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I am, admittedly, a tad on the fanatical side when it comes to music. It plays a big part in my writing largely because it plays an even bigger part in my life. I was in my mid-twenties before I discovered not everyone in the world had a musical soundtrack that accompanied them through their day — from their hastily inhaled morning coffee (”Wake me up before you go-go…”–Wham!) to the boring staff meeting at 3pm (”It’s been a long day…”–Matchbox 20) to a quick stop at the post office (”Oh, yes, wait a minute Mr. Postman…”–The Marvelettes) to the microwave meal nuked for dinner (”Drop it like it’s hot…”–Snoop Dogg).
I’m not saying the references were always appropriate (*g*), but I would hear these lyrics beneath the swirl of real conversations around me — the cross-genre, multiple-era melodies running through my mind like an inside joke I couldn’t share with anyone. Just about every memory I have is tied to a song and, even if I wanted to, it’s not possible for me to escape that.
Thankfully, though, I get to inflict this special kind of fun on my characters.
 Both of my first two novels are heavily music laden. The first, According to Jane (Kensington, 09-29-09), persistently references the era of big hair and legwarmers — a time when Michael Jackson (RIP) still wore a single white glove, Spandau Ballet was all the rage and Def Leppard rocked the stadiums with “Hysteria.” As much as I also love the music of today (can’t get enough of Coldplay), the songs of the 1980s are inexorably, undeniably linked to my goofiest and most poignant memories of high school, and I find it impossible to listen to Bruce Springsteen belt out “Dancing in the Dark” without remembering dancing in the, um, dark. And, you know, other eventful teen stuff…
There are a number of songs that — were they to be removed from my debut novel — would make me fear the narrative was incomplete: Boston’s “Don’t Look Back,” Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is,” Eric Carmen’s “Make Me Lose Control” and the endlessly amusing (and somewhat mystifying) ”Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats, to name but a few. I don’t expect readers to know every verse of these songs as I do, but as I wrote the book, the unstated lyrics informed the text. In my mind, at least, they underscored the dramatic situations and played up the comedy. For me, these musical asides were a little bonus I could give those readers who were equally fanatical about the music of this era. And, in that small way, I’d get to finally share my inside joke with someone.
And, so, to my fellow writers, I ask: Do musical soundtracks accompany your books? If so, which songs were important to the telling of your stories?
And to everyone, writer or not: Do you have a favorite ’80s tune or two? If yes, which ones?
For anyone who comments on this post today, I’ll be drawing two names late tonight and giving away an advanced reader copy of According to Jane to each of them, as well as a 3-pack of the new Starbucks VIA Ready Brew coffees. (The coffees are only available in Chicago, Seattle and London right now, so I hope it’ll be a tasty sneak preview.)
May those of you living in the States, have a very Happy 4th — or, to put it another way, since I’m hearing Martina McBride playing in my head now — may you enjoy celebrating ”Independence Day” :-). And may everyone who reads this have a wonderful weekend!
When the current reality TV craze hit, I swore I’d never watch any, but over the years I’ve come to love a few of these series.
For example, I really admire the storytelling abilities of the producers and editors of shows like Survivor and The Amazing Race — the way they whittle down hours and hours of footage into a compelling, suspenseful hour of television each week. The storyteller in me is impressed by that.
I also enjoy experiencing the trials and tribulations and talents of the contestants on shows like SYTYCD, Project Runway and Top Chef. And when I stumble onto them, I also enjoy the odd episode of the cheesier shows — like Shot at Love, or Paris’s BFF — mostly because it’s like passing a car crash. Once I catch a glimpse, I can’t look away.
But the reality TV show that causes me the most personal angst is The Bachelor/Bachelorette. I avoided it the first few seasons, but after listening to others talk about it I caved, and once I saw a few episodes, got completely sucked in.
My angst arises because I despise the premise of this show. The mere idea of it. Never mind that it’s voyeuristic, emotional porn, but I find the idea that a couple might find lasting love in such a contrived, artificial, pressurized situation laughable.
And yet… I watch. It is amazingly entertaining to observe someone falling in love, even if I never believe it will last. Romance novels give that same experience, but do it so much better, because the good ones make readers believe it’ll last.
