The dark side of love

Posted: 2012/01/26 | Author: | Filed under: Faith, Politics | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments »

Evocative covers anyone?

It isn’t a coincidence that most romance heroes are dark-haired. It isn’t a coincidence that there aren’t all that many blonde heroines either. It isn’t a coincidence that romance heroes are sexually experienced. It isn’t a coincidence that the hero and heroine have to fight, sometimes hate each other at some point in a romance novel. It isn’t a coincidence that romance has been known to stage cases of forceful love-making or seduction. All these traits of modern romance can be explained by one single idea: romance represents or emphasizes the “dark side” of love. Love as temptation, love as sin, love as carnal desire, love as physical pleasure–think of it, it’s everywhere in romance.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that romance actually endorses a Satanic view of love. There are many romance writers who are Christian (which is a different thing from authors who write “Christian/inspirational romance”), and why shouldn’t there be? What I’m trying to say can be better articulated in two distinct, yet complementary hypotheses: 1) Romance challenges some historically dominant interpretations of Christian love or “good” love, either by abandoning religious validation altogether (non-Christian writers), or by suggesting new criteria for religious validation/shifting the religious paradigm (Christian writers).

2) Romance is literature, fiction, and art; beyond delivering a message, its purpose is to play with popular representations and symbolism. Since Western societies are embedded in Christian symbolism, so we find it at work in Western productions. It is here crucial to note that the romance hero must always end up on the side of good, and the relationship eventually be saved (there is no “moral indecision” in a romance novel); but the devilish, demonic hero, as well as love as redemption, are extremely powerful and common images in romance. The commonplace misconception that the romance genre presents a mawkish, corny, fluffy depiction of love is therefore entirely unfounded: on the contrary, its sensational, popular roots explain its traditional preference for the subversive, dark side of love.

This is basically what occurred to me while I was reading A Duke of Her Own. The novel features a textbook example of what I mean by “the hero as devilish” and “love as sinful”–although the story obviously does a job of turning it around. Some novels will do that by using revelations or a Big Misunderstanding plot device: in reality the hero isn’t as bad as his reputation claims, and the love we thought was forbidden becomes actually possible and honorable. Other books, like Eloisa James’s, don’t attempt to make amends for the hero’s past mistakes (six bastard children! five duels!) or the characters’ behaviour (having sex three times while each is betrothed to someone else?). These books glory in their characters’ faults, in an attitude that is half “so what?” (rejection of assumed good and evil), half “and still they found love” (love as redemption).

“Do you know what I keep thinking?” A wildly mischievous smile spread across her face.
“Please don’t feel that you have to share it with me.”
“Oh, Lucifer, angel of the morning, how art thou fallen,” she said. And then whisked herself off, grinning.
Two could play at that game.

- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)

Lucifer proti Pánovi, by Mihály Zichy

This excerpt isn’t just one among many examples of a romance hero being likened to the Devil, Lucifer, Satan, a demon, or a monster. (The recent rise of dangerous fantasy creatures as romantic heroes makes, in this light, perfect sense.) Besides the use of an imagery that can quickly get old and meaningless, it shows a verbal sparring between the heroes that belies all conceptions of love as fluttery hearts, sickly adoration and dreamy feelings. It is such a cliche in romance that the hero and heroine must fight and irritate each other, that sometimes the reader doesn’t even know why, and gets annoyed at the characters for being so ill-tempered, stubborn or blind (always in the sense of not seeing the other’s goodness, though, ie the opposite of the saying that “love is blind”).

But what better way to underline the romance heroes’ imperfections and the rockiness of their relationship, than by contrasting them with “perfect” supporting characters and smoothly boring human interactions? That’s another strongly recurring pattern in romance. In A Duke of Her Own, the hero considers marriage with Lisette, a blonde, childish, joyful creature, because she seems more conform to society’s standards for women. Conversely, Eleanor is originally enamored of Gideon, who represents everything upstanding, honorable, and good (and blonde)–quite the opposite of the amoral (and black-haired) Duke of Villiers.

