Why I Hate Romance
(And Other Essays)
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Dai Alanye
Copyright 2010 by Dai Alanye
Aardbassett Books - Smashwords Edition 1.8
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Why I Hate Romance [novels] and Other Essays is the original work of the author. With the exception of public individuals and celebrities all characters and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. With the foregoing exceptions, any resemblances to actual happenings or to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental. Additionally, those who look closely might find an occasional hint of satire.
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Most Bestest Fortune Cookie Proverb Ever
I hear, and I forget; I see, and I remember; I do, and I understand.
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That's right. Even though I claim to be a writer, I hate romance novels.
I don't hate them because they are girly and mushy, though they usually are. Nor because they tend to be formulaic, though they certainly do. Nor because they're the most popular genre, crowding out better and more profound fiction.
No, I hate them for far better and more specific reasons.
I hate them because the heroine is always beautiful, sexy, and pneumatic.
I hate them because the hero is always well-muscled, handsome, and cuts a wide swath in the female population.
I hate them because there's always some weird contrived reason for hero and heroine to meet. And when they meet, in ninety-nine percent of the stories the hero doesn't like the heroine for some reason — usually due to a misunderstanding — though he can't help but admit to himself that she's really beautiful and really sexy and/or really accomplished... but he still doesn't like her.
The heroine, on the other hand, after the fateful encounter brought about by her sudden poverty or by her inheriting a run-down property or getting lost on the moors or having a slight problem with a runaway horse... or by her coming across his lost/strayed/stolen little boy/girl/beloved pet with whom she happens to get on just stunningly... or maybe after needing to be rescued from drowning or being sold at a slave market or having been forced to work in a house of ill repute or having her chutes fail to open while skydiving can't help but be impressed by his manly chest or his rock-hard jaw or his piercing gaze or his tight butt and his big fortune.
Yes, his fortune, for a wealthy hero is almost always a requirement in romance novels.
But she still doesn't like him.
I hate it that the heroine is always feisty or independent or at least spunky, while the hero is always domineering, insensitive, in need of taming, or anti-social due to the lack of love from a good woman. Many's the rapacious pirate, evil robber baron, sweaty cowpoke, bare-arsed highlander, ferocious savage or cold-blooded assassin who has his better nature brought out by a sweet but uncompromising woman... way too many.
And if by some authorial quirk the hero is sensitive, I tend to hate the story even more.
I hate the fact that the heroine often has some weird name that regular girls don't have, although it must be admitted that girls' names are getting more strange by the year. Consider sixth grade in a small school near me where three girls are named Taylor and four Courtney, plus Kerra, Kira, Keira, and Cara — not to mention Elise, Elissa and Isla. Whatever happened to Mary, Joan, Susan? Or even Harriet, Ethyl, Agnes?
I hate heroes named Drake, Duke, Dai, Damian, Jared, Jaan, Judd, Adrian, Abel and Alpo. Heroes! These are the names of kids we would have been picked on in school. (Oh, and I also hate Dougal and Fergus.)
I hate the contrived crises that bring hero and heroine together — the raging blizzards, the hurricanes, the leaky boats and car breakdowns... the predatory lawyers, the imminent serial killers, the onset of dengue fever or contagious leprosy, the plagues of locusts... the need to save a deluded world from a neo-Nazi conspiracy or conquest by space-aliens.
It's always something — they can never merely get used to one another. They can't simply meet at a party and like each other's style.
Well, enough of these lists, because what I really hate about romance novels beyond and above these plot gimmicks is... they always end happily ever after.
Happily... and love is inevitably followed by marriage.
Gawd help me — can't one of them just once end in tragedy or separation? Ever heard of Romeo and Juliet, writer-folks? Tristan and Isolde?? Casablanca??? Gulliver’s Travels????
So there you have it. Perhaps in the future I'll try to explain why I also hate Horror, Suspense, Thrillers, Erotica, Westerns, Mystery, Fantasy, Paranormal, Historical, SciFi and Humor.
And literary. Yeah, because I really hate literary fiction.
