Romance

Hey You: Story Time

Ahh, romance

I kept playing with that story. It started with the idea of a twisted nod to the pressures of “romance” and idealizing others. Sounds so modern, so 2014, right? Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet over 400 years ago. You know the one where a 13 year old girl and a 17 year old boy decide they’re in love, and within days both of them and several others are dead. Who wants a glass of champagne?

While I was thinking about it and before I began writing it kept changing, of course. Filling in some parts and omitting others. I had the idea to put it in second person POV. For readers who aren’t writers and well past grammar classes, second person is when the protagonist is referred to as “you,” as opposed to “I” (first person) or he/she (third person). Not a popular narrative choice, it can be disastrous, calling attention to the fact that you’re reading a story (as opposed to getting lost in it) or, on rare occasion, it can work very well.

I’m still undecided as to how well it worked, but it was an interesting exercise for me. I’ve never tried it before, and it brought me very, very close inside the main character’s head, and left me feeling a little breathless, even while I felt the breath of the protagonist. Strange. And nice to stretch a bit while I created some new characters.

It’s got a touch of magical realism, which I might or might not leave in if I ever change or expand it, one of the bits inspired by a photo I took on the street recently of a dead rat next to a cigarette butt. I was going to put it here, but Husband tells me that would tip the scales from edgy to tasteless and gross. My gut tells me at least half of my readers would agree with him, so I’m leaving it out–I’ll let Husband know you all said thank you.

Tentatively titled “The One,” I’ve added a page above (cleverly titled Fiction II), you can reach it by clicking up top or the link right here.

Justifiers and Qualifiers

The two women friends are shocked at a third woman dressed as a man. But Harlequin and Pierrot are also men. From the Danish “Punch” magazine (not the British Punch), July 1876 no. 30 page 233 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I feel like I’ve done quite a bit of moaning and groaning here on Mrs Fringe in the past couple of weeks. New week, I’d like to start out positive before beginning my usual ~~obsessing~~ musings. While I didn’t write as much as I would have liked at this point in the month, I have worked on both my WIP and a couple of short stories. There. I’ve given my dear readers unicorns and rainbows, you too, can chase your tail while sorting laundry and cleaning lost bodily fluids from canines and dependents.

On to the whine portion of happy hour. As I’ve said in the past, I write romance (the current WIP) and literary fiction (short stories, and a temporarily shelved WIP). None of this includes the blogging, which is another entirely different style of writing. Everybody’s a critic. Those who like romance, other types of genre fiction, or even–squee–my romances, don’t understand why I write lit fic. “Ew. Oh. It’s so dark. Aren’t those the books where nothing ever happens? Why do you write that? Well, it’s not my cup of tea.”

For those who like lit fic, or even–squee–my lit fic, when they hear I also write romance. “Really? Why are you wasting your time with that shit? You can do better than that. Well, I guess it’s easy money.”

I can’t win for losing. First of all, let me repeat, for the 8000th time, nothing in writing is easy money, or an easy path to publication. After 40,000 years I am still, but hopefully not always, one of the unwashed and unpublished masses. Maybe not unwashed, I bought an absolutely divine magnolia pear scented soap.

As a reader, I have a wide variety of books on my shelves. Romance, lit fic, short stories, poems, biographies, essays, non fiction books about economics, various religions, cookbooks, thrillers, horror, mysteries, even a fantasy or two. Some people are more focused, but I know many whose bookshelves look like mine.

Fiction Stacks (Photo credit: chelmsfordpubliclibrary)

So why do these same people with varied titles on their reading lists sneer at me for writing two seemingly disparate styles? Yes, the style of writing, pacing, sentence structure, word choice, these things are different. One is more introspective and character driven, the other quicker paced and it’s true, the black moment is a lot more, ummm, navy blue. But honestly, most (all) fiction is about exploring people, our emotions, our responses, our needs, wants, desires, connection to others, how we respond in any given situation, societal dilemmas and individual dilemmas.

I’m guessing there are slurs for every style and genre, but it feels like the two I write in are particular targets. Romance is for frustrated housewives, girly-porn (not sure what these critics make of M/M romance, but hey), they can be knocked out in a week, blah blah blah. And this doesn’t begin to touch the many subgenres of romance, or the different levels of “heat,” from sweet to yowza! I like writing romance. It isn’t easy, but it’s fun. How do two people (or vampires, if that’s your thing) fall in love? What makes someone heroic, or lovable, for that matter? What makes someone with an independent, fulfilling life want to make the drastic changes necessary to incorporate a significant other and arrive at happily ever after, or even happy for now?

