Let us argue, purely hypothetically, that your debut Mills
& Boon attempt is nearing completion. You have created a compelling
heroine, who, in all likelihood, has unresolved issues with her father, money
troubles and frizzy hair on especially hot days, and you have matched her with
an emotionally-distant, arrogant billionaire whose resolute independence has
finally been challenged by the attractive twenty-something marine biologist he
has hired to be his live-in housekeeper and blackmailed mistress. Naturally, he
never intended to fall in love, but he has been intrigued by how her feistiness
and outward loathing could be overcome with weekly cheques and why she insists
on wearing hats whenever it is sunny. With a lifetime of wedded bliss and
endless baby-making one conversation away your hero manages to overturn the
metaphorical apple cart with a display of masculine ego, stupidity, or an
unlucky misquote, sure to infuriate both your heroine and your readers.
There remains the toughest scene to render, the showdown and apology, where the man confesses to having been a moron, bastard, pimp, or
unfortunately loud when speaking privately, and must come to his sweetheart's
window, car, private jet, nightclub bathroom and win her back with a heartfelt
plea. The course of true love never runs smoothly, as fans of romance fiction
know from reading romance fiction. However, as story-telling requires a
dramatic impetus against the pastoral idealisation of pure, overwhelming
happiness Secrets Uncovered saw fit to visit RIVA novelist Lucy King for a
Grovelling Section in their Conflict Chapter. You, lucky reader, shall now
learn of every ingredient needed for this must-have sequence, including the
most important one of how to engineer an intelligent, arrogant billionaire into
doing something so utterly appalling his only option is to apologise. ‘Ah, who
doesn’t love a good grovel? The moment the hero realizes he’s been a fool,
tracks the heroine down and begs for forgiveness. An alpha male brought to his
knees by love?'
Right on, Lucy King. No one doesn't love a good grovel and
no story would be romantic without one. Tell us, how on earth do we create such
a scene in the first place? 'Screw up really badly. The worse the screw up, the
better the grovel. Let his emotional baggage blind him.' Before aspiring
authors become too excited at the myriad of dastardly possibilities open to
their hero they should bear in mind that he can do nothing so drastic it cannot
be solved with a smouldering sorry and some eye contact. Most often in the
assorted Mills & Boon's we have studied this momentary breakdown in
relations between hero and heroine is generated by a misunderstanding causing
old tensions to flare up. Jealousy, pride or being treated as a prostitute are
exacerbated by confusion or seeing her walking with another man, moving her
belongings into his mansion without asking, or him continuing to treat her as a
prostitute even after they have agreed to fall in love.
What's next? 'Leave. Or make the heroine leave.' Let them
save themselves from love. After all, there are plenty more marine biologists
in the sea. 'But hang on a moment. Reluctantly force him to re-assess the
values he has held all his life, analyse some of the irritatingly valid points
the heroine may have made during their last encounter and make him examine his
feelings (shudder).' This is called character growth. Every character, besides
the protagonist, needs to learn and become more-rounded and decent in order to
earn the happy ending they are going to receive no matter what. While our hero
continues to tremble violently in brackets, let us ponder how we should go
about putting this reinvention of philosophy and long-term objectives into the
sentences necessary to achieve the desired finished word count. Lucy King
explains the significance of this life-changing epiphany, 'In a burst of
clarity he realises that he has behaved like a complete idiot and acknowledges
that his life is pointless without the heroine in it.' How this monumental
thought process comes so swiftly to save the day, and the novel, may seem too
important to merely gloss over on the way towards the Grand Romantic Gesture,
but this lack of perception is consistent in all other areas of Secrets
Uncovered and so we head onto the next statement.
'Waste no time in rectifying the situation. Make a Grand
Emotional Gesture. Explain behaviour. At a push, confess that she might have
been right after all. About some things. Possibly. Phew. Sorted.' Without
details, explanation of importance, or advice of how to make this work
convincingly King's guide sounds improbably easy. While the dramatic grovel
offers a fine opportunity for sweeping romantic actions, the hero's sudden
change of heart, and personality, simply works against everything else we have
learned about writing romance fiction. There are merely two shades to the hero,
as an epiphany turns him from an arrogant, misogynistic tycoon to a sensitive
philanthropist who cannot make a decision without first consulting his wife.
The fifty-five thousand words are split, unequally, with fifty-thousand of him
being an irresistible jerk and a climatic chapter showing him in the midst of
renaissance. This structure ruins the insights of a nuanced journey towards
healthy new man of domesticity and fatherhood, and suggests a writer requires
fifty thousand words to establish this man as a pillock.
'Wait a second.' What now, Lucy
King? 'Something isn’t right.' You're gosh darn right something isn't right.
'Why isn’t she falling into his arms in gratitude?' Is it possible the heroine
is smarter than she looks and has been written? Will her handsome owner have to
go a step further and explain the plot even more heavy-handedly than the author
had been doing throughout the book? Must he, 'Release all those emotions he
didn’t even know he had, and take a deep breath and tell her that he loves her
and can’t live without her?' Well, it couldn't hurt. Women love hearing that
sort of thing. Now we have completed our heartfelt abasement and satisfied all
the swooning female readers the world over, there is only the small matter of
the heroine accepting this speech as genuine and their lover's arc as
accomplished. 'Wait on tenterhooks for the heroine’s reaction.' Still, we know
she will forgive, with a womanly smile of victory, and fall into his arms.
'Thank goodness for that. Live happily ever after,' instructs King, lastly.
Thank goodness and live happily
ever after, indeed. For a moment it seemed as if those two would never work
things out, so stubborn and made for each other as they were that not even
their love could overcome an author rigorously committed to a pre-approved
structure. In many cases the initial plot contrivance, or screw-up to use
King's expert jargon, that prompted this narrative twist would either be too
horrific for an apology to suffice, in which case the writer should begin their
novel over, or be accidental, incidental or insignificant enough to be
appropriate for Mills & Boon publication. Hearty congratulations to you,
prospective authors, either way.
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