He didn’t mind showing some skin to Eleanor. But Lisette was a gently bred lady, with a kind of innocence that made her eyes shine with a deep-down purity.
Eleanor was leaning over the balustrade now, bantering with Tobias. Her bottom was very round under her thick robe. She was the antithesis of innocent.

- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)

One could also mention An Affair To Remember, by Karen Hawkins, in which the hero is engaged to a very blonde, very shy, very proper and very young lady, while the heroine is a tall, fiery redhead who lost her place in the Ton through her eccentric grandfather’s wild investments (his latest idea is to make “French sheaths” available to the lower classes). Or On the Way to the Wedding, by Julia Quinn, in which the hero imagines himself in love with the heroine’s perfect and blonde friend, before realizing he likes the oddball better. Or In the Prince’s Bed, by Sabrina Jeffries, in which the heroine pines for her blonde poet, before falling for the hero’s wicked kisses and fondling. The list goes on…

Of course blonde heroes and heroines exist. Romance doesn’t depend on a single plot device, either. But when it comes to heroes especially, their fair colouring is hardly used as a symbol, rather as evidence that “appearances are deceiving”. He may look like an angel, but he’s really wicked, tempting and lustful like the devil. However, equally often (especially in a series) blonde heroes are portrayed as less virile, less dominant than dark ones. Just look at Brenda Joyce’s Deadly series: (golden-haired) Bragg, the first love interest, can only be legitimately dethroned in Francesca’s heart by an even “maler” male, if I may say so. It will be Hart, the dark-haired half-brother with the scandalous ways, who is even more of an orphan (both parents vs only Bragg’s mother), and has chosen a darker professional path (building a financial empire vs serving in the police force).

Double standards? Clearly most of the dark, subversive burden lies on the hero’s shoulders, while romance heroines often continue being virginal, well-bred, and blonde. Well, yes, and no. The diagnosis may be correct for the romance genre as a whole; but it isn’t intelligible as such. You must consider that the genre is ever-evolving, that different authors occupy different niches, and express different belief systems through different styles, settings, plots and characters. I don’t think anybody who reads romance ever reads a statistically representative sample of the genre as a whole. Readers have favourites, as suits their personal understanding of love and the sexes.

Even so, I would like to offer an argument in favour of very male males and the imbalance between the hero and heroine. This is a genre written mainly by women, for women, yet it cannot abstract itself from the patriarchal environment in which not just the authors, but the readers are socialized. The heroine can be said to do her part in recognizing the hero for who he is–the hero–as opposed to condemning his wickedness or immorality and keeping away from him–and acceding to the fulfillment of her own desires. But there is comfort in thinking that the initiative and responsibility for this scandalous type of love rests primarily on the man. Men do, after all, have a distinct cultural advantage when it comes to doing as one pleases and the rest be damned. Thus romance seeks to speak to women as they are, not as they should be. As for men, well, romance may portray them a little more as they should be… Who’s going to complain, right?

How do you feel about the lack of political correctness in romance? Do you agree with my assessment of modern romance as outrageous rather than sentimental? Do you prefer romance heroes to be very wicked, or more like ordinary men? How do you envision the evolution of het romance regarding gender equality? Is it in urban fantasy (and its sexually hyperactive heroines)?

Sabrina Jeffries All-Day Workshop in Ottawa

Posted: 2011/09/12 | Author: | Filed under: Bio, My writing | Tags: , , , , , , | 7 Comments »

Two weeks ago I received Sabrina Jeffries September news in my email. I usually skim through these, when I don’t delete them right away, because I’m signed up to so many newsletter my inbox would soon get cluttered if I kept them all until I’ve time to read them properly. The better I like an author, though, the most likely I am to at least open them. Well, I sure am glad I did it this time!

For those of you who live in the vicinity of Ottawa, Canada, I’m coming your way. I’m going to be presenting a workshop there (and signing books locally) on September 11th.