Anyway, back to The Bachelor. I swore I’d stop watching after the travesty that ended the last season. (Read my rant about it here.) But, as I suspected then, Jillian sucked me in, largely because she’s a fellow Canadian.
But watching this week’s episode got me thinking, what is it about bad boys? I know she doesn’t see everything Wes does or says that we do, nor do we see everything he says to her… but unless the producers are really manipulating what they’re showing us (strong possibility) he ALWAYS looks like he’s lying. Why is she getting sucked in?
On the other hand, I was happy to see Ed back. He’s my fav bachelor this year, (although Reid’s growing on me) and I almost stopped watching the night Ed left.
But I didn’t. Dang it.
Bachelorette: Why can’t I quit you???
Today’s Canada Day. Happy Canada Day to me! Seeing as I’m Canadian and this is my inaugural post with Nobody Writes It Better, I’m giving away a trade paperback copy of my Canadian-set romantic comedy, HEAD OVER HEELS. To enter, please leave a comment pertinent to the discussion and check back tomorrow morning to find out if you’ve won.
Going with the Canada Day theme, I thought I’d talk about romance novels set outside the United States. When I began writing romance back in the Dark Ages (ie. pre-Internet), it never occurred to me not to set my stories in my own country. Write what you know, right? I wrote four novels, two of which shall never be published (please, nobody find them once I’ve departed from this earth and publish them—it’ll just embarrass me and then I’ll have to haunt you) before learning that it’s much more difficult to sell stories set outside the U.S. to an American publisher (or even a Canadian publisher like Harlequin in Toronto with a massive U.S. readership), unless they’re historicals set in England or Scotland. That in general American readers don’t want to read stories set outside the States, so I was just shooting myself in the keyboard by continuing to place my books in my own country. At one writing conference, an agent interrupted my pitch two sentences in to ask if I could change the setting from Vancouver to Seattle because otherwise the book would never sell. And I heard the same advice over and over from more seasoned writers. Ironically, my first (and former) agent signed me because she thought my Canadian settings were fresh and different.
What’s a polite, little Canadian writer to do?
 I decided to compromise. HEAD OVER HEELS takes place in Vancouver and Whistler, British Columbia, while BORROWING ALEX occurs in Seattle and on fictional Lake Eden. I also write erotic romance under a pen name. So far, I’ve sold three novellas. The first two are set in Calgary, Alberta and Victoria, B.C., and the third is set in L.A. “Penny” (my pen name, get it?) (collective groan) is currently writing the first of an erotic short story series set in Vancouver. Apparently, she’s not very smart, because she totally does not get this “set it in the States” thing. Luckily, her editors don’t seem to mind (phew).
Despite the “rule” not to set romance novels outside the U.S., aside from the agent I pitched to at that conference, no editor or agent has ever told me that they’re rejecting a story because of the setting. Maybe they are, but they don’t tell me so. Lately, I’ve noticed that more and more romance novels written by Canadian authors are getting set outside the U.S. So maybe the wall, if it ever existed, is breaking down.
Blog readers, what do you think? Do you like to read contemporary romance novels set in Canada? How about Australia? New Zealand? Why or why not? (I’m honestly interested. I won’t berate you if you hate reading about litres of milk and how 40 degrees Celsius is scathingly hot when to Americans it sounds slightly above freezing). (36 degrees Celsius is around 100 degrees Fahrenheit, I think). (See how handy I am? I taught you something).
If you’re interested in checking out more Canadian romance authors, some of whom have set novels in the Great White North, visit these ladies: Jo Beverly, Opal Carew, Eileen Cook, Laura Drewry, Bonnie Edwards, Susan Lyons, Lee McKenzie, Kayla Perrin, Wendy Roberts, Kate St. James, Nancy Warren, and Loreth Anne White. And tell them I sent you!
KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS…
And my sons (age 5 and 3) are certainly no exceptions.
Our travel morning had started off miraculously well. I’d managed to get our munchkins out of bed, had them dressed, fed, teeth brushed, and buckled into the car (yes, even remembered to buckle them this time) all by the ungodly hour of 7am for a trip to see the in-laws. With my hubby at the wheel (elated to actually be on schedule this time), we parked in the long-term lot, checked our bags, and stood in line for the metal detector with an uncharacteristic sense of calm. The security ticket checker, a somewhat stout, masculine-looking woman, greeted our children with a smile. All was going so well, until….
