"Keir Dullea, Gone Tomorrow"

With the quantity in volume, unambitious marketing strategy and short shelf-life of a Mills & Boon novel in mind, the lack of a breakthrough book hardly surprises. No title from the publishing house will ever be the must-read of the summer season, clutched by commuters on trains to prove they're wise to what's cool or packed into every holiday bag for beach-reading. Nope, for a Mills & Boon author to be successful, it is a matter of saturation, rather than luck and people's desperate need to belong. This isn't to say one can't dream. Who knows who reads these novels and might one day aspire to turn a emotionally-striking story they've read into a $30 million dollar Hollywood romantic comedy? Surely if top film producers are willing to shell out small fortunes for the rights to computer games, old television shows, board games, Facebook applications and Nicholas Sparks (whatever they are), why not a Mills & Boon? Valentine's Day is just a day and that was enough of an idea for a movie. A highly lucrative movie, at that. How highly lucrative? Dunno, writing down how much money Valentine's Day grossed is depressing.

This isn't to suggest that Harlequin don't produce movies, because anyone unfortunate enough to have seen one will testify that they do. Bewildered Heart can testify to having watched such a thing. In 1995 Harlequin Books published Alicia Scott's At the Midnight Hour, and in 1995 Harlequin Films produced an adaptation of said novel, starring as the historical romantic heroine, who else, but Patsy Kensit. Before the Modern Romance category introduced modernity to Mills & Boon the majority of the company's output seems filled with clones of Jane Eyre, Rebecca and Wuthering Heights. The tales of brooding and cruel land-owners in giant country estates who hide a dark secret beneath that brooding and cruel exterior. Our feisty and determined young lady must brave harsh terrain and break through the cruel, curt broodiness of this man to learn cruelty and brooding are worth putting up with when there's a giant country estate at stake.

Sometimes there's a kid and sometimes there's an ex-wife who died mysteriously and may have been murdered. Can our plucky female lead give her heart to this insensitive bore when all clues point to the fact he murdered his first wife? Why is he so obsessed with that painting of her anyway? Is the painting haunted? No, don't be silly. Did he murder his wife? Well, you should probably be sure one way or another before you marry him. The End. At the Midnight Hour is so eerily similar to Rebecca it is almost meta-fiction parody, with At the Midnight Hour the second wife and Rebecca as Rebecca. Would that make Alicia Scott Mrs. Danvers?

It turns out, however, that the Midnight Hour's aloof and foul-tempered hero is not a killer after all and the reasons for his inhumane disposition are never explained. Some men are just cruel and distant. It's part of their charm. As noted by many Mills & Boon writers, you want your man with a little edge and mystery and what's more edgy and mysterious than a potential history of uxoricide?

Harlequin Enterprises only produced a handful of films between 1994 and 1998. Hardly enterprising, but probably for the best. Their other title was far ago in 1978, Leopard in the Snow, based upon the 1974 novel by Anne Mather. This one concerns a beautiful woman, Helen, who runs into a leopard in the snow in the English countryside. Fortunately for her the leopard has been tamed by a dashing, yet cynical, chap named Dominic Lyall. The question is, can he tame Helen? Not having read the book or seen the film, for shame!, it could be the other way around and it is Helen who has to tame Dominic, like he tamed the leopard. For example, 'Helen was relieved to find the leopard tamed, if only she could say the same for its master! Oh, did we mention that this master, Dominic, is a former racing-driver still physically and emotionally scarred from an accident years before. Because he's also that.' It's a little clunky. Dominic was played by Keir Dullea, star of 2001: A Space Odyssey and Bunny Lake is Missing, which certainly adds a little class to the proceedings. If Bewildered Heart had been in charge of the film's marketing, we would have led with his angular, yet dashing, presence. Even if we attempt to forget about Dullea for a moment, we certainly would have played down the leopard in the snow and the racing-driver stuff.

So why then do Mills & Boon authors write? Appropriately enough, it's for love. Romance novelists enjoy reading and creating stories of eternal love so much that they don't need the fame or money that comes from multimedia success. Now, when we say they love love stories, they do, but only for a month, when they move onto the next book, which is exactly the same as the previous one, but with a different name and a slightly altered appearance. These writers sound a lot like some young male weblogs we attended blogging university with.

