Muse. Give her a pen and a cocktail napkin and dictate to her precisely what you’re looking for. When she recovers from the hangover, she’ll think it an inspired idea and get to work on your happy ending right away.

Seven displaced romance novel heroes. One matchmaker devoted to giving them Happily Ever After.

If you missed the first exciting installment, it can be found in reruns here.

(An upscale bar. Seven men wait in a private room under the supervision of the matchmaker. Six women in various stages of intoxication are throwing back shots at the bar. Five uncommonly attractive women, four with red hair, are chatting at a table in the corner.)

Mercedes: Hey, girl. I didn’t recognize you with the red hair.

Heather: It’s a wig. I couldn’t dye it again. It was snapping off at the roots from going platinum blonde last time.

The Other Heather: Somebody screwed up. Both our nametags say Heather.

Mercedes: Oh, nobody will notice. You think they’re reading your name when they look at your heaving bosom? I think my last cutesie nickname was the result of the hero having no clue what my name was for the entire book. Not that I can blame the guy. I can hardly remember myself, since the name changes as often as the hair color.

Heather: Why are you so bummed, chica?

Mercedes: Any one of you would have no problem pulling off Latina. My hair was red before the matchmaker made me dye it, I have a rash in places I’d rather not mention from this spray-on tan, and if the writer expects me to speak Spanish, she’s in for a rude awakening. The only word I remember from Sesame Street is agua.

Tiffany (raising her head from the table): Cerveza!

The Other Heather (pulling her iPhone from her voluminous skirts to check her blog feeds): At least you don’t have to wear a lung-crushing corset and drag around thirty pounds of skirt. It’s like being on the frickin’ Stairmaster 24/7.

Heather: Tsk, tsk. Is that any kind of language for a lady?

The Other Heather: Sorry. The bloody Stairmaster.

Jessica: Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt, but do you all know each other?

Mercedes (giving the new girl a critical once-over): You must be Molly’s replacement.

Heather: What happened to her, anyway?

The Other Heather: She’s with an unfeasibly tall Greek billionaire now.

Heather (wrinkling her nose, which has been lightly dusted with a cute smattering of fake freckles): Ugh. Those guys are as bad as sheiks. She’ll be back next week.

Mercedes: No, she got an epilogue. She’s contractually obligated to remain with him forever.

Tiffany (hoisting a half-consumed bottle of rum): A toast to forever!

Mercedes: It’s been so long since we’ve had a new girl, I’ve almost forgotten how to break one in. See, kiddo, at any given time, there are only five of us on the matchmaker’s heroine roster. Not a lot of variety, so she makes us change our hair and our clothes and our backgrounds until we meet the needs of the latest batch of hero wannabes. 

Heather: Once in a while, one of us gets to show some substance and gets a real happily ever after, but usually we end up right back here Friday nights.

The Other Heather: I came in a couple years ago to replace Samantha, who got fed up with the whole game and defected to urban fantasy. She’s too busy saving the world from some scourge or other to even have strong romantic elements.

Tiffany (hoisting an empty bottle of rum): A toast to Sammy!

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Seven displaced romance novel heroes. One matchmaker devoted to giving them Happily Ever After.

Pilot Episode

(An upscale bar. Five attractive women, four with red hair, are chatting at a table in the corner. Six other women in various stages of intoxication are throwing back shots at the bar. Six men wait in a private room under the supervision of an agitated professional matchmaker, who scowls when a seventh man enters the room.)

Matchmaker: A vampire walks into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of a great joke, but there’s nothing funny about you being an hour late.

Dante Dracovich: Complain to Daylight Savings Time. I didn’t make the sun set at nine.

Matchmaker: No more excuses from any of you. If you’re not going to take this seriously, hit the road, keeping in mind your deposit is nonrefundable. I’m going to go talk to the girls, tell them how fabulous you are, and get them liquored up before I send you out to mingle. Talk amongst yourselves.

Man with Lacy Cravat and Skintight Pants: I shall begin. I am Lord Tristan, Duke of Lanshropberktershire.

Christian Rockvanfellerbilt: Uh-huh. Where, exactly, is that located?

Tristan: It’s just north of Liverwurstershire.

Bane Aphelion: Ah, yes. Latifah, Queen of Newark, has a summer home there.

Tristan: Is that so? I must say, I am quite put out that I have never received an invitation from Her Majesty. We are practically neighbors, after all.

Bane: I know what’ll be fun. Let’s play a word-association game. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I say “Regency rake”?

Tristan: Illicit rendezvous with lady fair.

Christian: Fashion fit for the artist-once-again-known-as Prince.

Dante: Gonorrhea.

Tristan: I beg your pardon!

Dante: I was there, buddy. Every one of you players swizzled your stick in some kind of pox.

Tristan: At least I haven’t adopted a pseudo-Romanian alias like a certain nocturnal fiend who used to be known to the ton as Donald Dunston.

Dante: You know, fop, a stake in the heart will kill a human, too.

Christian: Don’t make me separate you two. Unlike some people who inherited their fortunes along with their blue blood, I earned my billions by exerting my dominance over those who would waste time on such petty pursuits when they should be working as hard as I do to achieve my success.

Mitch Ruger: Please. Your great-granddaddy was the last member of your family to break a sweat. A hard day’s work for you is signing too many credit card receipts.

Christian: What do you know, and what is that lump under your arm?

Mitch: My gun. I work for a top-secret government-funded law enforcement agency whose acronym you’ve never heard of, rescuing trust-fund suckers like you from bad guys who want to part you from your money and your lives. I’ve been shot, stabbed, and once spent a week in a pit in Somalia, surviving on bugs and dew, all in the line of duty. I bring home five figures a year for that, so I don’t want to hear any whining about how rough your board meetings are, rich boy.
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I tend to be very herocentric when it comes to romance novels. I want to know the hero’s weaknesses and flaws, I want a good look at his scars and the chip on his shoulder, I want the worst of him revealed, and I want to be convinced he deserves to be loved in spite of it. Most of my favorite books are favorites because the hero’s role struck a chord in me.

I want the heroine to be fully developed and relatable, of course, but unless she’s so weak I want to slap her into the next zip code, I can accept her as anything from soft and gentle to kickass and abrasive. Maybe I subconsciously feel all women are inherently lovable and therefore don’t need the heroine’s worthiness proven me to the same extent. Maybe I simply find the hero more interesting because of the mystery men represent.

There is one type of heroine, however, who can motivate me to pick up a book even if no other element of the story appeals to me. That heroine is the woman who has never before had a man treat her with the fiery passion that heats up the pages of the best romance novels. I can live without the old virgin widow setup (it’s not a lack of sexual experience I’m referring to, after all, but a lack of experience with passion, which extends beyond the physical aspect of a relationship), but there are any number of other reasons she may have missed out that do work for me.

• She’s a Plain Jane or overweight.
• She’s “one of the guys.”
• She’s nerdy or shy.
• She’s been focusing on her education, career, or family obligations to the exclusion of all else for a period of time.
• She may even be too tough for any of the men she’s known in the past to handle.

No deep introspection is required to tell me why I like that heroine. We have a bond from page one because she’s me in many respects. Of course I’m going to cheer for her when she finds the man who sees her in a way no one else ever has and gives her that long overdue, soul-searing love, without the condition she become something different to earn it. I consider her HEA a triumph (albeit a fictional one) for geeky tomboys everywhere.

Do you have a favorite type of heroine? Is she like you, or is she your polar opposite?