by Diane Perkins

What do women want?

Sigmund Freud, with all his brilliant insight into the human psyche, couldn’t figure this out.

The millions of readers of romance novels, who make the romance genre account for almost 50 percent of mass market book sales, know the answer to Freud’s question.

Women want a romantic hero.

What qualities do these fictional heroes possess that entice great numbers of women to invest their time, money, and hearts in paperback books? If the perplexed males in our lives would read romance novels, they might find out how to be romantic heroes themselves. But most mortal men won’t be caught dead with a romance, preferring books with fights and chases and crimes to be solved.

For them, then, here are 10 easy steps to guarantee how a man can become exactly “what women want.”

1. Be flawed. Surprisingly, women don’t want the heroes of romance novels to be perfect. Perfect is boring. After all, if the hero has no flaws, what can the heroine offer him? Romantic heroes are often arrogant, short-tempered, and tough. They are complex and full of paradox. The romance reader wants the hero to overcome his faults, grow emotionally, and rise to grander heights because of his relationship with the heroine. Love enriches him and makes him into a better person.

2. Be self-assured. No, this does not contradict tip number one. The romantic hero knows himself well. He knows his strengths and weaknesses and accepts himself as he is. He has come to terms with who he is and, as a result, has confidence and surety of purpose. The heroine is attracted to his confidence, though her challenge that he become a better person always shakes him up. The hero is less sure of himself in her presence. She upsets his equilibrium.

3. Be tough. The romantic hero handles adversity, tolerates pain. He does the difficult jobs, the ones that need doing, that no one else wants to do. Romantic heroes are often special military men, like Navy Seals, or policemen, or rescue workers risking their lives for others. The worlds they inhabit are often bleak and depressing, as well as dangerous. The romantic hero is often emotionally (and physically) wounded, and the heroine’s love is what he needs to heal.

4. Be controlled. Though tough and often foul-tempered, the romantic hero nonetheless exhibits remarkable self-control. He shoulders his burdens without complaint and nevers dumps those burdens on others. He is too self-disciplined to discharge his emotions onto others. The heroine, then, helps him loosen up enough to risk sharing some of his burdens with her.

5. Be trustworthy. The romantic hero is a man of his word. If he says he will do something, he will do it. The heroine can count on him; especially, she can entrust her own vulnerability to him and know that he will not betray her. The plots of romantic novels sometimes include elements where the hero seems untrustworthy and might appear to betray the heroine; however, the reader always knows he will reveal himself to be unwaveringly true to her.

6. Be ethical. The hero’s strong sense of ethics is closely related to his trustworthiness. The romantic hero knows what is right and what is wrong. He stands by his beliefs even in the face of his own annihilation; indeed, even if he fears that, in doing so, he will lose the heroine’s love. The hero is not afraid to stand alone for what is important to him. He plays by the rules, though sometimes the rules are of his own making. He does not prey upon the less fortunate, but saves his strength to fight injustice.

7. Value equality. The romantic hero accepts his heroine as his equal, although it sometimes takes the whole book for him to learn to do so. He becomes less fixated on having his own way and learns to consider the heroine’s needs, wishes, and goals as equally important as his own. Rather than bully and dominate, he seeks to achieve an equitable balance between himself and the heroine, one in which they both are winners. He might even learn to cook.

8. Be physically fit. In romance novels, the hero’s fitness often reaches idealized perfection, but the important point is he values his body and his health. He may stretch his physical abilities to the limit and beyond, but he would never neglect himself physically or abuse his good health. At least, not once he meets the heroine.

9. Be sexually generous. Sometimes the romantic hero begins the book focused on superficial sexual relationships and his own pleasure. His relationship with the heroine, however, travels beyond the sexual. Lovemaking is one area where the hero can show the heroine his love. In his lovemaking, he gives as much or more than he takes. It is essential to him to please the heroine, to show her physically that he loves her. To his wonderment, the pleasure he receives from their lovemaking is intensified by his generosity.