"Holy smokes, just looking at him, she needed a cup of ice"

Since 1996 Jill Shalvis has written more than eighty-five romance novels. Using basic mathematics and a calculator, that suggests she writes six a year, each reaching the dizzying heights of fifty thousand words. In 2010 she has had a new book released for the months of February, March, April and July, with upcoming titles to be available in August, September and October. In between her writing, Jill also keeps a blog (Like Bewildered Heart! Wheeeee!) and a Twitter account (Booooo!). This insane volume would seem a capable feat to someone who was unaware of her novels. Would she not be better served writing three books a year and spending the remaining time editing those works and perhaps spending some time in the real world learning how life is for people who aren't Mills & Boon writers? Yes, Jill, others can use long sentences too. Damn! 

Roughing It With Ryan is not your average Mills & Boon novel. It is, in fact, closer to regular chick-lit, heavy with tired attempts at humour and a conversational prose style. The 'Hey, gal-pals' stuff grates immediately, but at least it isn't your typical repetitive, glossy prose of other genre examples. Suzanne Carter is not your average Mills & Boon heroine either. She carries around a little extra baggage and thickness than your usual romantic protagonist. To clarify baggage means emotional baggage and thickness means stupidity. In a slightly different regard, baggage and thickness also means she has chunky hips. Fair enough, it is just the fat issue that is unique to Suzanne. But weight (heh), there's more to her (heh) than meets the eye. Yes, Suzanne has been engaged three times and sees herself as a serial heart-breaker who 'destroys men' even though the narrator helpfully points out her previous relationships were all ended by the men, because men are jerks! Damn them!

Nothing speaks to Suzanne like gallons of ice cream. No sooner has Suzanne decided to swear off men for their own good and lose herself in eating ice cream with new bestest friend in the whole wide world (name unimportant) than she claps eyes on Ryan, a gorgeous, perfect, brilliant, loving tree surgeon. All tree surgeons are gorgeous and rugged, aren't they, working with their hands and sturdy torsos to protect nature and humanity's supply of oxygen? Chicks dig that shit, eh, gal-pals? Women adore loving, flawless men who love their partners despite their chunky appearance, insane demands, inane chatter and crises of confidence. It's as if Jill Shalvis understands women about as well as she doesn't understand men. Damn her!

For a Mills & Boon novel Roughing It with Ryan offers numerous supporting characters, none of whom encroach on the central story-line of Suzanne's dithering. In fact, her decision to become a caterer and realise her love for Ryan has little to do with the plot and more to do with the dwindling amount of words left for Shalvis to write. This is frustrating for even the most hearty consumer of such romantic material. The problem, as always, stems from the lack of stakes to the story. Suzanne doesn't want a relationship because she can't handle the pain of a romance gone bad, until she meets the perfect man and decides to spend the rest of her life with him. Suzanne doesn't want to be a caterer until she suddenly decides she actually does and then becomes a caterer. The End. This isn't a story. Nothing in such a scenario implies drama. Damn you, Jill Shalvis!

"There are other places to kiss..."

Public Mistress, Private Affair has a title that could easily be switched and retain its meaning. Public Affair, Private Mistress. See? Still meaningless. Maggie Cox writes Mills & Boon novels. Her previous attempts include The Millionaire Boss's Baby, The Spanish Billionaire's Christmas Bride (Themed! Eep) and The Spaniard's Marriage Demand. They all sound awful, don't they? Then again, Bewildered Heart has no predilections for wealthy Spaniards. Give us a homeless Belgian any day. This effort involves a PR guru named Nash. He hides a dark secret behind his smouldering good looks, tanned, fit body and silky, sexy voice. He is, in fact, from the mean streets of Stockholm. Nash must keep this potentially devastating personal embarrassment under wraps, in order to maintain his reputation as a brilliant PR guru who didn't grow up on the mean streets of Stockholm. 

