The Horror of Romance (or the Romance of Horror)

I want to write a romance.

There. I said it.

Not one of those formula romances, of course. That’s not my style. Besides, I tried it once, and I couldn’t keep the characters in line. You’d think two-dimensional people would be easy to manage, but my people were, ironically, too-dimensional. She was too independent and he was too conflicted, so I decided to write a vampire story instead.

That story turned out to be a romance. Well, romantic. She was independent and he was conflicted, but somehow the love affair worked. Too bad it ended tragically. When one party is immortal and the other one isn’t, it’s kinda doomed from the start. Mine worked without a happy ending because, quite frankly, paranormal romance is a genre unto itself and I can’t stick to that formula, either. I have utmost respect for authors who can follow those rules. Trust me, it’s harder than it looks.

You know who wrote great “outside the box” paranormal romance? Anne Rice. She set a new standard for Gothic horror with a romantic slant—or was it Gothic romance with a horrific slant? In any case, her work with vampires and witches was phenomenally fabulous, crazy romantic, deeply, sensuously, gorgeously written, and it gave me permission to blow off the doors when developing my own style. She was my example, my mentor, my yardstick, and my escape. I learned from her while reading everything she wrote.

So why was she not included in the top 100 of PBS’s Great American Read? Anyone? Anyone?

Naturally, I couldn’t resist tuning in to find out how many authors I recognized and which books I’d read (more than I thought and not as many as I’d hoped). After the show, I came away with a lengthy reading list ... and some big-time bitterness on discovering the literary Queen of the Damned’s legendary Vampire Chronicles did not make the top 100 while Stephenie Meyer’s horrific-for-all-the-wrong-reasons Twilight series did.

Weeks later, I’m still not over it. In truth, I may never be over it. Twilight led to the Fifty Shades of Grey debacle (which also made the list, gods help us) so I guess it gets points for inspiring a new voice, but I believe it’s also responsible for destroying an eternal genre and lowering the bar for writing in general.

I know I sound hysterical. I could be overreacting, I suppose, since vampires are rarely out of fashion for long, but comparing Interview with the Vampire to Twilight is like comparing cream to dishwater. I also understand that lists are completely ego-based and of no value in the grand scheme, yet it truly pains me that the writer whose work first obsessed me then compelled me to become the writer I am (undiscovered and pretty darned good) was sacrificed in favour of a writer far less deserving of the placement.

So, in dark and stormy tribute to the incomparable Anne Rice, I am setting out to write that romance.

Grrrrr.

Five Long Years

Comfortable Rebellion started on March 23, 2013, with a post entitled “Why Not?” There was no topical photo to accompany the text on that introductory blurb; there was just a big idea, a little preface, and (thanks to Nicole) a poem.

That was five years ago. A lot has happened in those five years, yet not a lot has happened. Time is so fluid, so subjective, that it’s hard to reconcile exactly how much has occurred since I took the plunge 755 posts ago. I’ve strayed a bit from my original intention, which was to write write write then post post post about the literary passion that has driven me from the time I wrote my first unfinished novel at the age of twelve.

There have been a lot of unfinished novels. I have also finished a few, and continue to wrestle with the latest, now almost six years in the birthing and still an obsession because it’s a darned good story and has been from the beginning. Have I ever said, “I want to write a romance”? Not aloud, surely. Romance is not my thing, at least not in the conventional sense. I like that my romances tend to go sideways, but the hero in this one deserves a true love story with a happily-ever-after ending and I’m simply not that skilled at making those happen. In the long run, the characters are responsible for achieving the desired outcome, but I’m still the one directing traffic. If only they weren’t so ... so human.

That’s another area where the Rebellion has slipped slightly off the rails. I’ve become more aware of what it is to be human in the past few years. Ironically, I did not see it coming, and I’ve written a lot more than I meant to about my experience. Personal non-fiction is not my literary preference, but it is writing, so I can’t say I’ve lost the CR plot entirely. It’s about stories, right? My story, which is your story and everyone else’s story throughout history; anyone who has been human, anyway, who has lived a life unique unto him/herself but who shares so much in common with me just by nature of his/her humanity. We are all connected, after all. If I didn’t feel it five years ago, I certainly feel it now. So I write about it, and post about it, and hope that the ether has been brightened somewhat by my contribution to it. I may never know.

Have I gone wrong? Maybe not. Maybe the blog has evolved as it was supposed to, even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined it would in the spring of 2013. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what it would look like or what I thought I was doing before I did it, but on that Friday five years ago, I asked myself why should I do it and the answer came pretty quickly:

Why not?

Here’s to another five years.

A Fine Romance

Passion is a double-edged sword. As deeply and wholly as someone can love another, equally deeply and wholly can that someone come to hate the other. Either way, when two souls are inextricably linked, what is it that holds them together? Love? Hate? Or passion?

