Welcome and Merry Christmas to one of my favorite peeps, Theresa Stevens! Today Theresa answers the question – is romance writing formulaic?
I recently had the opportunity to visit the Art Institute in Chicago, which for me must include a swing through the Impressionist gallery. Some of those paintings are like old childhood friends. There is one gallery in particular with several Monet paintings which has been one of my favorite places on earth since I was a kid.
The display hasn’t changed much even with all the recent renovations to the museum. Along one wall are six of the haystack paintings. Another wall shows three large water lily paintings. Across from the water lilies is a wall with several paintings from the London series. Monet tended to paint the same subjects over and over again, even from the same angles — twenty-five haystack paintings, thirty of the Rouen cathedral, perhaps two hundred and fifty paintings of water lilies in his garden — and yet no two paintings are alike.
This is where the lesson lies for us today. Nobody ever said to Monet, “Geez, talk about formulaic. All these haystacks are like art for farm wives.” Yet we hear all the time that romance is formulaic and even “porn for housewives” because it examines a single subject in different varieties. That criticism is foolish, and Monet proves it.
Art, whether paintings or novels, consists of both form and content. For us, the novel is the form. It is built of language, but not just any kind of language; the novel is written in narrative prose. There is a recognized basic structure for this form (beginning, middle, end — or, if you prefer, initiation, rising action, crisis, denouement). From this basic structure, particular structural forms emerge, such as mythic quest structure and fairy tale structure, with archetypal characters beginning to take shape. From there, we can split our examination of novel form into two loose clusters of elements, story elements (plot, character, theme, setting — the things that survive a book’s translation to film) and narrative elements (action, description, dialogue, interior monologue, and exposition — the way we categorize the actual written words on the page). Even though there has been some literary experimentation with form and content, the novel’s form has held fairly steady since its inception. It’s a form that seems to work.
Content, we might say, is specific to a particular work. It’s what we put inside our form to make our specific work meaningful, or it’s what our work is about. It’s what we use to make an intimate connection to our audience. Form is “heroine,” but content is “Minerva Dobbs.” Form is “romantic conflict,” but content is, “Minerva knows Cal bet ten grand that he could get her into bed within a month, but she needs a date to her sister’s wedding so she strings him along for a few weeks.” There are other ways to define form and content, but for our purposes, form stays true from work to work, but content changes.
Photos courtesty of Wikipedia
What Monet did (and what we as romance novelists do in some ways) is extend the definition of form into areas that might otherwise be deemed content. A painter might ordinarily define his painting as “a painting of a haystack” to distinguish it from a painting of a puppy or a battlefield or a melting clock. The content in that case is what makes it unique. But with a series of paintings of haystacks, the haystack itself is as ubiquitous as the canvas, frame, or paint. It becomes part of the form. The content, then, is not puppy vs. haystack, but autumn haystack vs. winter haystack, or sunset winter haystack vs. sunrise winter haystack vs. noon winter haystack.
And so it is with romance novels. Saying that these books are formulaic because they concern themselves with romance is much like saying Monet’s paintings were formulaic because he repeated his subjects. Yes, our books are about people overcoming obstacles and falling in love. That is the form of the romance. Consistency of form doesn’t make all the works the same. What it does, instead, is free the creative mind to focus on particular aspects of the work. For Monet, it was light, season, and weather, and how those would change the appearance of a familiar object such as a haystack. For us romance writers, it’s character and conflict, what keeps people apart, what binds them as a unit.
The story begins with a heroine. She meets a hero. There’s an attraction, but there’s also something keeping them apart. How will the positive impulse overcome the negative barrier? What must the hero and heroine change in order to make that intimate connection? How do the hero and heroine know when it’s love? How do any of us know when love is real? These questions are resolved by the end of the story, which always ends happily with a committed couple.
This isn’t a formula. This is an established structure, a recognized form, and what matters is how the artist innovates within that established parameter. Innovation comes not in the big picture, but in the small details. We see shades of light within love the same way Monet saw it on the haystacks and ponds and bridges. He recorded the way weather changed the appearance of an object. We record the way the resolution of a trust issue can change the course of a life. This is an important matter, worthy of close scrutiny. That we also have a lot of fun with it says not that it’s frivolous, but that it’s satisfying and rewarding.