Thankfully work proves a distraction as now he has been hired to reinvent an actress, Freya Carpenter, who is frayed, proving her name is as apt as Nash's. Since Freya's notorious divorce from a bastard named James Frazier, she has seen her name dragged through the mud, with charges of drug-taking, drink-drinking and general bitch-being. Why journalists accept James' word when it is apparent no one accepts James' word never gets clarified by the narrative. Freya has been left loveless, penniless, with her career in tatters. More worryingly though, her divorce has left her incapable of trusting a man or falling in love again. Despite these setbacks and her two years in the wilderness and semi-reclusion, she remains incredibly attractive with piercing eyes, ivory skin and lips that make you forget every thought you've ever had. It's difficult to believe such a vivacious actress could be so broken by threats and lies. Well, Nash, start believing it! 

The instantly enchanted pair jet off to Nash's secret hide-away in the South of France. There Freya can catch the sun, forget her history and let the media machine do its work, restoring her honour in the eyes of her audience and those scrupulous Hollywood casting agents. Most importantly, as this is a romance novel, is for Freya to finally begin to believe the public relations man of her dreams is Nash and he stands in front of her, wearing revealing swimming trunks and eating grapes he soaked in olive oil his-very-self. So debonair and classy! Once she confronts her feelings about him, perhaps she can marry him in a hastily-arranged marriage that is in no way a ploy to refute those slanderous accusations of her being a shameless hussy with no acting talent. When Nash smiles dimples appear in his cheeks. He's so gorgeous, with his mysterious Scandinavian looks. Yet Freya is not ready to fall in love even though she's already fallen in love. Cripes! Can these two somehow manage to work things out without ruining their best laid PR plans that aren't dramatically connected to their burgeoning love. 

It is important to raise stakes in story-telling. If it all comes down to a college dissertation or an easily contradicted and inconsequential lie the emotional melodrama that Mills & Boon demands lacks credibility and weight. All the hand-wringing and will-they-won't-they tension is lost when there's nothing stopping them from not. The emotional hang-ups of the characters, from bad divorces or tough childhoods in the ghettos of Stockholm, are never properly fleshed out to be believable enough to warrant one hundred and eighty pages of 'We can't do this... yet.' If it's supposed to keep the passion alighted so when they finally get together it is all the more poignant and fulfilling the structure is not matched by the author's emotional pacing. Nothing is keeping them apart besides a writer struggling with a formula. 

Invariably, the plot ends with the two leads (often the only two characters in the entire story) admitting they have always loved each other. Fine, everyone enjoys a happy ending. Before that, however, at least one sex scene must be shoe-horned in and that sex scene must be between the two romantic leads. Their mutual passion for each other's exquisite beauty needs sating with that experience then leading them to realise they are destined for one another. However, the sex is rarely tied into the journey of the characters, therefore trivialising the sex. In MacKenzie's Promise and Learning Curves the female lead is a virgin, saving herself for the right man. Both sleep with their perfect man, but long before they are in acknowledged love. Freya hasn't spoken to anyone besides family members since her divorce, so sleeping with Nash appears to be a huge step forward for her and a meaningful gesture towards Nash. It doesn't feel that way to the reader, it feels like a contractual obligation of the author. 

The couple have usually broken up by the morning. Someone has said something idiotic and unbelievable. Otherwise someone has said something bland and non-committal and the other party has reacted in an idiotic and unbelievable manner. The time apart is spent wishing they weren't apart and pretty soon they have reconciled, locked in an embrace that will last them a lifetime, until they're clawed apart so they can be buried separately. Claire Somerville, Mills & Boon's marketing director, has said, 'Pretty much anything goes (sexually), but all in the context of the enduring emotional relationship. There has to be a connection between the hero and the heroine. They've got to like each other, otherwise it doesn't work.' Really, Mills & Boon? Your stories are unashamedly old-fashioned, corny and unrealistic, but this contrived and flippant attitude towards sex doesn't add up.

"Their Sexual Adventures Put her Old Wild Ways to Shame"

Looking for something a tad more sensual, imagine the delight in finding out that Mills & Boon cater specifically for readers who prefer their romance with extra helpings of blandly described sexual acts, often at the expense of story and character development. Whereas Modern Romance covers are blue and have a staged photograph of half-naked models caressing each other on them, Sensual Romances are red and have a staged photograph of half-naked models canoodling on them.

