Beyond Heaving Bosoms

by Sarah Wendell

The werewolves travel in packs. The vampires, they’re solitary but sometimes show up in covens or dens or mausoleums or what have you. In historicals, men have friends, school chums, or drinking buds from the club—usually who place bets that they’ll never get married (silly, silly men) and thus sequels are made. In contemporaries, sometimes the men have partners on the police force or buddies from way back when, but most of the time, they are alone. Heroes may travel in a pack, but within the space of their narratives, they walk alone. Why? Because alphas travel alone. Even in a group, the hero is alone in the crowd. Even running with the pack or streaking through the flying buttresses of your nearest abandoned church, by virtue of being the hero, he is set apart, isolated, and alone. It creates a mystique for the reader, and the heroine, to investigate: the solitary, aloof hero who needs that healing love.

  On one hand, that creates a wide and desolate space in the hero’s life that needs some shaking up by your friendly neighborhood perky heroine. And on that same hand it means the hero doesn’t come equipped with five guy buddies from college or high school or prep school or the gaming hell or the local werebar or blood bank, who will sit around on poker night, drink all the beer, and fart until the living room wallpaper blisters. So that solitude, it’s a fantasy for the heroine in more than one way.

  7. Heroes are never soft. They are hard. Everywhere.

  They may have crisp chest hair, or soft queues of brown wavy hair on their heads (no, the other head), but from the top of that head (still that other one) to the tips of his hairy toes, the hero, he is one muscular dude. He may be described as lean, muscled, shapely, and downright mouthwatering, but there’s not a torso tire to be seen on this specimen of manhood. Even in a historical era wherein the titled men took pains to avoid any and all connection to actual physical labor and most likely stuffed their flabby selves into their waistcoats each night, the romance hero, he is a sleek, lithe physique just waiting to be described in minute detail and summarily unwrapped by the heroine. Romance is publishing more books about heroines of size; heroes of size we doubt will ever see their day.

  6. Heroes have hair. The covers have mullets.

  There is no Rogaine needed.

  Honestly, this one mystifies us a bit. We don’t know of too many women who give a flying shit whether their husbands or boyfriends have hair. This is something, we think, that men worry about or are told to worry about, so what all that full-headed hero hair is doing in the romance genre, we have no idea. Perhaps it’s that same beauty pressure that makes sure the heroines have long legs—hairless even before the invention of the women’s razor, of course!—and long, cascading waves of hair, but the heroes all have a full complement of hair on their heads. No romance hero ever has a thinning spot up top. No ripple of sunlight ever bounces off the dome of a hero’s head. And the heroic comb-over? Ain’t no such thing unless maybe the false hero who is really the villain has a greasy one—and that comb-over is probably the heroine’s first clue that he’s eeeeeevil.

  5. He’s an expert. At something.

  The romance hero is often isolated by his own brilliance, in addition to being set apart personally and emotionally—or entirely shut off emotionally until the heroine awakens those scary feelings in his loins, followed by a burning sensation in his heart not caused by spicy sausage, unless it’s a gay romance, in which case it could be a spicy sausage but that’s an entirely different situation. Sorry. Where were we?

  Heroes in romance are experts at something. Perhaps he’s a mathematician. Astronomer. Scientist. Clever wordsmith. Master horsemen—so many of historical heroes are exceptionally perfect equestrians that it’s a wonder how a one of them stand out. The hero could be a marksman, sharpshooter, bomb diffuser, forensic accountant, micro surgeon, flawless Java programmer, possessing of the ability to fly or the ability to swim beneath the Atlantic Ocean on a single breath, able to make mental leaps into logic that befuddle mere mortals…. Whatever—not only are looks and emotional distance employed to set the hero apart and above, but skill set as well. The hero may have an open advantage or a hidden one, but he employs something with razor-sharp talent and effortless skill, be it swordplay or sword swallowing.

  4. Sex with his stick is like sex on a stick.

  But in a good way.