Ottawa is a two-and-something-hour drive from Montreal, and the closest place where there’s a Romance Writers of America chapter. I’ve known that for quite a while, and already considered attending one of their workshops, but in the end I was always too busy, lazy and shy to really do it. That Sabrina Jeffries, one of my favourite romance authors, would be there was the only push I needed.

The workshop lasted roughly four hours, and was a little like an informal conference, with the possibility to ask questions pertaining to our personal projects. The morning was planned to be about “Toning Up a Sagging Middle”, while the afternoon brought to our attention “The Movie Eye: Choosing the Right Scenes” (or how novel-writing could benefit from cinema’s necessity and ability to “compress” stories). There were about thirty of us, all nice, friendly and approachable ladies. That’s another thing I like about the modern romance genre: its writers and readers are nice people.

All in all, Sabrina Jeffries’ workshop turned out to be a general talk about her writing process, her weaknesses, strengths and solutions, which encouraged us to accept ours and deal with them as best we could. Most of it only confirmed what I’d already read, heard or found out by myself, but it was good to be reminded of certain things in the humourous, lively, simple way Jeffries did it. Among many other things, here’s what I learnt about her writing:

  • She is a “plotter“, as opposed to a character-driven writer. It usually takes a few chapters for her to really “see” who her main characters are.
  • Beginnings are the hardest part for her. She can write over ten versions of a first chapter if it doesn’t work or she finds it “boring”.
  • She needs seven months to comfortably write one novel, but is currently on a six-month contract for her Hellions of Halstead Hall series .
  • She spends several months working on the first few chapters, which often leaves her only one or two months to write most of the book.
  • She often runs into difficulties at the first third of the book (chapters 7-8) and the second third (chapter 18).
  • She is a cerebral person who dwells little on emotions, which makes it hard for her to write emotions in detail.
  • She doesn’t write long or beautiful descriptions in her books, and also tends to skip those parts in those of other authors.

And here is some of the advice she gave us:

  • If you’re writing a novel, you must have enough conflict to sustain the whole book. There should be both external conflict (depending on circumstances, and/or consisting of a subplot, like a mystery) and internal conflict (following from the protagonists’ personalities and experiences).
  • A misunderstanding should realistically be solved in a few chapters, while secrets imply reasons for not telling the other person. The former cannot sustain a whole novel, the latter may.
  • Too many characters in one scene don’t work. Find reasons to limit their number, and remember they don’t all have to talk, or be named, let alone described.
  • Be relevant and selective in your descriptions. If you describe something, the reader will feel like you’re focusing on it and expect it to matter.
  • When you pick the point of view to use in a scene, go for the character whose thoughts are either unknown to the reader (otherwise it may become repetitive), or the hardest to picture externally (ie by actions or in a dialogue).
  • Try and cram as many things/information/purposes as you can in one scene, so it is as interesting as possible.
  • Resist the urge to explain or to fill in all the steps from point A to point B. The reader is cleverer (and less finicky) than you think.
  • What you write cannot please everyone. Give it up already!

Sabrina Jeffries and me

At the end of the workshop, Sabrina Jeffries accepted to take pictures with me and sign the only book of hers I could lay my hands on (I recently moved)―a secondhand copy of In the Prince’s Bed. I now have three autographed romance novels in my collection!

Have you already met an author you admired? What was your experience like? If you’re a writer, what do you think of Sabrina Jeffries’ advice?

In the Prince’s Bed, by Sabrina Jeffries (review)

Posted: 2011/09/02 | Author: | Filed under: Literature | Tags: , , , , , | 5 Comments »

Following Daerel’s advice, I read Sabrina Jeffries’ first novel in the Royal Brotherhood trilogy: In the Prince’s Bed. I am grieved to say, though, the title has nothing whatsoever to do with the content of the book, which makes it a perfect illustration of the fact that titles are strictly marketing tools, and very seldom chosen by the authors themselves. At best they can suggest ideas for a title, but they’re rarely paid much attention, and never have the final say in any case.