Learning Curves is the debut novel by one Joanne Rock. Thirty more titles have since followed. This Learning Curves isn't to be confused with the hundreds of others, written by women who have noticed the same tame double entendre and decided that idea was strong enough to deserve an entire book. Learning Curves isn't the only Harlequin either, another by Cindi Myers has cropped up and we haven't heard the last from Cindi Myers, the author of Do Me Right, a book surely worth tracking down with all the dedication you would normally expend bringing yourself unhappiness.

In Joanne Rock's Learning Curves, the curves in question belong to Maddy, a virginal graduate student somewhere in the United States. She wants to write her dissertation on human mating rituals, but her application for a grant has been rejected because, in her opinion, she lacks the necessary experience in human mating. In the reader's opinion, of course, her idea is silly and redundant. Instead of rewriting her proposal, Mad (Let's call her Mad, eh?) decides to have a very public affair with campus bad-boy, and part-time lecturer, Cal Turner, thus shattering her good-girl image. She believes this is a smart idea, under-mining the novel's scenario that she is a graduate student.

Of course, Cal (once-divorced) has no intention of having a long-term relationship or a short-term fling. Firstly, he doesn't believe he's capable of love despite his previous marriage, which, for logic to win out, must have been loveless from the get-go. Surely another heavy defeat for logic. Secondly, Cal and Maddy have been friends for years and he doesn't want to risk their friendship for passionate sex with a sexy woman. Right on, guy! Thirdly, Cal is in the process of gaining custody of his teenage sister, and so his womanising image needs cleaning up if he is to win the case.

A public, sexual relationship is a no-no, and who wants a sexual relationship with a sexy woman unless it's out in the open and watched by all, including the university board whom write your cheques? In his spare time Cal owns a franchise of garages, where he works hard, and dotes on his kid sister.He's a true woman's man, always covered in grease. Yeah. He's rich and gorgeous and in love with Maddy. The question lingers, Can two people who love each other find love with each other? Clearly the stakes are high and the obstacles insurmountable. Fortunately Rock has two hundred pages to resolve matters, and by the looks of things, she'll need them!

For those readers who believe Learning Curves doesn't share their one-track mind, Cindi Myers is happy to oblige, somehow cramming more sex into her novels, while maintaining the tedious and painful narrative of a woman falling in love with her ideal man as she sex with him, repeatedly. Wild Child is the third book in the Sex on the Beach trilogy and concerns the sexy exploits of sexy office worker Sara, who, while on vacation on a beach somewhere in the United States, meets the sexy surfer Drew. Sara has trouble working for her Uncle Spence, but he's nice really, while Drew has trouble working with his Grandpa Gus, who's actually lovely, and Drew and Sara bond over trite family issues and being sexy. After exhaustively describing their boring problems to one another they have life-affirming sex in a myriad of places and positions. Him on top, standing, her on top, done. Who knew it could be like this, they ask? Silly them, of course, because with Mills & Boon a romance is never made as straight-forward as it really is, and after two hundred pages of bad dialogue and euphemisms for Sara's vagina, they split despite being in love. Four pages later, though, everything has worked out fine, and they go back to the inane dialogue that they bonded over.

Blaze! supposedly cranks up the sex quota and Wild Child does indeed have more sex scenes than books from other genres, with the added liberty of being allowed to describe matters explicitly. Myers says penis when she means penis and there's even a hand-job in the ocean, under-taken because there are no condoms floating nearby. Obviously this pair holiday at very different beaches to the ones Bewildered Heart visits, for reading and other pleasures. Despite all the sex scenes, however, they are never embedded into the plot with any success, meaning each lengthy example is gratuitous, and never serves the novel beyond helping to achieve Myers' intended word-count. Sara and Drew's implied lifetime of wedded bliss has more to do with trust and empathy and less to do with Drew's inability to contain his throbbing manhood when inside Sara's heavenly warmth.