  The hero, he may be overwhelmed by feelings of love, lust, lusty love, or a syrupy mix thereof, but without a doubt, it is largely his responsibility to bring on the orgasms for the heroine, and in the sexual arena, the hero must prove his ardor and his strength by finding without fail all of the heroine’s magic spots. Sex with a romance hero is a form of perfection we mere mortal readers can rarely, if ever, attain.

  3. Swinging and gayness: not okay.

  There are obvious exceptions to this rule found within erotic romance, and there are marvelous examples of heroes who swing both ways on the sexual spectrum, and of heroes who, with their heroine, engage in a big ring-around-the-rosy-fuck with other couples. But by and large, by which we mean Not Bi and Yes Large, heroes of romance novels in the traditional sense may have had past relationships, but they were with women. And they’re over. And likely that woman is a cold, evil nemesis who must be destroyed. Romance heroes are not gay or even remotely possibly gay, nor do they notice other men in any way other than people to move past in the store to get to the manly Cheetos. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, obviously. Not in our opinion. But unfortunately, even as the market of romance readers clamors for more male/male gay romance, the stereotype of “gay = not manly” still resides in the backwater of Romancelandia, and no hero worth his manly wang has ever used that wang to probe the depths of another man’s what-what.

  2. Rage, it’s in their machine.

  Heroes, even the betas, have something that sets them off, just like most people. There’s something that pushes their buttons, that turns them into raging hunks of anger. Could be jealousy. Could be crime against the innocent. Could be anything that threatens his teddy bear, Mr. Schrumpkins. But whatever it is, there is no rage like hero rage, and it is a rage that must be tamed by heroine’s luuuuurve™ and her Magic Hoo Hoo.

  1. Historical anachronisms: they will never die, but they make your hero luscious.

  Just as romance writers take heat for historically inaccurate heroines, like the plucky governess in 1813 who just wants to open her own business creating metal cogs for a gentleman named Cogsworth, heroes themselves are also largely historically inaccurate, particularly during the Regency era. As Pamela Regis writes in her examination of the collective novels of Georgette Heyer, “The Regency is renowned for its fops, dandies, reckless ‘bucks,’ profligate gamblers, and imperious guardians. As A. S. Byatt has noted, it may be the English historical period in which the wealthy were the most secure in their wealth, and the most idle.” While those idle men may appear in Regency romances, including but not limited to Heyer’s, they are not ever the hero. Idle hands are indeed the devil’s work—labor in some form, even oblique, is far more noble and suitable for noble heroes.

  Interestingly, Regis argues that the twentieth-century mentality of historical heroes and heroines not only highlights the setting but critiques it through their very presence. Heroes may belong to gambling clubs and frequently bet one or two piles of poundage while at play, drink until their livers cry out for mercy, and perhaps even keep multiple mistresses, but they are still set apart from the profligate wastrelism and are restored in some small way to respectability.

  So, how come heroic men can get away with majestically damaging behavior? Suppose you’re writing a romance hero, and he’s hell-bent on smoking everything that doesn’t run away from him, drinking to excess, and perhaps even abusing himself in myriad ways. Therein lies the key. There are some habits a hero does not ever indulge in, because doing so compromises his inner core of turgid, shining, golden, chewy, moral goodness. He can abuse his physical body in all kinds of funny, appalling ways, but he does not mess with the innocence of others, except for, of course,
the heroine. To be cavalier with the lives of others is not ever heroic behavior. Irresponsible gambling on the part of a historical hero is a no-no, simply because any hero worth his property is also responsible for the lives—literally—of every tenant on his land. Gambling people’s lives is not heroic, and heroes are certainly not going to bet the farm. In the case of a contemporary hero, an attitude of wasteful ignorance about money will dig the happy ending out from under his feet, because what woman wants to spend her Happily Ever After with a man who wastes five dollars?

  Of course, the immortal set, such as the vampires and the profoundly long-lived werewolves, they usually have vast Templaresque financial networks setup, because there’s no money like old money to guarantee the happiest of endings in the plushest of circumstances.

