Why I Hate (Most) Romance Novels

I've mentioned in previous posts that my reading tastes have changed, and that I don't read many romance novels any more. Here's why: romance novels are predicated on the hero and heroine falling in love, despite outward obstacles and their own individual baggage. Not a bad thing in itself. What I hate is when we, as readers, are forced to endure unbelievable characters, contrived plots, and overblown sex for sex's sake (e.g., has nothing to do with forwarding either the character or plot arcs).

Case in point: the book I am reading right now. What's wrong with it?

EVERYTHING.

Let me 'splain.

Hero: Alpha male, which the author has translated to "caveman." Stalks around (wearing black, of course) and broods a lot. Internal monologue consists of "Heroine is so hawt. She's a shrew, but I will enjoy taming her (translation: rape her). I'm so studly I will make her love it."

Heroine: Too Stupid To Live (TSTL), but a Ravishing Beauty (aren't they all?), who stomps her feet and pouts a lot about the Wrongs Done Her. Her internal monologue is basically: "Oh, how I hate this man who has killed my family, claimed my lands, enslaved my people, and constantly threatens to rape me! Oh, but he's so hawt..."

Two-dimensional Friend of Hero (to heroine): You misunderstand him. He's got A Tortured Past. We all have been through Tortured Stuff with him, so we're unquestioningly loyal, even if he is an asshole.

Me: *gag*

I'm about a third of the way through this book, and have lost count of the number of times I've wanted to throw it against the wall. How in the hell did this tripe get published? Granted, the author's use of language is better than many others I've read, but unlikeable, self-absorbed characters like these hold absolutely no interest for me. An author's job is to introduce us, the readers, to sympathetic (if flawed) protagonists in believable situations, culminating in an emotional catharsis. The author of this story, as well as most of her currently published fellows, on the other hand, have introduced me to the fine art of book flinging.

Given the predominance of this type of blather in today's market, Book Flinging could well become the next new olympic event. At this rate, I've got a good shot at the gold.

Reading Evolution

Do you find that your reading tastes have changed over the years? Mine certainly have, but it took a recent trip to Barnes & Noble to realize how much.

Ten years ago, I read mostly historical romance, with a smattering of sci-fi (Lois McMaster Bujold) or fantasy/urban fantasy thrown in. Fast forward to this past weekend..here's the breakdown of my stash: two fantasy novels (Emma Bull and Mercedes Lackey), one urban fantasy (Laurell K. Hamilton), one Japanese thriller, one modern thriller, two historical fiction novels (one set in 19th-century China, the other in Roman Britain), and one book on Zen Buddhism.

Notice there's not a single romance title among them. Save for books written by friends, or friends of friends, I don't read romance any more. I just don't want to; nothing about the genre attracts me any more. Maybe it's my own cynicism with the industry, maybe it's a by-product of my own hideous divorce experience, or maybe I think the genre has hamstrung itself with over-used and cliched concepts.

Whatever the cause, I'm stretching my reading wings and trying new and different things. Over the next few days I'll post some of my thoughts on these experiences, and what, if any, genre piques my interest.

For reading, that is. Writing is still another matter. But more on that later.

Who am I?

I've been wondering lately why I have no desire to return to the genre in which I'm published. I have no yen to read it, either. Why? Because it no longer has any meaning for me. It's not that romances are poorly written; far from it. It's just that I'm having a difficult time winnowing through the myriad novels currently available for the few that will actually speak to me.

The same thing is happening with my writing. I've started a couple of romance stories - good stories, with interesting, well-developed characters - but I have no desire to finish them. Again, they have no meaning for me.

So what constitutes meaning? That is my quest.

For the longest time, whenever I've come up with an idea for a story (which, for me, is almost on a daily basis), my next thoughts are how I can market said story. I completely bypass the joy of that new idea and focus instead on the commercial aspects. Then the stress of finishing the story in order to make some money kicks in, and kills the fun right off the bat. So right now I'm working on a story that's just for me. And there will be no discussion of publication. No stress. No self-applied pressure. I am no longer dependent on my writing for income, so I can afford to be selfish in that regard.

I wrote a few paragraphs on this story last night, and was so tickled with them that I laughed. THAT is the joy of writing. THAT is what has eluded me for so long. Sure, I didn't write very much, but it's the meaning that counts, not the quantity of words.

And right now, I can't wait to write more.