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Highways (full of) Erratic Latent Psychotics
After seven straight hours of sharing the road with what seemed to be an ever-increasing number of poorly driven 30-ton trucks, I stopped for gas at a truck-stop on the edge of Schleprock, Arkansas. After filling up, I headed into the restaurant to relax over a cup of coffee. And in one of those strange coincidences that seems to happen all too often, I saw an old high-school chum sitting in the professional-drivers-only section. Feigning formality, I slid into the booth across from him and said, "Good morning, Mr. Royd."
"Well I'll be a horse's... If'n it ain't the Halster! What's it been — five years?"
"About that. How have you been, HM?" (His given name was Herbert Morton Royd but everyone called him HM.)
"Great! Yerself?"
"Pretty good."
"Whatcha doin' in Schleprock, Hal?"
"I'm on my way to Texas to work for a couple of weeks. So, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, I been a stud trucker fer about four years now. If you're headin' fer Texas ya musta seen that nasty ol' accident north a' town."
"I couldn't see too much except fire trucks and ambulances around a semi. Know what happened?"
"There was talk on the CB he was pushin' five."
"Pushing five?"
"Five days, Hal."
"Five days isn't such a long trip."
"Nah! That's trucker lingo fer five days drivin' without sleep."
"You're kidding, HM! I hardly make it through a tank of gas without stopping for a nap."
"Only a fool tries to push five. Acourse there's some what does it regular, but they's nuts. Three er four's about the limit fer most."
"You drive that long without sleep?"
"Sure, all the time when I'm doin' coasters."
"Coasters?"
"Goin' coast to coast."
"Why during coasters?"
"Well, if I leave on Monday an' don't git no tickets, I can make it to Shakytown, sleep six hours, hook up to a new trailer and make it back to the Dew Drop fer last call on Friday night."
"Isn't that dangerous? Don't you worry about falling asleep?"
"No, not really. But ya gotta take percautions a' course."
"Precautions? Like lots of coffee and loud music?"
"Yep. All kinds a' stuff like that."
"Isn't working that long against some kind of labor law?"
"Nope. Unless you start leaving tire tracks over the tops a' VW's er somethin' like that, nobody gives a dang."
"So all those trucks are driven by guys who haven't slept for days?"
"Not them teamsters, they got it easy. But the rest of us get mileage."
"Mileage?"
"You know, paid by the mile."
"So the further and faster you drive the more you make?"
"Zactly."
"What happens if you only drive eight hours a day?"
"You'd best be goin' about 90!"
"Ninety!?"
"It ain't quite that bad, but it's gettin' worse. I ain't had a raise fer two years."
"Sounds like the trucking industry, since deregulation, is imitating monopolistic competition, and your short-run economic profit is being reduced by the influx of new firms, causing your average total cost to rise to the point of tangency with your demand curve."
"Huh?"
"Every year more people start trucking, so the extra competition keeps wages down."
"Where'd you learn that fancy talk?"
"In college."
"Oh yeah? I gravitated from college, too."
"Really? Where did you go?"
"Triple C."
"Cuyahoga Community College?"
"No, the Cautious, Courteous and Courageous School of Professional Drivers."
"Impressive! Must have been tough."
"Sure was. Took the best part a' two weeks an dang near three hunert dollars."
"I mean all the studying and cramming to get certified."
"Oh sure. Radar Detectors 110 an' Advanced Map Reading 130 were rough, but Weigh Station Bypasses 200 was a killer — a whole hour a' rememberin' and figurin'. Give me a headache fer two days."
"But don't you need special certification?"
"Heck no, but ya gotta have a chauffeur's license."
"I'll bet that was hard to get."
"Sure was. I had to mesmerize a whole pamphlet before takin' the test."
"Just a written test, no driving test?"
"What fer? When yer doin' 80 downhill in a forty-ton monster everybody gets the hell outa yer way — ya don't even need to switch lanes. Why just the other day some ol' lady had the gall ta do 64 in the fast lane, but after a couple a' minutes a' tailin' her about three inches from her bumper she pulled over an let me by."
