I suck at writing Romance.
Romance, capital R, is a genre that is about the attainment of A Relationship. Even if those aren’t stated as the goals of the characters, it’s the goal of the story, the author, the reader. A Relationship must be attained, with love so much of a side effect on the way there that it can be considered a Romance even if they hate each other, even if they’re horrible for and to one another, even if they’re downright abusive, as long as it ends in a Relationship. Because a Relationship is the ultimate prize, the attainment that will cause everything else to Be All Right even if it’s terribly wrong.
Because a Relationship is an only occasionally thinly veiled code for a Marriage, and that’s supposed to be the goal of every woman: to be well-capital-M Married. Capital M Married meaning owned by a man of status who will take good care of his prized possession as opposed to married, which is a partnership between equals who have chosen a legal validation of that partnership and therefore needs a lot less propaganda to make it desirable unlike being owned, which you must train someone from childhood to find not just appealing, but think they are worthless without.
I think this is also why Romance is a genre that is deemed a strictly female genre (unlike stories that include love, which there is plenty of in things marketed at men), because it’s designed around teaching women to long to be owned, and thus it’s shocking when men find it appealing or when men are inserted into both sides of the roles, like in seme/uke slash.
Honestly, reading a Romance to me is like reading Trainspotting; it’s all about the (scary, unhealthy, destructive, all-consuming, depersonalizing) fix. I’m not joking. You could drop it right into Twilight if Stephanie Meyer was ok with swearing. See below:
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin Edward?
I suck at writing Romance. I can’t, because it’s not real anything; it’s dangerous propaganda that makes people desperate to be property. ”I just want someone to want me.” ”I just want to belong to someone and have someone belong to me.” That should put chills up your spine. It does mine. That’s not romantic. It’s Romantic.
Now, I do write people. Pretty well, if I do say so myself. People do a lot of things. They laugh, cry, lie, tell the truth, tell half truths, tell technical truths that they’ve convinced themselves of, see things all from their own perspective, pursue dreams, live in denial, fess up, hate, fear, hope, run away from and towards…and sometimes, being people, they fall in love with other people. Sometimes those other people return the feelings. Sometimes that’s a healthy situation, sometimes it’s not. But it’s always the story of people trying to achieve things and having relationships and feelings and thoughts along the way. It can even be pretty romantic. But in the end, it’s about them as people, not as property, and it’s about the achievements of their lives, not their Relationship.
Which is why I suck at Romance.