The hero of In the Prince’s Bed, Alec Black, earl of Iversley, is the unacknowledged bastard of the Prince Regent, future George IV. In this respect, the meaning of the title might be a vague reference to his now deceased mother’s youthful error. Or, more convincingly, it might be just a nice-sounding phrase picked at random by someone who took one look at the summary’s first sentence. Thank God I don’t judge a book by its cover, or its title. I love Sabrina Jeffries’ writing, and I didn’t regret giving one of her earlier Regency series a try.

Three words come to mind to describe her stories: refreshing, delightful, and balanced. Indeed, she may not be the funniest romance writer out there, or the one with the most beautiful style, or the one to weave the most passionate and powerful plots, but neither is she lacking in any of these domains. And so for me, her romance represents the perfect mix. Balance is what I believe in. Balance is what I strive for. I particularly admire how she manages to make the main romantic relationship balanced while remaining within the codes of romance, thus embodying in my opinion the most positive new trend in modern romance, which aims at leaving behind once and for all such “old skool” shadows as double standards, the heroine’s exaggerated innocence, or the hero’s over-the-top, sometimes brutal willfulness.

The first time she’d seen the naked figures in contorted poses, she’d briefly thought them pictures of Greek sport. After all, the Greeks had performed their sports naked, and the captions―things like “A Wild Ride” and “The Sideward Thrust”―had sounded vaguely athletic.

- In the Prince’s Bed, Sabrina Jeffries (Pocket Books, 2004)

With Sabrina Jeffries, we’re as far as possible from the woman who “lets the man do all these things to her” because she loves him. Though Katherine Merivale, heroine of In the Prince’s Bed, is still a virgin (it’s the early 19th century, after all), she becomes instantly aware of her own desires as she meets our hero, and never once ends up following his cue instead of her own impulses. As for Alec, we’re equally far from the hard-nosed man who’s so intent on curbing his feelings he won’t even be amiable… something I cannot imagine any woman in her sane mind to fall for, incidentally.

“Seduction is when a man coerces a woman into saying yes to sharing his bed.” He drew her close, then bent his head to whisper, “Making love is when she says yes because she wants to be there.”

- In the Prince’s Bed, Sabrina Jeffries (Pocket Books, 2004)

On the contrary, Jeffries’ hero is hell-bent on winning the fiery Miss Merivale’s favour, for reasons entirely honorable, if not very romantic. The author’s intelligence is to use this subtle distinction to stir up trouble between our two characters, while slowly tightening the noose that will lead to the climax. By mistaking Alec for a rake, Katherine proves both that she’s not fool enough to be charmed by any attractive, insistent fellow, and that her own judgment isn’t as sharp, nor her knowledge of men as extensive, as she wishes it was. In amusing contrast with many romance plots and common stereotypes about men and women, Ms. Jeffries has imagined Alec as a man desperate to marry, and Katherine as a woman resigned.

Have you read the Royal Brotherhood series? If so, does it get better than In the Prince’s Bed? Do you find it important for the heroine and hero to be really seen as equals in a romance? Do you believe that a historical novel can be modern in its perspective while remaining realistic?

Sabrina Jeffries and I

Posted: 2011/04/19 | Author: | Filed under: Bio, Literature, My writing | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment »

No review this week. Not only have I not finished any new romance book, but I also wanted to try something else for a change. Today, I am going to tell you about my author-reader relationship with Regency romance author Sabrina Jeffries.

My Sabrina Jeffries TBR pile

My discovery of the modern romance genre happened at a time when my writing was going through a turning point. And it’s no coincidence, either. I was finally letting go of a weird, combined inferiority and superiority complex and allowing myself to write, paradoxical though it may seem, with more thought both for myself and for the readers. “For myself” meant not caring anymore what people would see or think of me (or, in other words, giving in to my inner romantic optimist). “For the readers” meant curbing the quirks and oddities which I used to believe were my hand and my trademark, when they were in fact only… weaknesses. Often failures.

