Two basic elements
comprise every romance novel: a central love story and an emotionally
satisfying and optimistic ending. A
Central Love Story:
The main plot centers around individuals falling in love and struggling to make
the relationship work. A writer can include as many subplots as he/she wants as
long as the love story is the main focus of the novel.
Satisfying and Optimistic Ending: In a romance, the lovers who risk and
struggle for each other and their relationship are rewarded with emotional
justice and unconditional love.
Romance novels may
have any tone or style, be set in any place or time, and have varying levels of
sensuality—ranging from sweet to extremely hot. These settings and distinctions
of plot create specific sub genres within romance fiction."
So that's the Romance
writer genre definition by the experts. An HEA or Happily Ever After, or the expectation of
People in the group
seemed to generally agree about this, except a few men who kept insisting that
the genre could be bent, HEA's weren't
necessary, don't cleave to dogma, etc. We don't need no stinking Happily Ever
After. Well, we don't if it's not Romance.
I pointed out that
Romance readers want the HEA, and will be sorely
bent out of shape if cheated, using the example of Charlaine Harri's Sookie Stackhouse series. These are the books that True Blood was inspired by. Spoiler Alert! When Sookie ended
up with someone beside Bill or Eric in the last book of the series, Harris
received death threats and was pummelled by bad reviews on Goodreads and eBook platforms like Amazon and Nook. Pummelled. Readers had felt lead to
cheer on their chosen romantic main male character, only for an ahem, underdog,
to slip in and win fair Sookie's heart and hand.
You never, never cheat a
Romance reader out of her or his story HEA.
As Romance writers, we
have a promise with our readers. If we set them up to care about a couple
through a short story, novella, novel, or serials, then they must have their HEA eventually. If not, the promise is broken, and
readers get really, really annoyed or angry.
Over and over in this
forum male writers questioned the need for HEA, when the couple could just be something like friends with
benefits. (I'm trying to not snort coffee through my nose right now.) The
women who posted reinforced the Romance covenant because that's what Romance
Chick Lit can be
romantic, but without the HEA, it's not Romance. Some
of my favorite Chick Lit, such as A Vintage Affair and the Bridget Jones series are Romances. The love interests,
despite trials and heartbreak, win. Watching your loved one fly off in a plane
with her significant other is not a Romance ending. Throwing the central female
character in front of a train is not Romance writing.
Spending the rest of
your life with the person you love is Romance.
If you're a Romance
writer, check out RWA. Fabulous resources for writers in that genre and
No hearts were broken in
the writing of this blog.
Cafe du Monde, New Orleans, LA 2013. Copyright Beabe Thompson 2014, All rights reserved.
One of the things mothers have to get over early in their children's lives is the presence of "the significant other." The first one in Eldest's life was in kindergarten when he was officially engaged to a classmate. They were dead serious. He's now 22, and if you ask him her name, he'll look at you as if you'd started speaking in tongues.
The second for him came in high school when a fellow classmate decided he was hers, and started coming over for choir show rehearsal. I kid you not. He did eventually take her to Homecoming, buying her a Texas"double" mum instead of a triple. Good move since the gigantic corsage was larger than she was at the time. When they broke up, she would stand across the street, staring at the house, crying. Mystifying and sobering.
His last high school girlfriend is someone still dear to my heart, and the most amazing young woman. They're no longer together, but I still love her dearly, and her parents remain good friends. If I could've adopted her, I would have but instead hired her at my now defunct toy store.
I liked the next girl, especially since she was artistic and funny, creative, and seemed good for him. Sad day when that ended, at least for me.
The current girlfriend has been his for months now, and despite the fact she's a native of Houston, I've never had the privilege of meeting her. They both live in Austin, a few hours away, studying at a university there. Perhaps my eldest is ashamed of me, afraid I'll embarrass him, or God knows what. I did tell him that perhaps he was ashamed of me, and that's why I hadn't met her. He did say no to that, but perhaps there is a kernel of truth there for sure. Maybe it's the mayhem of my housekeeping. Know knows?
Having a twenty-plus son means letting got of a lot of things parental, but there remains a thread that pulls and pains at times. Who knows if I'll ever meet her? For whatever reason, he's chosen to not bring her home, I have to respect it and keep going. Parenting grown-ups really is painful at times, and no one knows that better than a mother, except a father.
So here's to the parents out there who remain in the dark, hoping for the best, keeping cheerful, not resentful, respectful, not guilt inducing. I raise my glass of ice tea to you. Hopefully, our children picked a delightful person we'll eventually get to meet.
Photograph by Beabe Thompson, 2014, all rights reserved.
I grew up in a father-less household, three women on their own, for the most part. After having lived through a rather mental barbed wire childhood, I said parenthood was not for me. It wasn't just that I didn't want my own offspring, it was that I had no courage or thought no talent for being a good parent.