10. Finally, be sure to have dark-as-night hair with a habit of falling waywardly across your forehead. The romantic heroine will ache to gently comb the unruly hair back into place with her fingers.

Actually, is it not really essential to have dark, touchable hair. Women manage to fall in love with heroes who come in all shapes, colors, and sizes. It is essential, however, that the romantic hero act like a hero.

Gentlemen, there is no secret to what women want. Behave like a romantic hero and women will want you.

~~~~~
Diane Perkins, a WRW member and aspiring romance writer, is a licensed clinical social worker with over twenty years experience in the mental health field.

by Julie Moffett

In the October 1996 issue of Romantic Times magazine, best-selling romance author Patricia Potter wrote a very thoughtful article on genre jumping that started me thinking about my own writing career.

In case you are unfamiliar with the term “genre jumping”, it’s often described as an “irrepressible creative need” for an author to write books in a variety of different genres or sub-genres.

Many authors do it. Some are successful; some are not. Some use pseudonyms when switching genres, some don’t.

Just for the record, I genre-jump.

There, I’ve confessed.

But has it helped or hurt my career?

In my particular case, the jump was small. My first two books were straight historical romance. Then I made the jump to time-travel romance.

Was I nervous that my readers wouldn’t follow me to the new romance sub-genre?

To tell you the truth, like many genre-jumpers, I hadn’t really thought about it until I read Ms. Potter’s article. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. I didn’t use a pseudonym either. I just wrote a different kind of book, hoping I would bring my readers along to the new genre. To my delight, my time-travel completely sold out of its first printing.

Maybe it was just blind luck. Or maybe my mother’s publicity efforts (i.e., giving my books to everyone she has ever known, including my old boyfriends) worked. Whatever the case, I thank my lucky stars that my particular jump was successful.

I even received concrete benefits from the jump—a higher print run for my next book, a bigger advance, and a better slot.

So, I survived the jump and actually benefited from it. Does it mean I should stick to writing time-travels?

Perhaps.

Will I?

Nope.

My next book is a straight historical. And the book after that is the sequel to the time travel. Aaggghhhh! I’m genre-jumping again. Does this mean I’m hopelessly afflicted?

Probably. But, thanks to Ms. Potter, at least I’m aware of the consequences.

And the consequences can be severe. Big jumps—for example, from sweet historical romance to contemporary romantic intrigue—can be dangerous to your career without using a pseudonym. Your loyal readers will expect a certain type of story from you. If you are beloved for your light-hearted and sensitive portrayals of romantic relationships, then your readers may not appreciate a dramatic shift to a dark, horrifying novel about a serial killer stalking your heroine. The bottom line is this—if you lose readers, you lose sales. Lower sales can have unfortunate consequences on your business relationship with your publishing house. Ouch, that can hurt.

But I’m ever the optimistic.

I believe genre-jumping can be managed and even used to an author’s advantage, if done properly. In my opinion, small jumps using the same pen name is safe. Several Regency writers have successfully moved back and forth between the shorter traditional Regencies to longer historicals without using pseudonyms. So have many historical authors who decided to write time-travels. Short contemporary intrigue writers have flourished by writing longer romantic suspense without a name change.

The direct benefits for authors are gaining new readers, improving sales records and being in a position to negotiate better contracts. And, of course, authors are able to stretch themselves creatively—a benefit for readers, fellow authors and the industry as a whole.

However, bigger jumps require pseudonyms. Eileen Dreyer is a perfect example. She writes great mysteries under her own name, but uses a pen name (Kathleen Korbel) for her short contemporary romances. Jayne Ann Krentz (aka Amanda Quick, Jayne Castle, etc.) is another good example. Jayne can successfully write contemporary, historical and futuristic romance and isn’t stuck in the same old rut.

Hmmm ... definitely a plus.

So, what does this mean for my career in particular, given my tendency to genre-jump?

Well, I suppose that if I ever decide to write that contemporary romantic intrigue for which I already have an outline, I’ll have to think of a good pseudonym.