So where does Sabrina Jeffries fit in there? Well, for one, the first modern romance novel which I truly liked was written by her: Only A Duke Will Do (The School for Heiresses #2). You could say she’s the author who first made me see how witty and entertaining modern romance could be. I might not have given the genre another chance if it hadn’t been for her clever and lovely writing.

But before I even looked up her books, let alone read any of them them, I actually came across Sabrina Jeffries’ name through her writing tips, which were recommended and linked on somebody else’s website. True to the tradition, I now link them to you: http://sabrinajeffries.com/. Her various articles on writing were the beginning of my interest in and my respect for this author. I found that what she said made sense, on top of being generous in spirit. Though writers are often asked about writing advice, not all of them are able to come up with a valuable input. Needless to say, even fewer are willing to type it up into something as organized and comprehensive as Jeffries did on her website.

from SJ's website

Sabrina Jeffries is now a regular favourite of mine. And when I like an author, rather than only her books, there is rarely just the overall quality of her books to admire. There is usually something special, original and worthwhile at the core. Here, I have to mention again her fresh, yet subtle approach to sexuality, as well as her definite female-empowering streak. The very idea behind the fictional “school for heiresses” is really a feminist one: teaching young ladies how not to fall victim of a bad marriage.

What was the first good modern romance novel you read? What do you think of Sabrina Jeffries? Know any other romance author who gives equally good advice?

Virginity in the romance genre

Posted: 2011/04/13 | Author: | Filed under: Literature, Politics | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment »

As a follow-up to last week’s Opinion Blog, I wanted to go back on romance’s treatment of virginity. On her blog [ClitLit], Jodi makes accurate and interesting feminist analyses of the symbolic meaning behind the virgin status of heroines, in contrast with a hero whose virility depends on a vast experience in sexual matters. While her observations apply to many books, mainly within “category romance”*, they cannot be generalized to the entirety of what I call modern romance. In short, I’ll explain in this entry how I manage to reconcile my view of virginity as a sexist and heterosexist concept with my romance reading habits.

First of all, not all romance heroines are virgins, especially in contemporary stories. I will confess straight away that contemporary virgin heroines bug me, unless the author gives us a realistic, valid reason for it. In True Blood (adapted from Charlaine Harris’s novels), Sookie’s youth and her paranormal ability to hear people’s thoughts can both be considered as convincing justifications for her lack of sexual experience. In Beyond the Highland Mist, though, the issue is never tackled and thus left unsolved, to the reader’s great frustration. How come Adrienne, who is exceptionally beautiful and has even been engaged, is still a virgin?

The only reason I can think of is not nearly good enough for me, but at least may claim to avoid the sexist label. If I haven’t yet explicitly stated it, I’ll say again that romance is fundamentally idealistic (certainly an aspect worth confronting with the genre’s more realistic, “conservative” side). By that I mean that the good guys win, the bad guys lose, and genuine love is rewarded. In this perspective, the heroine’s virginity doesn’t imply her “purity” and ignorance so much as her good luck at finding the right man and orgasming the first time. It’s a woman’s fantasy, let’s not forget it.

And in the same vein, the hero is only experienced in so far as it ensures that he knows how to make the heroine climax, ie how to behave for her benefit. I am persuaded that a lot of men’s fantasies equally include a very experienced, very knowledgeable and capable female lover; simply because there is, at the core of every one of us, a desire to put ourselves in somebody else’s hands and let go, to be “served” and merely enjoy it. That’s fair enough, I suppose, but I do have a problem when this theme is too present in any novel. I have always loved reading because I could find strength and reason in books; impossible fantasies only appeal to me when they are overcome and demystified.

In historical romance, the heroine’s virginity bothers me a lot less, since I see it as a concession to earlier times’ customs, for realism’s sake. I have, in fact, been surprised at how little historical romance writers seem to value virginity, even when the historical setting would be a perfect pretext to glorify it. For starters, historical romance heroines lose their virginity before marriage way more often than not. When you know that there are still many people in today’s world who refuse premarital sex, this assuredly means something.