"I see what you mean."
"You don't have no Christmas Trees on ya ya'd wanna sell, do ya?"
"Christmas trees?"
"How 'bout some White Cross? Black Beauties? No? Well, at least I got plenty a' No-doze."
"Oh! Amphetamines?"
"Willy Nelson ain't gonna be doin' no drivin', an' neither is Juan Valdez ner his mule."
"But don't you have to take drug tests?"
"No way! It's unconsciontutable. Besides, you never see no cops er pollutetricians er teachers havin' ta take 'em, so how they gonna make truckers take 'em?"
"I suppose."
"Well, it was good ta see ya, Hal, but I gotta hit the road if I'm gonna make it back to Ohio fer my Saturday bowlin' fer beer league. You take care now."
"You too, HM... Er, excuse me, Miss, may I have my check? And do you know of any motels nearby?"
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Perhaps you've wondered, as have I in the past, where national poll figures come from. When we read that Barry O has a popularity rating of 43%, and Congress one of 19%, the natural question is, "According to whom?" We might even wonder whether it's according to anyone, or if the figures are simply dreamed up.
Today, it is my intent to help solve this mystery. The answer is — it's according to my wife.
Couple-three years ago I picked up the phone to find a Gallup pollster on the line. After some chit-chat I can't remember, she asked, "Would you be willing to be one of our regular opinion suppliers?"
Gee! I'm interested in politics, and it was kind of flattering, so with little thought I said yes. She informed me that I would be contacted by mail, and there would be minor non-monetary rewards if I filled in all the blanks and didn't scribble in the margins.
Soon a large packet arrived, loaded with qualifying questions. It was roughly the scope of a CIA employment form, but with less emphasis on the overthrow of unpopular governments. Actually, it was more like being qualified to purchase a mansion by a very thorough real estate agent.
And there were some poll questions as well.
Within a few weeks another package arrived — all queries about politics. This continued for a couple months, the polls coming in the mail every few weeks, but steadily trending toward commercial concerns. In fact, as I recall, that first poll was the only totally political one. Still, no problem other than boredom, and Mr Gallup always included at least one question on politics.
But then on the horizon appeared a small cloud no larger than a man's hand — or a woman's hand, actually. Two polls showed up in one envelope, and I was requested to give one to my wife.
She became a co-supplier of opinions for a couple months, gradually receiving polls more often than I. And then... And then she became the exclusive Gallup opinion-giver in our household.
Thus it has continued to this day. I have not been polled for more than a year — by Mr Gallup, at least. And all those itsy-bitsy gifts — the miniature flashlight, the book by some joker who used Gallup to generate statistics, the magnetic refrigerator calendars — those all go to the better half. Better, at least, by Gallup's reckoning.
I awake at night now and then to find myself asking the ceiling, "Why? How did I fail them? Where did I go wrong? Was it that time I deliberately gave false responses about my computer preferences? Was it improper of me to choose Whirlpool washers over GE? Did they detect a seeming lack of taste in my preferring Fox News to CNN?
Or is it that certain answers are just plain WRONG... according to Gallup?
I'll never know, of course. They don't reveal their secrets, hiding behind an impregnable monolithic facade of corporate anonymity.
But I do know this. If you've ever wondered who rated Hillary over Barack and the Breck Boy, or the Huckster over Mitt and Fred, wonder no longer.
It's my wife.
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Most people know Sarah Palin likes to hunt and fish, that she earned the nickname "Barracuda" for her basketball play, and that she came in second in the Miss Alaska pageant.
It's less well known that she almost got first place, but I've investigated and am prepared to share what I've learned.
It wasn't a deficiency of beauty, for while the winner was truly good-looking, Sarah at that age could hold her own.
And she certainly wasn't held back by character. Who else among the contestants could have won the state basketball championship for her team with a last-minute shot while playing injured?
True, talent might have been a weakness in any other state, for Sarah could only claim marksmanship, and the winner sang Amazing Grace while twirling flaming batons. But this was Alaska, folks, so likely Sarah had an edge.