Gee, I wonder if the name Nora Roberts is already taken?

by Lisa E. Arlt

The woman of the Eighties did it all—she could bring home the bacon and cook it up, too. The woman of the Nineties does it all, too. She’s just too tired to enjoy it.

When I first decided to write, only my husband supported me. Everyone else told me it couldn’t be done.

“You don’t have time to be a writer,” they said. “You have a husband, a full-time job and two dogs. And just wait until the kids come. You won’t even have time to breathe. Why don’t you wait until you’re older?”

I felt old enough already so I started writing.

The first manuscript took eight months to write and another six months to get rejected. At the rate I was going, I’d be dead before I got published. I needed more time to write.

I got a time management book out of the library. I’d only read a few pages and already I was exhausted. Sort your mail while stuck at traffic lights. Dust while you’re talking on the phone. Cook three dinners at the same time and freeze the other two portions. Get up a half hour earlier.

Their time management seemed more about running myself ragged than finding time to daydream, plan and write. I didn’t give up, though. Instead I took a hard look at my life.

First, I decided my priorities. Easy. My husband, my dogs, my writing. Simple. I could just cut out everything else and I’d have plenty of time to write.

But, I forgot a few things. That writing room I loved so much came with a hefty mortgage and we were all fond of eating daily. So, I added in my day job. Along with the day job came an hour commute, laundry, cooking, food shopping, cleaning the house, walking the dogs, and all the other responsibilities that devoured my free time.

I was back to square one—doing it all and hating it.

I looked at my schedule again. I realized that I had been looking for large blocks of time to sink into my writing. I couldn’t manage that, but I could manage an hour or more each day, especially if I divided it up.

For two days, I kept track of everything I did. I was amazed. I had a lot of free time, I’d just been filling it with other things.

Some of it was necessary. I couldn’t change driving an hour each way to work, but I could go directly to my writing room when I got home, instead of unwinding in front of the television. I didn’t have to cook dinner each night, my husband could also cook. And there was always pizza delivery.

But the biggest and most consistent writing time for me turned out to be my lunch hour. I spent my lunch hours running to restaurants, gulping down food then racing back, more exhausted than when I left. I knew writing couldn’t tax me further.

It was hard at first. In the beginning, I spent more time settling in to write than actually writing. But then I got the hang of it and soon I could write eight first draft pages in that one hour. I had a routine, I was writing regularly, and I hadn’t had to give up much at all.

And then I changed jobs.

I could still write at lunch, but the work was so much more solitary that I craved contact with other people. I compromised—writing three days a week, lunch out with my friends the other two days. Around that time, my husband began attending college at night. Two nights a week the house was quiet. Perfect for writing.

It was difficult to adjust from writing mid-day (when my energy level was high) to writing at night (when I was ready to unwind and go to bed). But I persevered and soon enough my creative muse followed and I was able to write equally well at both times of the day.

And then I changed jobs again. And moved. Overseas. New culture, new life, new schedule.

I didn’t have a lunch hour, or even my own desk to scribble some notes. I work shifts—mornings or evenings. Pure havoc for a woman who thrives on routine and a set writing schedule. I had to adapt.

When I work mornings, I write after work. When I work evenings, I get up early and steal time to write before work. Since my Embassy work schedule changes weekly, so does my writing schedule.

It isn’t always easy, and I don’t always put in the writing time that I’d like to. But the end result is still the same—I’m writing.

Everyone’s priorities are different, everyone’s schedule is different. For me, writing is a top priority, so I take the time to do it.

Only you can decide how you can fit writing into your already busy schedule. But, I guarantee you, if you want to make the time to write, you will.

~~~~~
Lisa E. Arlt wrote this article in four spurts sandwiched between her day job and her life. Her first published book, Smoke and Mirrors, will be released by Harlequin Temptation in April 1998.

by Lisa E. Arlt

They had rules.