My eldest son tipped his head, nose scrunched in a puzzled expression, and said to the woman, “You’re kinda strange. You’re short and you look like a girl–but not.”
And just like that, our naive feeling of serenity disappeared.
God clearly has a sense of humor. Thankfully, so did the ticket checker–although I’m fairly certain she only heard the “short” portion of the evaluation, based on her laughter and reply.
So what did we do? The same thing any successful writer does when faced with yet another unexpected blockade in the insane literary biz: plaster on a smile, taut enough to contain the internal screams of dread, then stand tall and march onward.
Ironically enough, each time something like this happens (oh, yes, this was not the first), I am reminded of what essential element above all others makes fiction writing great: honesty. A compelling story does not emerge on the scene without honesty in both plot and characters. Writing the truth of a situation or person’s soul is, in my opinion, the key to capturing a reader’s heart.
So thanks go out to my son for the lesson. But… um, sweetheart, could you at least give Mommy fair warning before the next class begins?
And now, I ask, what about you? What crazy thing has your child (yes, this could very well mean your hubby or significant other) said or done in a public forum that made you want to crawl under a large boulder? Please, share your humiliation (think of it like online therapy) and assure me I’m not alone.
Ever since third grade, cats have been a big part of my life. My mother still has the essay I wrote about how my allergy-prone bother would go to college so I could get a kitten. Moved by my words, the teacher gave me an A. Moved by my incessant whining, my brother bought home a stray.
Since then I’ve had several cats, all unique in personality. First there was “The Ho”. I don’t have the words or the space to capture the uniqueness that was Ho. Suffice to say, he didn’t consider himself a pet so much as an employer. A furry black old man who just happened to like eating canned tuna (the real kind, not the stuff you served cats). We knew it was bad when one Christmas, my husband’s elderly uncle sat on a uncomfortable spare chair because “he didn’t want to disturb The Ho’s nap.” We always figured, had he lived another sixteen years, he would have been the first cat to develop opposable thumbs.
Cocoapuff is my big, precious fluff- ball. She’s never met a lap she didn’t want to sit on or come across a hand she didn’t think should be petting her. Doesn’t matter if you’re reading a book, paying the bills or typing a novel, she will get her belly rubbed. As far as she’s concerned, nothing is so important that it can’t wait until she gets a little attention.
Then there is Squeak. Dear, sweet, dim-witted Squeak. Every morning Squeak wakes up to conquer the world. So far, the world hasn’t caved. In fact, one might say the world is beating the tail of her. In three years, she’s fallen into a swimming pool, gotten tangled in her own collar, run into I don’t know how many walls, and gotten her head stuck in a Kleenex box. Twice.
Why am I telling you about these three cats? Because like all the animals that have crossed my path, each one has taught me a valuable life lesson. The Ho taught me to never, ever think of myself as anything less than equal to those around you. Always believe you are as deserving of success and comfort (and tuna) as the next person. And take what you deserve. Meanwhile Cocoa taught me the value of self-care. Everyone needs a little pampering now and then. Moreover, everyone deserves it. Always, always take time out to get your belly rubbed – so to speak.
As for Squeak…. My clueless little kitten may have taught me the most important lesson of all, and that’s to never give up. No matter how many times you get your head stuck in a box, remember, tomorrow is another day and another opportunity.
Who knew when I wrote that essay, that I would end up learning so much? How about you? What lessons have the animals in your life taught you?
Not long ago, an anthropological study caught my eye. According to this study, men and women are pre-programmed to desire certain qualities in a mate. Men look for markers that tell them a woman can successfully bear young. Women look for a man who can provide for and protect them and the young they bear.
I’m no anthrolpologist, but DUH! Anyone who looks back through history realizes that women needed a man’s physical strength as a bastion against other men who preyed upon the weak and vulnerable; i.e., women and children.
Both civil and canon law conspired to keep this the status quo for most of mankind’s history, and I’ll leave it to the sociologists to examine the whys and wherefores. The fact remains, however, that science declares women are predisposed to desiring stong, capable men.