So the next time you hear someone scoff at romance for being formulaic, smile brightly and say, “If it was good enough for old Claude Monet, it’s good enough for me.”
Theresa
PS. Monet was also ridiculously proficient, something else he has in common with us romance writers. And people love his paintings, much the way readers snap up our books. There are benefits to innovating within a strong form. =)
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Writers, do you write out the basic structure to your novel? Do you seek out the small changes of light like Monet?
Have A Wonderful Christmas Everyone!!! Happy Holidays!
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Bio: Theresa Stevens is the Publisher of STAR Guides Publishing, a nonfiction publishing company with the mission to help writers write better books. After earning degrees in creative writing and law, she worked as a literary attorney agent for a boutique firm in Indianapolis where she represented a range of fiction and nonfiction authors. After a nine-year hiatus from the publishing industry to practice law, Theresa worked as chief executive editor for a highly acclaimed small romance press, and her articles on writing and editing have appeared in numerous publications for writers. Visit her blog at http://edittorrent.blogspot.com/ where she and her co-blogger share their knowledge and hardly ever argue about punctuation.
Great post. Concise.
Viviane Brentanos
Posted by Viviane Brentanos | December 23, 2011, 3:09 amThank you! Happy holidays!
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:48 amTheresa, great post. I like your Monet analogy.
Every subgenre, every sport, every dining experience has its own guiding post. Thrillers – to save the day, mysteries – catch a killer, romance – happy ending, sport – win the game, dining – eat until we pop. Yet we experience every single one of these in different ways from one day to the next. That’s what makes them exciting and fresh. To romance naysayers, I say, “Bahhh!”
I’ve tried writing out the basic structure, but always wind up off-road. It’s a great exercise to get my mind focused and invested in the story, though.
Posted by Tracey Devlyn | December 23, 2011, 5:47 amExcellent, Tracey! That’s exactly what I mean. Nobody would want to live in a formless world. We set standards for classes of things and then apply those standards to the individual representatives of the class. Assuming that all representatives of a given class are unworthy is the same as assuming that every football game has two losing teams.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:48 amGood morning, Theresa. Great post. I try to write out the basic structure of my books. It usually winds up changing as I go along though.
Happy Holidays everyone!
Posted by Adrienne Giordano | December 23, 2011, 7:54 amWell, yes, because what you’re probably doing is a kind of structure-based plotting. As you work on the book, the plot is bound to evolve and change somewhat. You might add characters here, subtract them there, and this will all make it feel different from the original map, but that’s nothing to worry about. That just means the book is taking on a life of its own. That’s a good thing!
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:42 amMorning Theresa and Merry Christmas!!!
I remember being so shocked when I first heard a romance HAD to have an HEA. I get so involved in the books that by the time I got past the black moment, I was so relieved that SOMEHOW they managed to pull together and live happily ever after! lol….imagine my surprise when I learned it was part of a formula. But it’s the content that to me made it all seem so different in each book that you just didn’t know it would all turn out well.
Thanks so much for your post today – have a great holiday!
carrie
Posted by Carrie Spencer | December 23, 2011, 8:51 amCarrie, yes, I think we all get hooked the same way!
There’s something really satisfying about seeing how they survive and overcome and even thrive in the end. It’s powerful, which is why the form endures.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:38 amT’s analogies are *the* best, aren’t they? If any of you have caught the writing bug, I offer a quick holiday challenge: Meander down your street. Look at each house. Ask yourself, “What did she ever see in him?” Apply Theresa’s structure — and Monet’s eyes. The stories will pour out faster than you can record them.
Best wishes for a sparkling, magical holiday — and big neighborhoods for happy meandering!
Posted by Molly Swoboda | December 23, 2011, 9:45 amOh, Molly, what a fun exercise! What can we tell about people from seeing their houses from the outside? What can we see about the nature of their relationships? Cool. Very cool.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:37 amHi Theresa,
Paintings and films are similiar to writing romance. Watch a black and white Christmas movie. Would ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ benefit from a dash of color? No. Is the story line universal and timeless? Yes. Many Christmas stories have the same themes and endure as classics in their own way.
