On Writing Romance (19 page)
Reid had been as good as his word that night; it had been almost midnight when her work was done, and he had still been sitting patiently in the booth, drinking coffee, idly turning the pages of the morning's newspaper. She had had a couple of hours to think it over, and so when she came back to the booth for the last time she was considerably calmer. Perhaps Kent's family had a right to know what she had decided. In any case, it seemed, it was no longer her choice whether to tell them; the man in that booth was a force to be reckoned with.
“I've clocked out,” she said. “I'm finished for the night.”
The body of the flashback is in real-time narrative and past tense, allowing the readers to watch the characters interact:
“You might as well tell me what you want, Cassidy.”
She thought bitterly, You'll never believe it â but why not tell you? “A good home for my baby,” she said. “That's all. So I'm giving him up for adoption, and you can just run along and not worry about it any more.” She started to slide out of the booth.
He said, impassively, “That makes things much easier.”
Cassidy stopped. “What on earth do you mean?”
He didn't answer. “When is the baby due?”
“Why do you care?” But she couldn't hold out against that cool stare. “The middle of December.”
“December,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Have you talked to an agency yet?”
As the flashback draws to a conclusion a few pages later, I shift to past perfect tense to indicate to the readers that the flashback is ending:
She swore to herself that she would take his help only as long as she must, that she would regard it as a loan, and that someday she would pay every penny back, because to do anything else was to put a price tag on her baby.
She did it, too, as far as she was able. Last May, she had finally finished at the university, and on the first day of June, when the annual check was deposited, she closed the account. She took every remaining cent of Reid Cavanaugh's money to Chicago with her when she went to a news reporters' convention, and she bought the first of that series of money orders. And every month thereafter she would send a little more, until she had paid back the part of his money she had spent.
Then I return the readers to the present-day story by using word clues and references to the scene as it was before the flashback started. This clearly tells the readers that they're back to the main story, and back in the present:
The moon was high now, in the wee hours of the morning, and the shadow out on the lawn of the sorority house stayed solidly in place.
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Flashbacks should be used only if the past action illustrates the motivation for the main conflict and if it is necessary for the readers to see that action actually occurring in order to understand the present-day story.
Before you commit to using flashbacks, keep in mind that they seldom move a story forward. In fact, they slow the action of the main story and can even bring it to a dead halt â from which it may never recover. They also do not work well to develop a character. If your intent is simply to insert the character's history, a summary may be more effective. You could also relate the necessary history through dialogue with another character, a technique that allows you to include a later and more mature interpretation of the events.
Choosing the right details â and using enough, but not too many, of them â is particularly important when it comes to conveying the setting and background of your story.
Setting
is the location of the story;
background
is the jobs, hobbies, social structure, etc., that add texture to the story.
The romances I read when I was a kid were set in places like the south of France, a hacienda in Mexico, a cruise ship, or a sheikh's tent in the desert. It seemed that an exotic location was a necessary part of the romance genre â quite a hurdle for an Iowa girl, raised on a farm, who'd never seen an ocean.
But my desire to write romance outweighed my common sense, so I plunged in anyway and hoped that by the time my work was good enough to sell, I'd be able to go someplace glamorous, or the publishers would have changed the rules.
As a matter of fact, both of those things happened. But the more important change was the alteration in the definition of
exotic location
. Now, romances don't need to be set in glitzy, glamorous sites. Anything that is new to the readers can be considered exotic.
However, some settings are more popular than others. Ranches in the American West, both historical and contemporary, are perennial favorites, as is the Australian outback. Greece and Italy are popular settings with some categories (especially Harlequin Presents), while others favor small to mid-size American cities (especially Harlequin American Romance).
Cruise ships and resorts are not big sellers, though nobody seems to know why. Media backgrounds â stories set at newspapers or magazine offices, or featuring war correspondents, news anchors, or television hosts â are not well received. Movie sets, sports stadiums, and symphony orchestras are also less successful as backgrounds, perhaps because it's difficult to evoke a celebrity character so realistically that the readers can suspend disbelief.
Certain geographical areas â especially Africa, the Balkans, and Southeast Asia â are not popular with readers. There seem to be two reasons for this: Cultural unfamiliarity makes it more difficult for the readers to identify, and perceived political instability threatens the readers' conviction that the couple can achieve a truly happy, peaceful ending. The stereotype may be unfair, but the prejudice is a fact.
Like everything in romance, there are exceptions. Single-title romances are more flexible than category romances and can take up unusual settings and backgrounds; there are many more celebrities, sports stars, and reporters in single-title than in category romance. Still, stories that buck the trends must be very strong in order to overcome the initial resistance to the background. So if you think you want to write a story about an actor falling in love with a reporter while filming a movie on a cruise ship headed to South Africa, you might want to think again.
Setting is important because it adds depth and texture to your love story.
Perhaps it's not a romantic place at all, but one that is made romantic only by circumstances. It might be foreign to the readers, so they can feel like they're traveling with the heroine, or it might be familiar, giving the readers a sense of comfort and informality. In any case, setting functions as a backdrop, not as a major portion of the story. You're writing a romance, not a travelogue.
