Suicide for authors in the Romance genre!

The very fact I paint my own covers I do require models, hence the photo on the right became the model for the hero depicted with the heroine in the left hand cover snip. 

Unusual hero for a Georgian era novel? 

I suppose he is, and no, he's not some romantic Bedouin tribesman who rides to the rescue of a fair maid or abducts her for his personal pleasure, nor is he a Barbary pirate. He's a young man of honour who swears fealty to a man who saved his life from one fate, though the greater fate prior awaiting him was, in part, more dire than death. And what transpires is not your average romance... errr, love story between two couples. 

Ooops! I must categorise my writing in correct terminology. I pray you heard not my whispered curse at that juncture...

Hence, writing out of the box for me is a passion in how far I can stretch the ubiquitous rules for historical romance novels, which have long since warn thin for me as a reader and writer. The standard boy meets girl, contention arises to keep H/H apart (you know the formula) and all is finally resolved for the HEA (happy ever after). I do read them but find myself often waiting for a riveting scene, something out of the ordinary, and it may be but a few words, and those words are insightful, memorable, and if written well they later vindicate suspicion of foreshadowing: that sense of evil this way comes, or sense of a presence watching. waiting...       

That's the kind of writing I admire and what I strive for, because if you don't read every word, a clue or nuance of other can be missed and the whole utterly misconstrued. After all, reading is all in the words, one can't fast-forward in the visual context and hope nothing of importance was said or enacted.  High stake problems, social restraints and failure motivate desire for change, and such can and will drive a novel forward, whether in narrative or dialogue. 

Stop for a moment and consider desires that transcend sage mind, where emotions spin out of control, where envy steals forth in all its ugliness, where a heroine or hero will take risks to achieve her or his aim for the life they want. Imagine a heroine who believes she cannot have that of which she desires and will literally take herself off to a nunnery rather than do as others would have her abide to. A young hero who vanishes to live a differing experience and learns more than he bargained for en route. In the great scheme of writing I do break the rules of romance from time to time, because too often stories are so alike I feel I've travelled on the same road, seen the same sights and nothing exciting or heart-wrenching happened along the way.

How dangerous is it to break romance rules and gallop off on wild and exciting trails of discovery, or break with tradition? Answer: It can be suicide for an author to go off the beaten romance track and indulge a Romance train wreck in which a sub hero dies, or the hero is killed! But sometimes events conspire against the author, characters determine their own destiny, and here is where the same old argument arises in what constitutes a "Romance Novel" as opposed to "Love Story".

The former Romance Novel is strictly romance all the way with little irritating asides, a touch of fear, abduction, murder, mystery, damn near rape, or forced sex in marriage, forced marriage, widowhood, and angst of one sort or another, plus friction, envy, rivalry, hot hot sex with a ghost, or no sex at all and all must have a fairy tale end. And Lo and Behold, the HEA supersedes the shocking elements, or how base the sex was, whatever... 

With a Love Story one can do almost any damn thing listed above one likes, and even kill the hero or heroine in the last scene shot. That's the most memorable end, is it not - remember Harry's Game the TV drama, or Heathcliff's haunting in Wuthering Heights?  But whoa, that's the suicide bid, the end bite where a reader can turn against the author. And even if the novel has a secondary HEA, that may not pacify the reader, and it does not classify it as a Romance novel, not  even a teeny weeny or grand Romantic ending. Oh, no, no, it's merely a Love Story as die-hard romancers will ram down your throat on social media until you wish you could puke all over their over zealous pomposity!

But back to the hero, the unusual, and the penning of risque love affairs... ah, do I have your attention? Some authors are more daring than others, and scarred heroes and spies returned from the Peninsular Wars, "Wellington and Napoleonic" era, have been the rage for several years now, and it would be great to see more modern-day authors risking all for love with unusual historical heroes! 

Damn it, research history, seek out the unusual and run or ride with it, and to hell with boring formula romance, Be daring, beguile, and write out of the box, Discard the sweet twee novel, and go for full-on cinematic glory where God forbid another author has gone before...           

   

What of a highwayman who isn't?
What of highwayman who robs for the daring of it, nothing more?
What of a soldier/sailor who is more than he appears to be?
What of heroine masquerading as other than she is and for good reason?
What of heroine who has walked a dark path and finally finds the love she has always sought?
What of young man who loves a heroine with extreme passion but can never voice that love?

Those are just a few of the story lines from my list of books...   

Go write out of the box and dare to be different!

    

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Lady of the Tower

My words have taken flight with dark deeds of human nature, its envy, its jealousy, its lustful desires, unforgiving in its brutality;

my mind is bruised, tears welled, and yet, and yet, one moment of happiness eases the pain of yesteryears;

the going back through the words of others, those who saw, those who died before the ink dried, and those who loved and again returned,

none could forget, some couldn't forgive, thus they rallied,

and avowed to avenge the one a king had put to death.