When I met my second husband, Dan, my mind changed. We had our first son a few years after our marriage. Both of us admitted complete ignorance about what we were doing, although he was the oldest of four with sane parents, and actually had a better idea. I stumbled through his toddler years, watching parenting shows, reading books, talking, talking, talking to my dear husband about what we were doing.All along there was this fear I was getting it so wrong, and that little mistakes were really big ones.There was a miscarriage, then a few years later my last child, another boy came into our world.
I've made so many mistakes as a mother, bumbling along being too sharp, too meddling, too inflexible because of my ignorance and inexperience. All this has come to fruition.Eldest is off at college, with a girlfriend I've never met. Youngest is going off soon to a faraway college, and my heart's breaking into a million pieces. I've decided eldest is ashamed of me, of our house, something I've done, or not done. Youngest is ready to be done with my meddling, but wants some help and money. Come here, go away, Mom. Adulthood is here for them, ringing the doorbell. If I felt better about the job I'd done as a mother, it would be less painful to let them go. A part of me wants to fix the mistakes that can't be undone, relive the best parts that can't be relived, be loved and held affectionately by my boys. Letting go of all those things is a hard, hard task.
How we rear our kids sets them up as parents later, and faulty parenting screws up more than one generation. Maybe my sons won't ever have kids because of me, because of my parenting skills being poor. I hope not.
Time to open my fingers and let go, let go of the strings we mothers use to bind our family together, let go of the expectations that make no sense and only hurt. Those strings stick to my fingers like fine cotton candy, and don't want to go.
Death brought me to True Blood and Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse novels. I had a very sweet and beautiful childhood friend who loved the TV series, and never missed it. Before brain cancer finally claimed her, she was responsible for introducing True Blood to a lot of her friends.
Lisa and I were both from north Louisiana, the location, supposedly of the TV series and novels. I just couldn't make myself watch another badly researched Hollywood version of my state. When Lisa passed away, she left us so quietly that her friends were stunned. No fancy funeral and flowers for her, but a simple goodbye and she was gone.
I was left needing "to do something, anything" to mark her passing, and so Sookie finally showed up on my Nook. Note that I did not want her there, but Sookie was a connection to Lisa. I read all the books, rolling my eyes at how Louisiana geography and culture was turned on its ear.
North and south Louisiana were defined and divided by language and culture for hundreds of years. In the north, it was Scots, Irish, English, African Americans, and displaced Native Americans. To the south were French Creole, Acadians (Cajuns), Spanish, Irish, German, Sicilians, Italians, Native Americans, and African Americans. The Acadians, having been expelled from Canada by the English, settled in south Louisiana, and evolved into the Cajun culture. Note: they had the sense to stay in south Louisiana where there was abundant seafood, fertile land, and good hunting.
True Blood and the Sookie Stackhouse novels annoyed the crap out of me with their geography and cultural issues, but those were the least of their problems. After the first season, the television writers went off on a tangent of keeping alive characters killed off in the books, minimizing the interesting characters (IMHO), and dragging hopeful book readers along until they realized the Eric-Sookie love story arc had been shoved aside.
By the time Harris had finished the Sookie Stackhouse series, having gotten death threats by thwarted crazies, we readers knew the Eric-Sookie situation was not going to happen the way we needed it to go. Between fairies, werewolves, werepanthers, angry witches, and minor characters taking over the show, I gave up on True Blood.
I wanted to see Eric and Sookie have the passionate relationship the books told, without the last book's story arc and that damned Queen of Oklahoma. The fans of the series desperately wanted volcanic passion between our favorite Viking vampire and the waitress from Nowheresville. Year after year we were thwarted.
Now the series is down to one episode, and I'm not biting. Too much disappointment in the previous five years, too much knowledge of what could've been, not enough interest in Hoyt, Jessica, Lafayette, Arlene brought me there.
My youngest son came home from work last night, and asked why I was watching the first season of "Once Upon a Time". I muttered back something about Jamie Dornan under my breath. My interest in that show took a huge nosedive when they killed him off. Who in their right mind kills off a hot sheriff? (I'm starting to see a pattern here about my taste in paranormal heroes). I watched right up to the moment when Regina crushed the life out of him, waiting for a magic regeneration spell that never happened. Last night found me looking for something interesting to watch while the menfolk were out. Despite it being True Blood night, I was watching Netflicks and ogling Dornan.
Now, while I ignore the bloated, rotting corpse of True Blood, my mind is now on "Outlander". My heart hopes it stays true to Jamie and Claire. Common sense says the movie/series is never as good as the book, but I'm still hopeful after episode 2. Lisa would've been plastered to her tv watching Outlander, and comparing book notes and scene nuances with her friends.
Lisa, I know you're in Heaven and keeping tabs on your old shows. When True Blood ends, I'll be saying goodbye to you again, but in my heart we'll be discussing how Eric should've gotten the girl. As it should've been in a romantic, messy, happy ending that we all deserve. Alexander Skarsgard in his most erotic and beautiful finest hour. Maybe you're writing fan fiction up there, Lisa. If you are, I hope you're rewriting the story arc of True Blood. Miss you.