Details about the setting are best presented as they relate to the character, as in this example from Debbie Macomber's single title
Thursdays at Eight
:
It was barely November, and already Christmas decorations were up. Clare pulled into the strip mall where Mocha Moments was located, noting that Liz Kenyon's Seville was parked out front. Knowing her friend, Clare suspected Liz had ordered her croissant and coffee, and had their window table secured.
The air was cool and damp this morning, with a breeze coming in from the Pacific, but Clare didn't mind. The Santa Ana winds had dried out the valley these past few months, and the moisture was a refreshing change.
We know quite a bit about the restaurant, the time of year, and the geographical area from this brief selection, even though Macomber has used just a few setting details. Because she's chosen details that evoke the senses â like the cool, damp breeze â we can feel as well as see the coffee shop where the characters are meeting.
Setting is more than geographical location â it's the background against which the story takes place. Background includes the main characters' jobs and their lifestyles. However, the background must not be allowed to outweigh the story. If your heroine's job is so exotic or so far outside your readers' experience that you can't explain it in a couple of sentences, perhaps you should modify the job rather than risk making the romance secondary to the background. If your fictional society is so complex that you're spending more pages describing it than telling the readers what the characters are up to, perhaps it's time to rethink the setting. If the heroine's hobby is more interesting to you than her romance, then the hobby may be too prominent in the story.
Looking again at
Thursdays at Eight
, you can see how Macomber gives a quick, clear picture of her main character's job:
Liz stared at the phone on her desk, dreading its ring. Her Monday had begun badly, and already she could see that this first week of the new year was going to be a repeat of December, with many of the same problems she'd faced then. The hospital was no closer to a new contract with the nurses' union, and the state health inspectors were scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.
Without going into loads of detail, Macomber makes it clear that Liz is a hospital executive, not a health-care worker, and gives us enough detail to understand why Liz would be frustrated with her job just now. Since Liz's job isn't the story, that's all we need to know.
One way to increase the sense of reality in your stories is to refer to real movies, songs, dances, fashions, people, and products. But this kind of verisimilitude comes with a downside: Hit movies and dances will look very tired in a few years. (Remember the Macarena?) Quoting from current songs means getting permission from the musicians' organizations, something that is not easy to do. Hairstyles change from year to year, and designers wax and wane in popularity, so being too specific about your hero's haircut or your heroine's dress style may rapidly date your story.
Real people have a habit of changing. Celebrity couples break up. People grow old, get arrested for possession of drugs, or die before their time â and if you've referred to them in your book as young, vivacious role models, you've made your contemporary romance into a historical without even trying.
Real products also change over time and can date your story. Packaging and slogans seldom stay static for long. If you choose to refer to real products, use the trademarked names correctly (e.g., Coca-Cola or Coke,
not
coke). And if you want to refer to a product in a negative sense, it's safer to make up a name than to refer to a real product and risk irritating the corporation's attorneys.
Writing a book doesn't look like such an overwhelming project if you think of the task in terms of constructing the individual scenes that make up the story â each one just a few pages in length.
A scene is a single unit of real time, including action by the characters. Something happens, and the readers see it happen. Each scene has a definite beginning and ending, and it consists of a sequence of consecutive events. It may include reflection or flashback, but if there is a lapse in time between story events, the author usually ends the scene and starts another.
With rare exceptions, each scene should have one â and only one â well-defined point of view (we'll discuss point of view in greater detail in chapter eleven).
Every scene must have at least one major purpose or goal, and preferably several minor purposes as well. If you can't state what the purpose of the scene is, it may be merely occupying space instead of advancing the plot. Each scene should be an essential part of the story, furthering the relationship between the main characters. If cutting a scene wouldn't seriously wound the book, then it shouldn't be there in the first place.
Scenes differ in length according to their relative importance in the story. A scene may be no more than a single page long; a chapter may contain several such short scenes. But a scene may also be so important that it fills an entire chapter. It might even carry over from one chapter to the next, breaking for the chapter end at an exciting or dramatic point and then picking up at the start of the next chapter, perhaps from a different point of view.
The break from one scene to another within a chapter is marked typographically by an extra blank line â a white space that alerts readers to expect a change in time, place, or point of view. (Adding a few crosshatches or asterisks to the blank line ensures that it will not be overlooked in editing or typesetting.)
In many kinds of fiction, each scene is simply assigned a number, and no matter how long or short, the scene functions as a chapter. The book might have dozens of chapters, some a page or two long and some running to fifteen or twenty pages.
In category romance, the rules tend to be a little more rigid, with the book divided into roughly equal chapters, each of which contains one or more scenes. The average length of a chapter in category romance is 5,000 words, though that's not a rule.
The number of chapters varies according to the romance category, and some are more definite in their guidelines than others. Typically, a short romance will have ten to twelve chapters, while long contemporaries might have seventeen to twenty, and historicals might have twenty-five or more. Single-title and mainstream romance novels, like general fiction, vary widely in the number and length of their chapters.
While each scene is a well-defined unit of time, location, and point of view, a chapter can be much more expansive. A single chapter that includes several scenes might cover a span of days or even months.
The chapter is a convenient, if somewhat artificial, unit of storytelling. Each chapter is another step in the characters' upward climb, another section of the story. Unlike nonfiction, in which chapters are neatly constructed packages and each is independent of the others, in fiction each chapter ends with another twist in the plot, leading into the next chapter and making it difficult for readers to put the book down. In romance, that chapter-ending twist usually relates to both main characters.