Yesterday, "Sweet Revenge" came in the mail from good ol' Amazon. I'm a fan of Lynsay Sands so far, honestandtruly. She's pretty rad.(Yes, Amazon is on my shite list right now for their recent stunt, but that was April 12. I ordered my books a week before they went all homophobic thought police on us.)
What struck me, however, was the mega, supreme ass-whoopin' her poor heroine Kyla endured "off screen" and before the book actually started--we meet her as she's already dealing with the after-effects of nearly getting sliced in two from behind...by a sword, people, a sword. Now if that doesn't put a little hitch in yer giddeyup, I'm not sure what will.
But reading through that and the scene where she stoically grinds her teeth through the administration of a hellfire healing potion, a thought struck me about quite a few romances (especially historicals) that I've come across in the past few years.
Some of our authors LOVE to torture these poor blonde, buxom, petite, willowy, gorgeous, never had a bad hairday in their 19 viriginal years, perfect creatures with some serious pain.
No, no, no, I totally get that its a plot device writers sometime use to get us to understand what this lil' hussy's really made out of (and to impress that big, burly alpha man who's standing nearby), but dayamn, what do they have against lil' Miss Perfects, anyhow?
I've seen it in quite a few of Julie Garwood's earlier historicals (my personal favorite of all time is "The Wedding," where I'm pretty sure I recollect skinny lil' Brenna getting the crap burned out of her...I think. She's gotta take a potion to the arm and doesn't even BLINK. I'd have puked on Mr. Manly Sexy, to be honest. But that's just me.)
I wonder if we writerly types secretly harbor angst against the skinny little beautiful people who grace romance covers. I'm sure I do. They kinda remind me of the perfect cheerleader types who went on the be Homecoming Queen, got the good looking guys to buy them ginormous Valentine's Day bouquets, got brand new cars the nanosecond they turned 16, fit into size 0 pants and talked LOUDLY about it at lunch (Beyotch, don't judge me and my Taco Bell. Or the fact that my mom sent me the flowers. Or that I drive a truck that contributes to more than half of the withering ozone effect with all its smoke. Just don't.)
SO knowing that nobody that looks like me is going to get swept up by some Highland lordy fellow on the next Harlequin cover, I wonder if I secretly relish reading (and writing) the absolute beating of the gorgeous, airbrushy girls. :) Maybe, just maybe.
Truth be told, I tend to identify with and write characters with a little less perfection and a little more...ahem..."me-ness" to them. I couldn't stand Barbie-clones in high school...and am pretty sure I don't want to spend a couple months hanging with any in my 30s, as my characters tend to have pretty much full back-stage access to my thoughts as I'm mulling through story lines.
Anyway. Just a thought...
Taco Bell calls.
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