Works for me.
I love an Alpha hero. Strong, dependable, decisive, honorable are good qualities. Arrogant and commanding, not so much. Witty is nice, but so is the strong, silent type.
Oh, and let’s not forget intelligent. Not necessarily a rocket scientist–although there are a few heroes out there that should have been geeky yet evaded the classification–but quick to catch on, act, and protect no matter the cost.
A man so confident he’s annoying, scary, and reassuring all at once.
Alpha heroes are the stuff of fantasies. No sane woman wants to live with a pure alpha male–we’re talking serious domination issues–but a Knight in Shining Armor, regardless of era, will display any number of desirable alpha traits. He will be lover and companion, confidante and comforter, defender and protector, and do it with deceptive aplomb.
Some people consider Robin Hood an alpha hero. Driven by a need for vengeance, he gathers others similar to himself, the dispossessed and outlawed, determined to destroy the unscrupulous Sheriff of Nottingham and the usurper, Prince John.
Enter Maid Marian.
Selfless to a fault, she becomes Robin’s eyes and ears in the castle. She sees Robin as a savior who cares for the welfare of all men regardless of station. In other words, she sees him as a better man than he is.
Wanting to be that man, Robin changes. Oh, he’s still arrogant, decisive, unrelenting, and a host of other things, but the goal has changed; he no longer desires justice only for himself but for all Englishmen.
Yes, a good woman is often the making of a memorable hero.
Rhett Butler starts his story as an anti-hero. How can he be anything else? He’s jaded, cynical, a profiteer who doesn’t care which side wins the war as long as he comes out of it rich.
But then he’s enchanted by Scarlett O’Hara–a heroine as “anti” as Rhett’s hero.
Scarlett fiddle-dee-dees her way across Rhett’s heart, careless of her heeled slippers, challenging his assumptions, forcing him to see beyond the obvious, turning him from a strong hero into a drunken wreck.
Cup-shot and disgusted with both himself and his manipulative spouse, Rhett sweeps Scarlett into his arms and climbs the stairs, determined to show her he’s the boss. Scarlett wiggles and thrashes like a cat with its tail afire–to no avail.
With her fire obviously well doused, Scarlett awakens pleased with herself and life in general. Her satisfaction is short-lived. Rhett has reclaimed his manhood. It’s over–for now.
Scarlett has raked Rhett over the coals, and he’s become a stronger, more resilient hero as a result. Even an anti-heroine can be the making of a man.
Fletcher Christian. Self-righteous zealot. It took him a while to see past the rules and regulations to the inherent abuses, but when he did . . .
Love this picture. Look at the stance, the intensity. A mutineer, as a rule, isn’t heroic, but Fletcher Christian risked all to put an end to the injustices he saw. He believed in his cause so much he threw his future away, but saved the lives of his men.
Adversity refined the heroic qualities in Fletcher Christian.
Last on this hero list is the stoic and stalwart Atticus Finch. Most of us have read, whether by choice or as a reading requirement, To Kill a Mockingbird.
Here is a soft-spoken, deep-feeling hero. He’ll not be rushing into the fray sword drawn, but he will fight for what he believes no matter the risk. He wears his self-righteous crusader hat a bit more subtly than Mr. Christian, but they are much alike. Both saw an injustice, strove to correct it, and discovered the cost of crusading can be high.
Finch’s heroine? His daughter, Scout. It is her voice that tells the story, ringing with convinction, her trust in the nobility and judgement of her father absolute.
Age is no impediment when love is the impetus.
The heroes above all made the leap from literature to film. They are, for the most part, known to anyone who has set foot in a high school, unlike the works of Jane Austin, the Brontes, and a host of others–something I discovered to my horror when my children were in school. This lack did, however, give me the pleasure of introducing my girls to Pride & Prejudice, Sense & Sensibility, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Emma in both book and screen forms.
Heathcliff commanded many a conversation.
All memorable heros touch the deep, dark, often forgotten recesses of the female psyche, appealing to the programmed need for a worthy mate. Pretty men please the eye, but only a man whose strength matches and balances that of the woman in question need apply for a lasting relationship.