And literary fiction. Sigh. It’s pretentious, self conscious, an excuse to break the rules of grammar, there’s no plot, it can’t be literary if it hasn’t won an award, navel gazing, yada, yada, yada. If you haven’t been following Mrs Fringe for long, let me tell you, I’m quite fond of navel gazing, and wondering why the fuck we make the decisions we do. Yanno, the human condition. Also, not easy to write, and for me, even the pace of production is slower than when I write romance. Is it “fun” to write? No, but there’s a depth of satisfaction I can’t describe, and I love it.

I wish I was like Stephen King, able to create believable, relatable characters that battle unreal creatures and situations. I wish I was like Margaret Atwood, sculpting a marriage of poetry, brilliant prose, and speculative fiction. I don’t have either of their levels of talent, certainly not the imaginations required. But if I did have an imagination that leaned towards alternate realities and creatures that go bump in the night? I’d write those stories too.

Why this rant? Because I am feeling good about working on both, I get different but definite satisfaction from working on each, but I’ve received several of these not so sly little pinches in conversation this week. Unknot your panties, folks. If I’m ever blessed enough to be published in both, they’ll be in different sections of the bookstore (assuming there still are brick and mortar bookstores by then), and I’ll use a pen name for one of the styles.

“Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.” Margaret Atwood (Photo credit: katerha)

Two Days Late and Two Dollars Short

Jacopo da Ponte – St Valentine Baptizing St Lucilla – WGA01452 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Saint Valentine, patron saint of love, lovers, beekeepers, epilepsy, fainting, plague, and travelers. He was one busy dude.

Since this week included Valentine’s Day and I’m writing a romance, I was thinking about romance; the ways it can be defined, the different meanings, and how those representations have changed for me over the years. Yeah, yeah, I’m a little late for a Valentine’s Day post.

I don’t remember thinking about romance or Valentine’s Day as a kid, certainly it wasn’t the standard it has become for each child to come to class with a card for each classmate and a candy stuck into each one. I don’t remember it being in our home, either. My parents were very practical people, something like buying a heart shaped box of chocolates would have sent my father up on his political soap box to deliver a long, loud lecture–possibly pulling out the Encyclopedia Brittanica for back up and illustrations. Not that he never bought my mother flowers or gifts (not regularly, but it happened), but the idea of being expected to do so because of a Saint, or worse, Hallmark, was just the type of thing to make his head explode.

Vinegar Valentine, circa 1900 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a teenager, oh I loved all that shit. Pretending I didn’t, of course. But really, what teenaged girl doesn’t love gifts of chocolates, flowers, white teddy bears with red ribbons, maybe a splinter of a gold charm that must surely mean dedication, pledges of undying adoration from anonymous sources? Trust me, they all love it, or some variation. Vegan, hemp wearing girlfriend? Organic fair trade chocolates. Or maybe a bong with a rose painted on it, put Sugar Magnolia on the iPod. Even the girls wearing thick black eyeliner to match flat-died black hair, wearing spikes around their neck. Stick a black ribbon around the damned box, pierce the teddy bear’s tongue and they’ll be certain you really, truly “get” them.

Romance as an adult, though. That changes. And I’m not talking about secksy times. It means different things to different people. I focus on women because I’ve got girly bits. I have to say one of the top three romantic moments I ever experienced with Husband was the first time he insisted I take my pants off so he could iron them. Strange? Certainly. But it represented something. After eleventy billion years together, though, it isn’t quite the same moment. I can identify and create romance inside my head that work for a manuscript, the off balance rush of hormones in overdrive and falling in love. Between Husband and I, we were never big on “traditional,” commercial romantic moments. As life got busier and more complex, the untraditional romantic moments have gotten lost in the shuffle. Maybe this is the stage where it would be nice to have the traditional, commercial moments acknowledged, if only to counteract the effects of SAD and sick kiddo. I find myself wondering what romance means at this stage, with frenetic days of each of us running our separate wheels inside of one cage. A bonus slice of carrot? Fresh shavings?

I don’t know, but I’m also wondering if Flower Child will notice if I steal one of the chocolates from the box I bought her. Probably not, so I won’t.

What does romance mean to you?