In fact, after the beauty and talent portions of the contest she was leading by a few points. It all came down to the final interview question:
"To what cause will you dedicate your term as Miss Alaska?"
The winner gave a sure-fire answer: "World peace."
Sarah said, "American energy independence."
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As of November 2011 Herman Cain's rush for the Republican nomination has been slowed by accusations of sexual abuse, the accusers being two women of the peroxide persuasion. But that's not what is important.
What's important is that the women are white, while Herman is black. But neither is that truly important. What's truly important is that when Herman suggested these accusations were caused by racism, his co-racialists – especially those belonging to his own party – jumped all over him, criticizing him for taking refuge behind a myth.
From my viewpoint the accusers have zero credibility – one a bimbo and the other (at best) a neurotic, but even that has no importance for this essay. What is really truly significantly important is the regrettable failure of white liars in general to achieve diversity of accusation.
Massachusetts: In 1989 Charles Stuart decided no-fault divorce would be insufficient to his needs. Instead, he shot his pregnant wife in the head and himself in the belly, claiming to police that the crimes had been committed by a black robber. After being exposed he took a short swim in a long river.
South Carolina: In 1994 Susan Smith, perhaps taking a page from Ted Kennedy's book, performed a couple extra-late-term abortions by belting her two small children into her car before sending it speeding into a lake. She depicted herself to police as the victim of car-jacking by a black man, and from behind bars now looks forward to dating again in 2024.
I select these two cases simply because they've remained in memory as particularly heinous examples of misdirected blame. Worse yet, they show a lamentable lack of creativity.
Sure, from a statistical viewpoint claiming a black man has committed a violent crime makes good sense - there's no doubt which race inhabits American prisons out of all proportion to numbers in the population. But think of the poor law officers who must listen to these unlikely tales time and again. Can't you imagine this dialog between experienced deputies or homicide detectives, their voices freighted with irony?
"Well, well, Chauncey – yet another unidentified black perpetrator."
"Quite surprising, Reginald, but press ahead with the innocent victim's statement."
I hereby protest against such banal characterizations of imaginary criminals!
If you or any among your friends and acquaintances absolutely must take steps to reduce an excess member of your family – perhaps a senile great-uncle or an especially pestiferous brother-in-law — be a patriot and do your bit to reduce the scourge of racism. Refrain from denouncing the generic black man by claiming something such as, "The thief reminded me of a blonde Viking hero with frosty blue eyes and a bristling reddish beard." Or, "The murderer was a small but menacing Chinky type with Fu Manchu mustache who decoyed us with a takeout delivery of flied lice."
And should your crime be not murder but hanky-panky while seeking high office, try this one: "Twas no ordinary woman of the streets but a strapping red-haired lass with thousands of freckles who immobilized me using concentrated aphrodisiacal lasciviousness while accomplishing her Mephistophelian errand."
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What use have I of mincing ways — of wile and craft and lie?
I, born within a thundercloud and bred beneath the sky?
Subtle tongue and monkish wile — what use when bright blades ring?
Dog! Haste on and learn to die. I was a man ere King.
Why slinkest thou in craven wise? Thy speech was surely brisk.
Thy knees are all a-tremble now — is life too dear to risk?
Thou hast thy shield and mailcoat strong, thy helm and other gear;
Come up, Dog! I’ve a sharpened edge to send a message clear.
(Ha! See, the fool advances now, his minions pressing near.
With numbers pushing close about he trusts to hide his fear.)
Come forth a few more steps, thou dog, my arms are not so long.
Thy rear ranks prate of glory... Soon they’ll trill another song.
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{End}
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If you've made it this far I applaud your determination. Other essays might be added at some future time, or you can visit my website in hopes of reading more free content. If so inclined, consider sacrificing a pittance to read those below.
Feel free at any time to send me flattering comments, sincere or otherwise, or to inform me of possible typos or other errors.
Time Management for Mercenaries
Other works are in various stages of completion, including sequels to some of those above. And remember: No superheroes. Merely ordinary people, much like you and me, caught up in extraordinary circumstances.
Dai Alanye