  But essentially, heroism in romance novels comes down to sex. Heroes are fiercely sexual, and sexually fierce. They do not embark on pedophilic affairs, they do not engage in any what-what with horses, sheep, or trained elephant seals, and they do not use their mighty wangs to rape or teabag anyone—except, depending on how Old Skool the romance is, the heroine.

  But when the hero does embark upon the discovery of the heroine, whether you see the protagonists as two separate people from yourself as a reader, or the integration of two of your socially influenced personality types, the coming together—and the coming together—of the hero and the heroine are the true crux of romance fiction. Regardless of how or what you see in the hero or heroine, they, and their story, are the major reason we keep coming back for more.

  Chapter Secret Cowboy Baby

  CRINGE-WORTHY PLOT Devices WE KNOW AND LOVE

  You want to know the secret to a really, really good romance plot? Take something utterly familiar, like a fairy tale, or an overexposed cliché so tired it can’t even lift its own head, and turn it upside down and shake it until you don’t recognize it anymore.

  Secret baby? A secret baby plot in the hands of a skilled writer can rock one’s socks right to the dryer. Noblemen disguised as pirates? Better yet, disguised noblemen who masquerade as pirates, and who kidnap the absurdly perfect, plucky heroine? Revenge sex? Virginity in absolutely ludicrous situations? Scarred hero healed by the power of love and a dashing good plastic surgeon? Seen it, read it, and while some of them blow windy donkey balls, other romance novels that embrace with both arms the hoary plot cliché work it and work it well.

  Nora Roberts refuses to identify her favorite of the goofy cliché plot devices. In fact, she embraces every silly one: “I love them all. Secret babies, amnesia, the letter gone missing for ten years, evil twins, mistaken identity, the feisty runaway heroine disguised as a boy, the thirty-year-old virgin. Hell, I’ve probably written them all.”

  But ultimately, Roberts agrees: “It’s all about the execution. One writer’s secret baby fiasco is another’s heart-wrenching classic, or delightful comedic romp.”

  If you’re reading this book for serious writing advice, don’t listen to us. Listen to Nora: “As a rule of thumb, I’d say one cliché per story—and then be damn sure you can make it work. But if you’re going to try to write the virginal amnesiac twin disguised as a boy mistaken for the mother (or father depending how well the disguise works) of a secret baby, honey, you better have some serious skills. Or seek therapy.”

  Each of us has a weakness for the romance plot that is cheeztastic and doofy, but which we cannot resist. One of Sarah’s favorites is the attracted antagonists device, which she calls, “I don’t wanna love you. I don’t wanna like you. I can’t stop thinking about your hair, dammit?!” The panicked male overcome by feelings he doesn’t like, irritated yet unable to deny his rampant boner whenever she’s near? Yes, please! Sarah also loves a plot device that is so tinged by the shades of skeevy that she won’t admit it outright, but she still haunts the historical romance aisle looking for more of it. It’s so awful, she can’t even tell Candy.

  Candy’s favorite is a bit different: she’ll go for anything pirates. Scurvy pirates, noblemen disguised as pirates, kidnapping by pirates—rwor! There’s absolutely no reason she should like it, and it’s kind of horrifying, but she loves it. If the heroine charms the crew and their pet pig, Candy’s all over that shit. You can probably guess which is her very favorite romance of this type.

  THE BIG MISUNDERSTANDING

  Let’s start with the most hoary clichéd conflict of them all: the Big Misunderstanding, or the “Big Mis.” The key to satisfying romance, to speak in sweeping generalization, which of course we do with arrogant abandon, is to layer the internal and external conflicts so that they complement and contrast against one another. It’s not merely enough that he’s a vampire and she’s a werewolf; biological incompatibility can easily be resolved by some mysterious parentage or deus ex machina ending. Resolutions that require no effort on the part of the hero and heroine usually result in a slightly less satisfying ending.

  The Big Mis is the humdinger of them all because it’s an external conflict that causes internal conflict, all balanced on the flimsiest of circumstances. She overhears something incorrect; he sees her kiss her brother and flips out. Whatever the Big Mis is, it could be resolved so easily with five minutes of conversation and an arsehair of honesty out of both parties.