Despite cultural differences, socio-economic differences, and any other difference you can name, at the root we remain the same as we were at the dawn of history–and we still love heroic qualities in our men.
Who are your favorite heroes? Why? What makes them heroic? Are they real or fictitious? Are they like Clark Kent with his alter-ego, Superman? The often maligned Mr. Darcy, stumbling on an overblown sense of self-worth? Or are they self-contained, independent sorts like Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett?
My real-life hero shines in every hero I write. Although I’ve bounced ideas off him, asked for advice (and took some of it), and let him read what I’d written, he’s never recognized his own reflection. Perhaps it’s just as well. While he’s never whisked me from humming railroad tracks, rescued me from marauding pirates, or ridden half-off a horse to sweep me out of harm’s way, he has heroic down to an art form. Save a drowning pet? Sure. Stop to change a stranded motorist’s tire? Certainly. Comfort a crying child? No doubt. Yet were you to praise any of this, he would dismiss it saying he was only doing the right thing.
In the final tally, isn’t that the true measure of a hero?
Like most of you, I spent much of my childhood with my nose in a book. Worried about my lack of exercise, Dear Mom enrolled me in gymnastics lessons. After one class, I sported a goose egg on the back of my head and a new found terror of the high bar. And don’t even get me started on the Evil of all Evils. I lasted four weeks.
Up next? Ballet. I loved everything about it — the music, the swanky leotard, telling stories through dance. Unfortunately, the thought of pirouetting with my bird cage in front of an audience scared the tutu off me. I hung up my slippers after one year.
Lucky for me my mom is not only dear, but very, very wise. She realized early on that not every little girl is meant to be a cheerleader or a ballerina. More than that, she recognized my passion. And she fanned the flames. So instead of dance lessons, she enrolled me in a book club. I vividly remember tearing into that first flat brown box (I know. Not. Normal.) and unearthing Beverly Cleary’s Socks and Sid Fleishman’s McBroom’s Ear.
To this day, the beloved stories from my childhood still flit about my head, books like A Wrinkle in Time (I so identified with oddball Meg!); Are you There God? It’s Me, Margaret; Island of the Blue Dolphins; and The Outsiders. Kids books are powerful. Perhaps it’s because they touch a young, raw, vulnerable place in us. Perhaps it’s because they speak a truth children demand. Whatever the reason, they hold on long after “The End.”
You’ve seen a few of my childhood faves. Now it’s your turn. What books from your childhood refuse to let go?
Fantasizing about men is part of my job. It’s a nice perk since I have yet to see any monetary benefits from my writing. While recently writing a women’s fiction book set in Paris, I closed my eyes, envisioning the book’s hero-a bohemian puppeteer with shoulder length dark hair, a strong jawline, dreamy brown eyes, a quirky personality… As I fine tuned the picture, visions of Johnny Depp filled my head. No surprise there. Johnny was the inspiration for the U.S. Marshal hero in one of my books, an artist in another… I was seeing a definite pattern. Being such a versatile actor, Johnny had been the muse for the heroes in many of my books!
 One of the many photos that inspired my puppeteer character! Although I grew up during the 21 Jump Street era, I have to admit my appreciation for Johnny didn’t begin until several years later when I saw the movie Benny & Joon and I fell for his quirky, soft spoken character. Last spring, I was able to feed my muse and conduct “character research” in the flesh when Johnny filmed his latest movie Public Enemies on location in Columbus, a small town near where I live in Milwaukee. (The John Dillinger flick is due in theaters next week!) I have to tell you, like I did my hubby, the great lengths I went to in attempting to meet Johnny was solely for the sake of research. :-) Luckily, being a writer has taught me patience and perseverance. I was gonna need it.
On day one of filming, a brisk twenty degree day in March, armed with hand and foot warmers, I made the trek to Columbus in the wee early morning hours. Strategically positioned in the front row behind a fenced barricade a block from the filming sight downtown, I waited eagerly for a Johnny sighting, along with several hundred other diehard fans. After eight hours, rumors were circulating that Johnny was on the set. I eventually caught a glimpse of Johnny–or possibly his double–through a pair of binoculars, fogged over from my cold breath. At the end of the day, the closest I’d come to seeing Johnny was some crazy chick in the crowd dressed in a skimpy leotard and made up like Edward Scissorhands.