BOOK RELEASE DAY - Finally finished after two years of searching for every scrap of evidence I could dig up in avoidance of bullshit "Victor" propaganda, which so many historians and authors who take words as writ by others as proof of past events. Not so, John Childs author/prof/biographer of Percy Kirke. Nor I who never takes anything for granted where history is concerned, instead I think, puzzle, and question the motives of the movers and shakers of their day. I investigate, dig deep into archives, pit one person's words against another's, look for discrepancies, look for the hidden clues and follow your nose as a bloodhound on fresh scent of its prey.

Back cover blurb:

In the aftermath of Rebellion and the Duke of Monmouth’s defeat, Thomasina Thornton rides to the battlefield wearing her dead brother’s clothes. Desperately searching for her brother-in-law, a Dutch officer, she’s aware of the dangers of posing as a curious lad. Fear and dread of capture materialises in stark reality with the arrival of a new officer and detachment of cavalry. As innocent bystanders and robbers of the dead are herded together, her freedom is at an end. Never had she envisaged the man who had momentarily held her gaze within the splendour of Axebury Hall would now hold her life in his hands. Nor can she perceive love and romance could or would blossom between them in that moment when threat of death, and worse, floods her thoughts.

This isn't a romance set against a historical backdrop, it's all about the raw reality of rebellion against a monarch by a king's natural son (a long debated point). Romance does blossom when least expected, but harbouring the enemy is always a dangerous business. more so when that man is a spy in the king's camp.

Excerpt:

One

~

Sedgemoor – Somerset 1685: July 7^th

~

Thomasina had left the inn not long after dawn, the stench of death now all about her, and where to begin her search she knew not, but at least no one had attempted to stop her from riding near to the battlefield. People were coming and going; the whole scene was a hive of activity as bodies with waterlogged clothing were hauled from rhynes and left for the death carts. Lifeless uniformed royalist soldiers slain on the surrounding fields had been hefted to wagons, and now moving away for burial. There were women amidst the dead searching and sorting rebel belongings from royalists, and all around little groups of people were given to tears on finding rebel soldiers who were known to them. Some begged to take their loved ones away, others had found friends. When finally granted permission to remove bodies, sense of great reverence befell the gathered, and all whilst under the watchful eye of royalist soldiers of foot.

A strange air of calm prevailed, perhaps part fear on the side of the civilians, and part respect on the part of the soldiers. Whether the soldiers were under orders to refrain from engaging insults and scornful reproach, it was impossible to determine. Nearby were two mounted soldiers, thankfully patrolling the far side of the bank and farther forward than she. Twice retching had befallen her, and a supposed boy retching might attract unwanted attention. But the sight of horse carcasses part floating was wholly incongruous in what had once been an idyllic haven for a majestic flotilla of swans now heading upstream, the appearance of the birds drawing the attention of the two riders.

Far from being the only civilian, she was a solitary figure on horseback whilst searching through the devastation of mangled and bloodied men. She had intentionally kept her distance and ridden the banks of the lesser Bussex rhyne and now edged Bramble toward the greater rhyne, the Langmoor Rhyne; where it was said the Dutch soldiers had perished. After all, a rebel runaway soldier killed near the King’s Head Inn declared he had witnessed the Dutch soldiers tumbling into the water; and looking down at the number of drowned horses and bodies tangled in weeds she feared the worst. As yet she had seen no fair hair, so fair it was the colour of cream off the milk. There was golden, brown and black hair of dead men floating, and lifeless eyes peering heavenward.

So engrossed in peering into reed and rush beds was she, the sudden sound of many horses on approach along the highway set her heart thudding. Barely had she gained her wits than a cavalry troop entered into the field. They soon split into detachments of four men, and were clearly intent on clearing the field of civilians. No. They were detaining them, herding them together as though they were but cattle. Fearing the worst, she cast her eyes along the rhyne to where she had seen the two riders in the far field, one a royalist officer of the Oxford Blues, if she was not mistaken. They too had noticed the new arrivals and duly crossed over the rhyne at a wooden plungeon and cantered across the field to join with their compatriots, or so she thought, until raised voices denoted a dispute had arisen between the officer in blue, and the newcomer wearing red.

To turn about and ride past the assembled would be somewhat foolhardy so she rode on toward the crossing point in hope no one would notice. When the plungeon was reached Bramble faltered. He was totally unwilling to tread the flooded and muddied crossing point. His behaviour much the same as when he had resisted her attempt to keep him close to the bank whilst keeping her eyes to the waters below. He could smell death all around, and even he could not be immune to the sight of dead horses.

Someone shouted “Hey, you there. What are you about, lad?”

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