Isn't it odd how we come to do the things we do? I started writing this novel not as a way to focus on something else when I was under stress, but because I threw a temper tantrum.
So I guess I've confessed that I'm a big fan of medieval romance novels...especially the ones that involve a strong woman and a handsome hunk in a kilt. I usually skip the, um, descriptive parts - I've been married for 46 years so I pretty much know how that goes without 4 pages of descriptions. (It’s a lot harder writing those scenes…I keep picturing Ma over my shoulder chewing me out and Dad grounding me until I’m ready for a nursing home!) I especially love stories with good, strong plots, solid secondary characters in addition to the main players, and enough accurate history thrown in to give the story some real interest. That’s what I’m trying to achieve. But by golly, the author of any book I read had better have done her research or I'm gonna let her know - quickly - that I wasn't impressed. That’s what started my email exchanges with Monica McCarty.
Examples:
The hero in one book had lost an arm all the way up to the shoulder during the Battle of Bannockburn: The heroine has finally wormed her way into his heart and after an explosive argument he "pulled her into his arms". Then he holds her tightly while he strokes her hair. Wait, huh? Wait - so she got mad at him and he suddenly grew a new arm? Is he a Scottish hero or a glass lizard? Two pages of interlude later he's back to having one arm. “It’s a miracle, Miranda!!”
It was one novel in particular which made me throw the book across the room and vow to do one myself and do a better job of it.
It's the year 1102 in the wilderness areas of Scotland. (Well, technically it's 1102 in all of Scotland, but for my complaint we'll focus on the wild, mostly unsettled part of the country) Our sneaky little heroine, who lives high in an isolated keep out in the wildest part of the land, is seeing a stable boy on the side, and her father will come unglued when he finds out because he has plans for a good match with a neighboring, evil, greedy landowner. She gives a note to her lady's maid with orders to give it to the stable boy. "Can you go swiftly, Gab?" The maid takes the note, looks at her mistress earnestly and promises, "I shall move as swiftly as a hummingbird's wings, m'lady." Okay, hold the antique phone here - first of all, this entire region is so still backward that it's doubtful the stable boy can read, and young women who could write were as scarce as hen's teeth. Secondly, hummingbirds are only found on this hemisphere.....they exist in North America, Mexico, Central and South America.....nowhere else. There has never been a hummingbird in Europe or anyplace else across the ocean. So how does a lady's maid in backwoods Scotland in 1102 even know what a hummingbird is? Couldn't have “read” about them in some explorer's reports because A) she probably couldn't read either and even if she could it's B) doubtful that they got the morning paper containing said reports with their morning oatmeal, and C) explorers hadn't BEEN here yet to make any reports!
Same book - same 1102 time frame......She looks at the man her father promised her to (who turned out to be handsome, witty, strong and gentle despite being evil and greedy) after their hands accidentally touch and says, "There must be more then, M'Laird. Did you not feel the electricity pass between us when we touched?" Oh, good grief!!! That's the point where I threw the book. Electricity? Seriously?
I concede that these books are a total waste of time. But the way I look at it it's my time and if I decided to fritter away a few hours of it lost in fantasy land it won't make much difference in the overall history of mankind. But it just kills me some of the stuff they expect us to buy into.....the women always have soft glowing hair - never greasy from being afraid to bathe because bathing and washing too often was believed to be harmful. They always smell like lavender, or verbena, or roses.... and the men always smell like leather and spices, never like 6 months of sweat and grime. Nobody ever has blue, green, brown or hazel eyes - they always have midnight, or violet, or ice, or cornflower blue; emerald or sea-green eyes (usually with unusual flecks of some other rare color thrown in), golden or black or walnut brown; and hazel eyes are the catchall color because the author can toss in any combination at all. These characters always have weird eyes anyway, since they change shape and color with a mood. My eyes are the same color no matter what mood I'm in and the only change in the shape of them isn't the eye itself, it's in the arrangement of the wrinkles around them that indicate laughter, fury, or whatever other emotion I'm experiencing.
I've never read one of these "naughty novels" (Ken’s term for my literary choices) yet where she doesn't have silky smooth skin all over. Now wait a cotton pickin' minute. Why does she always have such smooth, soft legs? Did she have a Bic disposable razor under her plaid? The writers never say things like, "The sun glinted off the golden hairs on her legs like sunlight on a sandy beach" or "He lay next to her, absently twirling the hair in her armpits." I don't get it. But then I wear flannel lined jeans and raise grandkids and chickens, so I suppose I'm not supposed to have the intelligence to notice these things.
. If he lived at our house all the time it would be different... He'd miss a good couple meals and be hungry for a whil until he learned to keep his mouth shut. Even his best friend tells him to be quiet and he doesn't know when to shut up!