Day two I was simply giddy when I found myself a half a block from Johnny as he zipped past me on the running board of a vintage car filming a Tommy gun shootout. Upon finishing taping each take, he graciously acknowledged the fans with a tip of his fedora. I was ecstatic about my close encounter until later that evening I discovered newspaper and blog photos taken of fans with Johnny. I decided that hanging around the set for twelve hours wasn’t going to get me an autograph or photo op. I needed a new plan.
So on day three, the last day of filming, myself and other fans waited patiently across from PE (Public Enemies) Base Camp where the actors’ trailers were located.
 Here I am at PE Base Camp!  Johnny waving at his fans outside PE Base Camp! I got several great photos ops throughout the day when Johnny returned to his trailer between filming, but that evening, my perseverance truly paid off. Close to midnight, Johnny did a walk by outside PE Base Camp, waving to fans, coming within twenty feet of me! So close I could reach out and touch him-however, security would have whisked me or Johnny away, since his SUV and security team follows alongside him. As I watched Johnny drive off into the night, I told myself that although I was without an autograph or a photo with Johnny, I’d seen him closer than most fans ever would and I’d fed my muse. I’d also made several new friendships with fellow diehard fans. Yet, I still left Columbus feeling a tad disappointed.
Two months later, when I learned Johnny was returning for a few more days of filming, I was confident this was my big chance. After all, I now had a clue as to what I was doing. The last filming was merely my dress rehearsal, this was the real thing. 
The first day of filming, me and several fans, ages 5 to 85, waited anxiously across from Base Camp. (I totally caught up on my reading and e-mailing during this time.) Late that evening Johnny’s bodyguard advised us that Johnny wouldn’t be signing autographs, however, he would be doing a quick meet and greet. Palms sweating despite the forty degree weather, my heart thumped wildly with anticipation as Johnny walked across the street toward the crowd. He was dressed in worn jeans, a leather jacket, and a striped knit cap–which only Johnny can pull off since I’m not a fan of those caps. Standing in the front row, I watched Johnny walk the crowd, slowly making his way toward me. When he encountered an 80-year-old woman with Parkinsons Disease, who’d spent six months creating a cross stitch of his Jack Sparrow character, he admired it in awe. He spent several minutes with the woman, autographing the cross stitch, telling her how much his mother would love it. What a guy! Not only is he as drop-dead sexy in person as he is on film, but he is an extremely humble and gracious person and my respect for him greatly increased. The man is hero material in every sense of the word!
 Johnny chatting with the Jack Sparrow cross-stitch fan. When he finally approached me I stood paralyzed while my mind raced. What was I going to do? Shake his hand, give him a little flutter wave, a hug, what?! My friend Susan standing behind me jarred me out of panic mode by giving me a shove in the back, causing me to stumble against the metal fence separating Johnny from the fans. “You gotta give Beth a hug,” she told Johnny as I quickly righted myself before security did.
Johnny glanced over at me, our gazes locking, a glint in his dreamy brown eyes. A slow easy smile curled the corners of his lips. He stepped toward me. My breath caught in my throat. He leaned in, sliding his arms around me, enveloping me in a tight embrace. His cheek touched mine, warm against my skin, and I about self-combusted. Cameras stopped flashing, conversations came to a halt, and all the fans around us ceased to exist. At that moment, it was just the two of us, together…forever… (Okay, this isn’t exactly how it happened, but it’s how I wrote it in my book anyway. After all, don’t forget, this was all for the sake of research )
 The HUG! Following the hug, I was somehow able to string together a coherent sentence and I thanked Johnny for taking the time to meet his fans when he had to be tired after a long day filming. He said in a soft spoken voice, “It’s great coming out and meeting everyone. Thanks for letting us bring the circus to town.” Any time Johnny, any time…
 Johnny and me shooting the breeze! So who do you envision as a hero when you read a book? A celebrity, rock star, co-worker, guy on the subway you share fleeting glances with on your morning commute? I’m sure all of your hubby’s have hero qualities or you wouldn’t be with them, but let’s think of men other than our hubbys at the moment. :-) After all, this is merely innocent daydreaming. Is it always the same man you envision as a hero or does it vary from book to book? As you can see, the muse for the heros in my books is pretty consistent. However, I must say, I’m lucky to have a real life hero also. If it wasn’t for my hubby’s unwavering emotional and financial support, my dream of one day becoming a pubbed author would be a mere fantasy, like the characters in one of my books…
Recently, I got into a discussion with former Golden Heart Winner and fabulous romantic suspense novelist Cate Noble about what makes for marketable fiction. We started with romance, of course, because that’s how we roll, and posed the question: if there was only ONE quality that you HAD to have for a romance novel to sell, whether your sub-genre was romantic suspense, historical, paranormal, contemporary, etc., what would it be?
