As creators we want our readers
to believe in our characters, to visualize them as
people living beyond the covers of our books. Too many
romance writers, though, create heroes and heroines as
unreal and sanitized as Disney animations. Real men and
women use a bathroom on a regular basis, sweat and
develop body odor, need to brush their teeth
occasionally, and have untidy sex. It’s part of being
human.
If you want me to identify with your heroine, don’t
have her reveling in a deep, tongue-tangling kiss from
the hero as she slowly awakens in the morning. Doesn’t
she worry about what her mouth tastes like? Or his? I’d
be more inclined to live the story through her if she
insisted on a quick trip to the bathroom to brush her
teeth first (at the least).
Have you ever been reading a great book where the
hero or heroine is stranded on a desert island, lost in
a forest, or trapped in a powerful laird’s castle for
days on end and you really want to be immersed in the
story, really want to believe the far-fetched plot
could happen except . . . the heroine apparently has
a bladder that would put a camel to shame? There is no
mention made, ever, of how the characters handle basic
excretory functions.
I don’t have to know—don’t even want—the
details, but I do need to have this problem addressed in
some way. My suspension of disbelief demands it. I‘m not
going to believe that the heroine went three hours, let
alone three days, without needing to use the
facilities, however primitive they may be. The writer
doesn’t have to draw me a plumbing diagram for the
castle—just mention the existence of same and I’m a
happy reader.
Many years ago I read a romance set in medieval
England. The hero chained the heroine to his bedpost for
several days. I’m afraid the drama was lost on me. I was
too busy rolling my eyes and wondering about where the
chamberpot was and who was emptying it.
These days we’re all aware of the need for safe sex,
and most romance writers have begun including the use of
condoms in their love scenes. With the blossoming
popularity of erotica, we have authors penning scenes
kinky and explicit enough to embarrass a porn star. In
the post-coital moments of the scenes these same writers
can become as reticent as nuns when it comes to
mentioning any actions the characters make in the way of
disposing of said condoms. Instead there will be a
phrase like, "He drew her close as her breathing quieted
and let himself join her in sleep." Are we to assume the
hero slipped the used condom under a pillow? A brief
mention of a visit to the bathroom would handle that
niggling concern.
And how about those love scenes that end with both
the characters hopping out of bed and pulling their
clothes back on with no clean-up whatsoever? No clean-up
means they’re going to be sticky and messy. Unless their
names are Ken and Barbie. Give your heroine a Kleenex at
least.
If you can handcuff your heroine to the bedframe with
no blushes, don’t turn shy when it’s time to let her get
up and deal with the aftermath. The reader wants to
believe in the story. Help them by having your
characters do what the reader might.
The following passage, told from the heroine Claire’s
point of view, is from Dragonfly in Amber, the
historical time-travel by Diana Gabaldon. Jamie and
Claire have just come together in a desperate coupling
before Jamie pushes her away, forcing her to run and
escape the British troops about to overtake them:
I pushed my way through the brush and branches,
stumbling over rocks, blinded by tears. Behind me I
could hear shouts and the clash of steel from the
cottage. My thighs were slick and wet with Jamie’s seed.
The crest of the hill seemed never to grow nearer . . ."
The detail about Claire’s thighs wet with Jamie’s
seed is not offensive or distracting. Rather it lends
further verisimilitude to an already exciting scene. It
prevents the reader from mentally going, "but what about
. . .?" and momentarily (or longer!) leaving the story.
In your writing you don’t need to belabor the less
attractive aspects of being human. I’d just as soon not
read about the heroine’s constipation or the hero’s jock
itch. A recognition of and nod toward the more
nitty-gritty functions of being human, however, will go
a long way toward making your characters living,
breathing people rather than just anatomically correct
dolls.
*
* * * *
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