Sure, we readers appreciate being treated like adults when reading adult fiction, but no one with a discriminating mind will accept this nonsense as either entertaining, worthwhile or an unlikely hybrid of the two. Nothing happens and nothing matters. The issues raised by the characters through their conversations are not dealt with by the narrative. The status quo the story challenges was not worth keeping and is not affected by the decisions of Sara or Drew. If their actions have no impact on the plot why does the writer waste time following their actions? This isn't character-driven, it's forced by structure, as if the principles are stuck inside a romance novel and can't escape. Is this fate? they ask. No, Cindi Myers replies, it's Chapter Twelve so you're in love with each other now. We're racing to the end, and why, because, you stupid author, all you have is an ending.

"Don't Get Involved with Clients... Or with Women"

MacKenzie's Promise is a Modern Romance by Catherine Spencer that adds intrigue and investigative police work to the usual couple-falling-in-love shenanigans. An attractive, lithe twenty-seven-year-old virgin, named Linda Carr (A terrible name for a romantic heroine), hires a retired, reclusive cop-turned-self-help-writer, MacKenzie 'Mac' 'Sully' Sullivan (Better), to find her niece, who has been kidnapped by the father. Linda's sister is barely mentioned, apparently too emotional to help find her own child. Mac, a once-divorced, tough alpha male who enjoys fine-dining and being cruel to women, doesn't do police work any longer, but he agrees to solve the case and risk his life for unspecified reasons. Perhaps he is so enamoured by lovely Linda's charms he can't refuse her. But one of Mac's rules is to never get involved with his clients, so he's rather shooting himself in the foot there.

'Can he keep her at arm's length?' asks the blurb. Wouldn't it be easier to just turn down the case? replies the reader. The tag-line is: 'Can he find the baby?' Seriously, that's the tag-line, as if a Mills & Boon reader cares what happens with the plot gimmick used to bring the romantic leads together. A superior tag-line might have been: 'Can he find what he's looking for? You see, because he thinks what he's looking for is a kidnapped baby, when what he really wants is love, with a beautiful woman. To hell with the baby.' Is tag-line-writer for Mills & Boon novels a real job?

While Mac and Linda easily track down the baby, they fall for each other, big time!, despite constant bickering, and overcome their personal issues to live happily ever after. While typically functional and moronic there are a few marked differences between MacKenzie's Promise and the standard fare. For starters, someone gets murdered at the end. Also, at the beginning, a baby is kidnapped. These are not incidents traditionally associated with trite Romance Fiction. In fact, this sounds like an inappropriate story involving child kidnapping and murder with a tactless love sub-plot clumsily shoe-horned in. If you were thinking that, you would be correct. Of course, the reader has nothing more to go on than the blurb when choosing this book from the neatly stacked shelves of similar titles. Of more significance than the story potentials, however, are the number of pages and the font size. MacKenzie's Promise is quite short, and this is as good as any a reason to choose it. Also, the gratuitous sex.

What MacKenzie's Promise does do is suggest a different way of telling a romance story. The search for the baby keeps the leads together, serves as a distraction, forces them apart when necessary and takes them to a myriad of exotic locations, where they often lunch. The problem with the romance strand is clear. As Linda points out, time and time again, should they really be enjoying a leisurely meal when there's a kidnapped baby to find? She makes a valid point. However, Mac's so hunky she quickly over-looks the matter. This only opens up a new issue. Man, what a shitty aunt and awful human being. She should die. Perhaps the trouble simply is that the baby kidnapping isn't treated with the seriousness the situation deserves. Maybe all a more talented writer needs to do is keep things light, but equally plot-orientated. Surely these two characters can have the same flirtatious conversations while crawling around in tunnels rather than over candlelight on a yacht?

"Then, by an extraordinary quirk of fate, Madison became pregnant..."

In writing classes designed to dupe money from writers unsure over what writing involves, 'Drama' isn't considered a genre. Every story must contain drama to be considered a story. If nothing dramatic happens, what makes it worth talking about? Say nothing in your day was dramatic and someone, probably a parent who worries about you, asks you to describe your day. Would you be able to? Would you have anything to tell him that wouldn't bore said listener to tears? Still, the day happened. Time passed. Did you even get out of bed? Jeez, man. You're wasting your life.