Well, based on a completely unscientific review of the top romance novels on the shelves today–regardless of sub-genre–my assessment was: if you had a hero sexy enough to melt your readers into a steaming puddle of goo, a hero compelling enough to make you remember HIM long after you’ve forgotten the plot of the story itself (or any other details of the book, for that matter), you were well on your way to a winner of a book.
Or, okay, at least it’s that way for me.
Think about it-when you consider the most beloved movies and books on your keeper shelves, what pulls you back to them time and time again? As a paranormal fan, I am well versed in the J.R. Ward oeuvre-but it’s Zsadist’s story in “Lover Awakened” that really knocked me out. Why? Because he was a compelling hero. He was tortured, he was passionate, he needed. In the classic battle of Han Solo vs. Luke Skywalker, I was a Han Solo girl all the way, and I so wasn’t buying that he wasn’t head over heels for the Princess (you can’t fool me, Han!). Of all of the many brilliant Susan Elizabeth Phillips’ novels, I love “Breathing Room” the most, because, well, Ren just has a way of jumping on all of my buttons. And Jenny Crusie completely did me in with Phin, in her book “Welcome to Temptation”… truly one for the ages. These are the kind of men who beckon you back between the sheets-er, pages-time and again, just to remember the excitement they offer, and their unparalleled need for their heroines.
But that’s not the only reason why readers fall in love with books, or audiences with films. Sometimes, it’s the heroine who calls us back time and time again to a beloved story. Whether she’s spunky or intrepid, fierce or loving, it’s the heroine who gives the hero meaning and a sense of place in the story–and in our hearts. What would Zsadist be without Bella, for example? What would Jack Colton be without Joan Wilder in Romancing The Stone? Lost, that’s what. Still aimlessly wandering around South America. When I consider my favorite heroines, Sarah Connor from Terminator II comes to mind. Okay, okay, so she’s a little intense: but isn’t it the high stakes that makes her fight so worth watching?
For some fiction lovers, too, it’s the emotions that a story evokes–either through a knockout romance arc or a heartwrenching turn of events or a story of unending love. The chemistry between a hero and heroine can transcend a story and make it truly memorable. A recent case in point would be the just-released movie The Proposal, a harmless bit of summer fun with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds. Each of these actors on their own do their jobs admirably, but put them together, and somehow the movie is far better than it has any right to be. Even afterwards, it’s not so much their relationship that makes you smile, but how they look at each other, the zing of possibility that exists when they’re both on screen.
And finally, it’s sometimes the story itself that’s greater than the sum of its parts. Take the Suzanne Brockmann Troubleshooters series as exhibit A. Even if you’re a die-hard Brockmann fan, there are some of those stories you’re going to like more than others, some that you think of whenever you hear her name, no matter how many books she writes. I recently rewatched one of my favorite movies from childhood, Highlander, and realized that it had some really rough sections in it in terms of dialogue and character building… not to mention 80’s vintage hair. Even after I’d just seen it, however, I found myself remembering the story the movie told, the spell it wove around me as I thought “hey, what if” — and that story will continue to bring me back to that movie, no matter how much time passes.
But when it comes to that one indefinable “something” that makes me fall in love with a book or a movie over all other things… it’s still all about the hero.
So what about you? What is the most important element of fiction — the ”something” you remember about all of your favorite books and movies? All qualifying entries (posts that name an element and explain why it matters to you!) will be entered in a drawing for a $15 B&N gift certificate to help you fall in love with your next favorite book!
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