Talking about which, even in Judith McNaught’s Perfect, whose heroine is a minister’s virgin daughter, the happy ending seems to shed a positive light on the whole idea of sleeping with a near-stranger. Lust will conquer all… The explanation which is later given for premarital abstinence has nothing to do with any sort of purity whatsoever:

“I’m blushing, my talkative wife, because I’m remembering what was the longest, most painful month of my life and at the memory of what our wedding night was like as a result of one month’s abstinence.”
“It was beautiful,” she argued. “Special―like the very first time for both of us. [...]“

- Perfect, Judith McNaught (Pocket Books, 1993)

From personal experience, first time sex after a substantial interruption can indeed be pretty good, in a not-quite-holy sense… no comparison with the actual “first time” or “deflowering” (how I hate this word!).

But back to my historical heroines. Lisa Kleypas, whom I reviewed on Monday, is a very good example of a romance author who doesn’t regard virginity as sacred at all―one of the many reasons why I enjoy her writing. In Then Came You, the heroine’s got an illegitimate child. In Suddenly You, the heroine hires a man to lose her virginity and learn what sexual intercourse feels like (God, I love that). And in Mine Till Midnight, I realized something which could give an alternative perspective on the apparent unbalance between the ever-virginal heroine and the rake hero.

In that novel, Amelia has an emotional history. Before meeting the hero, she’s been in love with somebody else. The hero, on the other hand, might have had countless sexual encounters; he has never loved. And granted, this reproduces the old dichotomy between female/male and emotion/sex, yet… once again, if you look at it purely from a woman’s perspective, it’s much more self-satisfying to be somebody’s first love than somebody’s first fuck. Precisely because the physical part is not that big a deal.

I have never felt as if having a sexual history mattered in any essential ways. Emotional baggage, on the other hand, contributes to building a person’s identity. You could almost say that, if love is your reference, and not such a debatable and unclear thing as physical virginity, then the hero becomes the inexperienced one, while the heroine, through her ability to love different men in the course of her life, is much more of a “whole”, full-fledged person.

“[...] I think he’s always secretly hoped he could someday find a place where he would belong. But until he met you, it didn’t occur to him that it might not be a place he was looking for, but a person.”

- Mine Till Midnight, Lisa Kleypas (St Martin’s Press, 2007)

Lastly, I’d like to mention the cases of virginity in Sabrina Jeffries’ Regency novels. I enjoy this author for her general and unabashed acceptation of “sex”, which, I feel, effectively help weaken the meaning and importance of virginity (as I have attempted to demonstrate in last week’s entry). It is all good and well to rehabilitate and encourage free sexual intercourse, but might that not also be discriminating against people who are virgins, single, not dating, even potentially discriminating against homosexuality? Celebrating PIV sex as something “good” can appear to make other forms of sexuality seem secondary, or a sexuality without PIV seem inferior.

Well, in Sabrina Jeffries’s books, the heroines may be virgins, but they know about masturbation, or about the physical and biological process of sex. This reminds us that women don’t have to be ignorant for being chaste, that they don’t ultimately need a man to climax. Which is another point against virginity: shouldn’t a woman who knows her own body well, be perceived as more experienced than one who’s lived the intrusion of a penis in her vagina, but hasn’t learnt to love it?

Let Sleeping Rogues Lie is also one of the extremely and surprisingly rare romance novels to feature a blow-job scene. This is perhaps explained by the fact that most modern romance focuses on the woman’s pleasure and orgasms, rather than the man’s. However, giving a blow-job is also a turn-on for many women out there, not least because it puts us in a position of power and control…

Which romance novels have you read that challenged traditional gender roles the most? What would you like to see more of between the heroine and hero in modern romance?

* Category romance consists in short novels issued monthly within well-defined categories, such as published by Harlequin or Mills & Boon, and can be considered as a specific romance subgenre.

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