By the nature of the argument, however, other genres such as Western, Sci-Fi and Action are not immediately suggestive of story. They are settings and themes. If the story is connected to the location or time period then you have a Western Whodunit, or a Sci-Fi Romance. Romance stories, as glimpsed in the haughty pages of Mills & Boon, are immediately suggestive of story. Romance is a genre in the truest sense. Therefore Sci-Fi Romance is a compelling fusion, if only for the lurid robot sex. Of course Mills & Boon would scoff at the idea of bridging such gaps between classic genres such as these. Yet romance can take various forms. There are many ways to be romanced, after all, and while romance is a genre, there are numerous sub-genres within romance for the reader to find the perfect way she or her can receive her fictional loving.

The company, like their sister brands, are so aware of customer desires that they now offer a diverse selection of categories such as Crime, Paranormal and Nocturne (which sounds like Horror, but without, you know, the horror). There are plenty of Western Romances, with cowboys and cowgirls and sunsets and trite emotional baggage, as well as Adventure or Action Romance, with cops and guns and chases and trite emotional baggage. More generic, however, are the striking differences in tone, sex quota and colour of the book sleeve. So, depending on the reader's stomach and attitude toward children as supporting characters there are Tender Romances, Modern Romances, Medical Romances, Historical Romances, Blaze and Modern Heat! Perhaps the titles are self-explanatory, but for word count a little elaboration is called-for.

Tender Romances are often tender, focusing on love and tenderness and strong emotional bonds, rather than sex and lust and having lustful sex. Modern Romance brings Mills & Boon into the now, exploring what it's like for a modern woman in an urban setting to become involved in a painfully dated Mills & Boon love story. Medical Romance is like Modern Romance but with doctors and nurses and sick people, for those readers who believe ER and Grey's Anatomy aren't concerned enough with tiresome romantic sub-plots. Historical Romance, still popular today!, sets romance in the olden days where such modern heroes as ruthless property developers and brooding police detectives are replaced by ruthless landowners and brooding knights. Blaze and Modern Heat, on the other hand, are basically the same sub-genre but with different titles and focus on the passionate and constant sex between a couple as they inexplicably forge an emotional bond despite limited conversation.

Remove all these elements, though, and focus on what makes the Romance genre all it is, and you're left with simple stories involving the accustomed archetypes audiences have always been fond of. For example there's the popular cruel oil sheikh and the spirited female who somehow manages to be tricked, blackmailed or forced (not raped, but whirl-winded by sheer magnitude of personality) into the bed of the charming sheik. Classic stuff. So romantic and exotic.

For the more discerning reader, and the more ambitious writer, these stereotypes, settings and plot-lines are tired and warily formulaic. Yet curiously, the predictability and familiarity of the stories, characters and set-ups are all part of the appeal of romance fiction. Strong, feisty women (usually virgins, often twenty-seven) meet and immediately desire strong, alpha males (usually divorced, occasionally thirty-two), who equally desire them. However, a series of easily surmountable obstacles are put in the way of their impending happy ending. The writer must therefore use ham-fisted and repetitive prose to hold back the couple from falling in love, all the while initiating a series of passionate love scenes, in expensive and glamorous locations.

There's a Hollywood film, a Matthew McComedy, entitled How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. The inexplicable plot runs as such, girl journalist writes a piece on how to get a man to break-up with her in ten days. The guy chosen has to stay with a girl for ten days in order to win a bet with a rival and land an advertising gig. If the film hadn't strived and failed to gain laughs, it would have all the hallmarks of a Mills & Boon, and when considering most Hollywood romantic comedies, or romantic dramas, many follow the same worryingly unambitious structure of this most yucked-over franchise.

What is wrong, then, with Mills & Boon? Is it the calibre of writing, is it the lack of laughs? Is it because they take longer to read than a Sarah Jessica Parker movie takes to watch? Are films such as Failure to Launch and The Wedding Date thought of as laughably as Public Mistress, Private Affair? While the plots are all the same, the characters only superficially-altered from book to book, the amounts of glamour and misogyny troubling and unrealistic in equal measure, it is surely the terrible quality of prose that is most offensive to the objective, critical reader. A deceptively simple style is a necessary requirement in this type of fiction, but never have simple and simplistic been so shamefully confused.