Merry Christmas and Happy 2012 to all at RU!!
Mary Jo
Posted by Mary Jo Burke | December 23, 2011, 10:01 amHappy holidays, Mary Jo! Christmas stories and romance dovetail beautifully in terms of theme. Christmas stories tend to focus on things like the importance of family and the power of love, and romance novels tap into those themes from a very specific angle. This is why we can count on a fresh crop of Christmas-themed romances every year!
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:24 amTheresa -
I want to be you when I grow up. I always love reading what comes pouring out of that brilliant mind of yours!
You know I am struggling to learn good story structure, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other!
Happy holidays to Theresa and all our RU readers!
Kelsey
Posted by Kelsey Browning | December 23, 2011, 1:16 pmHappy holidays, doll! Let your characters guide you through the story. They know what needs to happen. And if they get it wrong in the first draft, you can always set them straight during revisions.
(NOTE: That is unique advice for Kelsey — the rest of you may carry on as you were. lol 
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:22 amHi Teresa!
The mention of the Art Institute always makes me think of the lions out front.
It bothers me that romance is deemed formulaic because I think most books/movies are formulaic, even those with the shocking twist at the end. We almost expect the twists and the surprise ending.
Give me well-developed characters, even someone who’s left of normal and great writing, and I can almost overlook a convoluted or implausible plot.
Happy holidays to you and yours!
Posted by Jennifer Tanner | December 23, 2011, 3:16 pmRawr for the lions! Truth be told, I think movies are far more formulaic than books. We have freedoms that would be unimagined in the screenwriting universe. Anytime you see one of those math formulas for a story with percentages and dividing marks — “X must happen at the 10% point, and Y must happen at the midpoint” — you’re talking about screenwriting formulas. We don’t have to adopt those measuring systems in books.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:20 amI love Chicago’s Art Institute! I go there whenever I can. LOVE the Monets!
Thanks for giving a shout-out to one of my favorite romances of all time – Jenny Crusie’s BET ME!
I agree with you 100%. People who blow off romance because they say it’s formulaic may as well blow off marriage for the same reason. Are all families the same? All brothers and sisters? I don’t think so!
And, hello, what about the Law & Order franchise? Perry Mason? Murder She Wrote? James Patterson’s books?
And how many times has the storyline of Beauty and the Beast or Romeo & Juliet been used in a plot? I couldn’t begin to count them all.
Formulas for stories are similar to recipes – people like them because they WORK. If giving a story a happy ending is formulaic, then so be it. Those are the books I’m going to buy!
Posted by Becke Martin/Davis | December 23, 2011, 6:04 pmBecke, you get a gold star for identifying the example! I was waiting to see who would be first to speak up.
I think what bothers me about discussions of form and genre are this assumption that there’s something lowbrow about them. That was why I thought the haystacks were a great example. Form and content exist, period. It’s what you do with them that makes the end work worthy or interesting or playful or innovative or comforting — or whatever other value or response a work might be said to represent.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:15 amSpeaking of Jennifer Crusie, check out her essay on fairy tales and the romance genre:
http://www.jennycrusie.com/for-writers/essays/let-us-now-praise-scribbling-women/
Posted by Catherine M Wilson | January 3, 2012, 5:14 pm“From this basic structure, particular structural forms emerge, such as mythic quest structure and fairy tale structure, with archetypal characters beginning to take shape. From there, we can split our examination of novel form into two loose clusters of elements, story elements (plot, character, theme, setting — the things that survive a book’s translation to film) and narrative elements (action, description, dialogue, interior monologue, and exposition — the way we categorize the actual written words on the page)”
Perhaps you’d think of this as part of character/setting, but it seems to me that the mimetic mode of the work is also important in helping to distinguish between types of romances. Just as Monet could have winter, summer, autumn and spring haystacks, there can be ‘romance’, high-mimetic, low-mimetic and low-mimetic romances. I’d also argue that a lot of the subtlety and pleasure of reading romances can derive from the ways in which authors mix and match elements of different modes.