Strict rules I had to agree to before Scribblers, a Brussels-based English-language literary critique group, would even look at my writing sample. Regular attendance, a page of my new writing brought to the meeting each week, and I wasn’t allowed to respond to any of the critiques.

I didn’t have a problem with the first rule, and a page a week didn’t phase me. I’m a writer. I write.

But the third rule made me mad.

“You mean I can’t ask questions?”

“No. You can’t respond. Whatsoever.”

I understood their reasoning. Who wants to listen to a 30-minute diatribe about why line two, paragraph 11 of chapter 47 really does show all the motivation for your nun-heroine to become a serial killer, and if you’ll just listen for another 30 minutes, the author will explain it to you again.

Their reasoning was clear, but the rigidity of the wording bothered me. I saw prison bars.

“What if I want to talk?”

“You can’t. It’s not allowed.”

I had no choice but to agree. I could either accept their rules or not have a face-to-face critique group. And I did miss my face-to-face WRW critique group.

My WRW critique group didn’t always agree, nor did we always get along, but we did support each other as writers, and that’s what I missed. When I was having a bad writing week, they understood what that meant and how important it was. I missed the support I got from them, as tangible as the back of my computer chair. I missed feeling like I belonged.

So I agreed to all their rules.

I attended the group. Knees knocking, breathy-voiced and more nervous than when I’d met my boss, the American Ambassador to Belgium, I read my work first, just to get it over with.

I read the first three pages of my new category romance, Raw Silk. When I finished, there was complete silence, then someone murmured, “Oh, my.”

It didn’t bode well.

They didn’t say much. They couldn’t. None of them had read a category romance, although two of the women did admit to enjoying a Danielle Steele novel when they had the flu or were really, really tired. And wasn’t there all that talk about a romance novel about bridges?

A man in the group was impressed by the eroticism of the piece. My hackles rose—this was about true love, not about sex—until I realized he meant his emotions had been touched. And that was what I had been aiming for.

They read next. The writing was fluid and visually evocative, the pacing laboriously slow. I bit my lips to keep from asking, “Is this scene crucial to the plot?”, not really sure if literary fiction had a plot.

The next week I brought the first three pages in my heroine Cassie’s point of view. Unlike the hero, Victor, I didn’t have a handle on Cassie yet. I’d used this scene as a tool to meet my heroine. The pacing was non-existent but I knew I’d cut most of the scene when I edited.

The group loved it. They found the rambling passages enlightening and preferred Cassie’s mental meandering to Victor’s blunt-edged eroticism.

Their comments didn’t help. The parts they liked, I knew I’d cut. The parts they didn’t like, I intended to keep.

The next week, I was in a slump. My characters felt as insubstantial as paper dolls. My brief career as a writer was over.

Discouraged, I brought three more pages but said I’d rather talk about my writing process.

“We don’t do that,” they said.

“Excuse me?”

“This is a serious, working critique group,” one of the members explained. “We only deal with the work.”

Well, I was in a slump, and until I got out of it, I wasn’t doing my work.

After the meeting I called Laurin Wittig, my friend and WRW critique partner. “They only care about the words,” I said. “What about the emotional support? The talking? The commiseration? What happened to the emotion?”

Laurin waited until I finished my tirade. “That’s the difference between romance writing and literary writing. Romance is about emotion.”

She was right. Some literary fiction I’ve read had phrases so soulful they melted in my mouth like chocolate. But my heart remained untouched and I put the book down.

I read to feel—to dream—to heal.

I write for the same reasons.

I left the group. Good writing is good writing, but writing is also about emotion.

I’m thinking of starting my own group. No rules, no mandatory page counts, just good emotions and good friends. If you’re interested, you provide the airfare, and I’ll provide the Belgian chocolate.

~~~~~
Lisa E. Arlt , a WRW member since 1994, is currently employed at the American Embassy in Brussels, Belgium. Her first published book, Smoke and Mirrors, will be released by Harlequin Temptation in April.