  The damage of the Big Mis is legion, and the number of plots that have squeaked out an additional two hundred pages based on its flimsy core are too many to count using mere integers. The Big Mis and its continuation cause the reader to doubt the intelligence of the couple and, what’s worse, their ability to sustain a happy ending on their own. If the Big Mis is the basis for all the conflict, it’s especially damaging.

  Now, this is not to say that the Big Mis is a no-no. The great and somewhat frightening thing about romance novels is that just about any hoary, clichéd plot device can be properly devised to add to the plot, provided that plot device is used in a way that adds to the conflict, and is not itself the only conflict. Case in point: Jennifer Crusie’s Bet Me is based on a Big Misunderstanding between the protagonists, but it’s resolved relatively quickly, and is used as a device to bring the characters together for additional conflict based on their personalities. Crusie’s method of turning that plot device on its head was to have her heroine figure out the misunderstanding, identify it, confront the hero—instead of ruminating on it by herself—and use that misunderstanding to her own advantage.

  The upshot is simple: Big Mis leading the Better, Bigger Conflict? WIN! Big Mis is only conflict? Go Thee to the Naughty Corner.

  Heather Osborn, editor for Tor, uses this rule of thumb to judge the conflict of a story: “If you ever read a well-written story that you really want to like and yet you feel a little let down when you finish, like you just ate puffed air instead of food, then chances are it was seriously lacking in internal conflict.” As far as the Big Mis goes, a heroine or hero who takes the Big Mis at face value and disregards everything they have learned of the other person based on it shows a lack of internal character and intelligence. Such a lack makes them unappealing to the reader. For a Big Mis to work, it needs to be a minor part of the story as a whole, or there needs to be a reasonable and authentic reason for the misunderstanding in the first place. As is oft repeated, if the misunderstanding is one that can be cleared up with a simple conversation, then it is not sufficient conflict. (See if you can avoid the relationship pitfalls and reach a happy ending in the Big Misunderstanding game on chapter 6.)

  CRAFT A BRILLIANT ROMANCE AVOIDING THE BIG MIS, AKA EVERY PLOT CLICHÉ, EVER

  One of our readers, Nicole Collins, who posts at our site under the moniker “Dr. Strangelove,” wrote us after reading what she called the most cliché-ridden romance she’d ever endured. Her e-mail went a little something like this…Hit it:

  Dear Smart Bitches:

  A friend of mine from school picked up an entire bag of romance novels from the university book sale for two dollars and dared me to read them. Seeing as I told her to get only those with the mos
t treated clinch art (you know, waves and wind blowing from every which direction) or with great titles I wasn’t expecting much. In an effort to avoid studying for two hours I picked up a Silhouette series book from 1998. It was such a train wreck of every type of romance stereotype I couldn’t put it down. You could make a check list of horrible romance clichés.

  Heroine gets unfrumpified by miraculously losing some pounds and cutting her hair.

  Hero has guilt complex over death of last wife. He is also hideously scarred along one side of face from accident that killed wife.

  Hero is millionaire who takes in heroine after fire almost burns down her office. Wants to help her because she reminds him of dead wife (this is really creepy).

  Heroine has no real education or talents and yet is considered witty and bright, or so the author states every page or so.

  Heroine is a virgin.

  Hero can “never love again” (see dead wife, self-wallowing).

  Heroine takes inappropriate live-in job as millionaire bachelor’s assistant. Without an education in economics or business, or even an iota of sense really, she manages to kick the ass of every guy on staff at millionaire bachelor’s firm.

  After three weeks of boinking, heroine realizes she should go to doc’s and get some birth control. Of course she’s already pregnant. She gives some lip service to knowing better but keeps coming back to her being a virgin as an excuse.

  Heroine has a bizarre bit of backbone-filled dialog that is completely out of character and leaves. Hero then vanishes, as in leaves his company for five months (!) so she can’t tell him about the secret baby.

  Hero gets plastic surgery, offers marriage, and finds out he’s going to be a dad.

  Seriously, did this little book miss a single stereotype? I don’t think so.