I’ve just finished reading Therese Anne Fowler’s most excellent novel Z: a Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald. Aside from being a deliciously descriptive dip into the literary world of the Jazz Age, it’s the story of Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald as told by Zelda herself. And, boy, fictionalized or no, their relationship from first encounter to last vestiges was a wild, crazy, roller coaster ride through a rainbow of emotion that should have blown them apart—and almost did, except for one thing: as written by Fowler, they were utterly and completely devoted to each other. Despite the booze and excess, the flings and flops, despite her struggle to maintain a balance and his fight to remain famous at any cost, they stayed together for more than twenty years.

They never really stopped loving each other.

Nowadays, I suppose a divorce would be inevitable since it’s so easy. Back then, not so much. Zelda’s attempt to live her own life was thwarted by the laws of the time—if she left the marriage, she forfeited everything, including her daughter. So she stayed and lost herself instead, ending up in a series of sanitaria where most of the doctors declared the cure lay in devoting herself entirely to her domestic duties of wife and mother—“the centre of a woman’s happiness”. Forget that she was a creative soul in her own right, since everything she accomplished was perceived as an extension of or due to her husband’s influence.

Of course she resented it. She even resented him (with good reason, might I add), but she understood him, too. And she loved him, knowing that he loved her as well. It was a beautiful train wreck. The insanity of excess and the bittersweet ending, however, hardly detract from the romance. Something between them endured the chaotic run through two decades. It made the book’s ending so poignant that I needed time to process it.

Romance (and I may have said this before, so bear with me) might begin with chemistry and that giddy, unbridled riot in the heart. It’s brave and bold and daring—and it can, but often doesn’t, have a happy ending. True romance stays the course through rough waters and prevails against the darkest odds. It survives birth, death, and drama. It lasts beyond the final exhausted surrender. It’s the last man standing. Not a happy ending, perhaps, but a triumphant one if the pair involved can regard each other through jaded eyes and recognize the magic that drew them together in the first place.

Scott and Zelda had a great one.

Love Scene (Preface)

Tomorrow’s writing exercise is my take on the phrase “love scene”. Love comes in so many varieties that if it was entered in a flower show, it would have a category all its own.

The most torrid examples come to mind: budding romance, blooming passion, deflowering the virgin. They take place in burnished candlelight or sultry shadow, in a grand sleigh bed or on a carpet of moss in the forest. I can’t get into love on the beach, though. Too practical. Sand in delicate places? Please.

That said, must a love scene feature lovers? The expectation is certainly there, aided and abetted by my tendency to write about, er, romance in as airbrushed-yet-intense detail as I can conjure. There’s magic in the moment when he finally kisses her, the music soars and the next time we see them, the sheets are trashed and the clothes are strewn across the floor. Now, that’s a love scene.

Imagine my surprise when, in considering my approach to the theme, a familiar character stepped up to have her say. I have worked with her for years, though never in a POV capacity. She may be the least romantic character in my vast collection of characters, but I have a special fondness for her, as I do for all the difficult ones, and so I have given her the moment.

Enjoy.

Romantique, Moi?

I sneer at romance. Chick flicks make me nauseous. Lusty males and swooning heroines send my eyes rolling heavenward. Pink hearts and bridal shows give me migraines. I dunno. Maybe itʼs my Virgoan hardwiring, but what many folk – particularly women – call romantic is what I call cause for a diabetic coma. Kill me now.

So, if I am so adverse to romance, how is it that last Sunday, when Will McAvoy chased down Mackenzie McHale during an election night newscast and clumsily asked her to marry him, I damn near burst into tears? Once I dried up, I had to think about that. Maybe I have been mistaken about romance.

It isnʼt about new love or young love or even strangers exchanging glances across a crowded room. For me, romance is the reward of a punishing struggle to overcome hurt, of lovers who fall out of each otherʼs arms and find their way back again. Romance is an elderly couple holding hands as they walk across the mall parking lot. Romance is the reunion of those parted by war or misadventure or misunderstanding. It is deep and passionate and painful and gorgeous and triumphant and enduring. It is not fluffy or silly or a comedy of errors. Romance is seriously potent stuff. It deserves respect because it overcomes. It surpasses honeymoons and arranged marriages to become something rich and pulsating and radiant. Romance is epic. Legendary. Unstoppable.

True romance is also on the endangered species list because these days love is disposable. Too few couples make the effort anymore. I recall a saying from years ago – I donʼt remember who said it: Love never dies from natural causes.

I am almost always working with lovers in my writing. Julian is my most romantic character, but my most romantic lovers are probably Lucius and Analise. Theirs is the eternally flaming passion that will not die because it has survived loss, conflict, separation and a somewhat volatile reunion. Romance is not for the faint of heart. Romance in its truest form takes time to reach its full potential.

Sometimes, it takes a recovery from the blow that shatters it. Will and Mac were broken for years, but they never stopped loving each other. They cannot go back, but they can certainly go forward. And if itʼs right, if it is a true romance, they will emerge the stronger for it.

But Iʼm not a romantic. Honest.