Posted by Laura Vivanco | December 24, 2011, 6:03 amLaura, your new book is on my reading list! I wanted to finish a re-read of Frye to refresh my memory before I got into yours. It looks great!
Lately, in writers circles, I’ve been hearing the term hyper-reality begin to bubble up a bit. I sense this is writers grappling with mimesis in a way similar to what you mention. Not entirely the same, of course, because writers tackle these questions from a generative perspective rather than a purely analytical one. But I smell a change in the winds of discussion, and this is certainly part of it.
So when writers are brainstorming hyper-reality with their critique groups, they’re examining things like how bold a character’s response can be without going over the top. That is, they ask, “A lot of people might think this, but would any of them ever say it out loud? Can *this* character get away with it?” The resulting story might have the kind of blended mimetic approach you mention, but I’m not sure that’s a deliberate result.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:09 amI can see I have more reading to do, and not just fiction!
Posted by Becke Martin/Davis | December 24, 2011, 10:13 amBecke, romance scholarship is blossoming in a way I never would have thought possible ten or twenty years ago. Pay attention to what Laura and her fellow romance scholars are doing if you’re at all interested in literary criticism and analysis. It’s brilliant and beautiful and tremendously validating for authors to see romance works handled with such intelligence and insight. I’ve been to a couple of their conferences and it’s an almost dazzling experience. Anyway, if you like that sort of thing, read Laura’s work (her book and the Teach Me Tonight blog ( http://www.teachmetonight.blogspot.com/ )), and read Pam Regis’s book ( http://www.upenn.edu/pennpress/book/1566.html ), and take a look at JPRS online ( http://jprstudies.org/ ). (Having trouble hyperlinking so I just added the urls there.)
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:34 am“Laura, your new book is on my reading list! I wanted to finish a re-read of Frye to refresh my memory before I got into yours. It looks great!”
I hope you enjoy reading it. You shouldn’t have to re-read Frye (though obviously you’re entirely free to do so if you want!) because I’ve assumed that my readers might not have read any Frye, so I quote his definitions in the text and then use different Harlequin/Mills & Boon novels as illustrations of the various modes.
“writers tackle these questions from a generative perspective rather than a purely analytical one [...] The resulting story might have the kind of blended mimetic approach you mention, but I’m not sure that’s a deliberate result.”
I’m sure writers do approach this differently, although given the differences between plotters and “pantsers” and the various ways writers approach editing the early drafts of their own work, some do seem to be more analytical than others. I wonder if it’s similar to the way that some people learn languages primarily by listening to it being spoken, whereas other language-learners much prefer to learn the grammar rules and have lists of vocabulary.
Posted by Laura Vivanco | December 24, 2011, 10:31 amAgree completely. Writers do some analysis of their own work-in-progress, and some writers do more than others. They even use the same discussion terms sometimes. But the basic nature of the discussions will be different because they know what their goals are, and they can still change things to try to do a better job of reaching those goals.
Posted by Theresa Stevens | December 24, 2011, 10:55 amI was attempting to watch a mystery type show the other night where a baby had been kidnapped and my husband changed to the hockey game during a commercial and caused me to miss the end. I expressed my annoyance to which he said “They found the baby.”
I replied, “But How Did they find the baby? When I pick up a romance I know the hero and heroine will wind up together. But the story is about the HOW- how they overcome their issues and conflicts. that’s what is interesting.”
If you don’t know the rules, you can’t break them.
Posted by asrai | December 29, 2011, 1:06 amWhile it’s true both Monet’s haystack paintings and romances have a recurring structure at their core, this comparison is risky.
Monet’s paintings hang in a museum because they are masterpieces. Acclaim as a “classic” such as given Austen, or Pulitzer prizes can be awarded to masterpieces of literary art. Few romance writers win Pulitzers or have attained classic status.
It’s all in the skill at handling the structure, and sadly there are more of us writing “Art Clearing House” reproductions than the equivalent of Monet haystacks.
The presence of a recurring structure is no guarantee — or defense — of literary quality, either in writing or in story.
Posted by Lloyd Meeker | January 2, 2012, 3:11 pm