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Romance novels is weird
May. 20th, 2008 03:01 pmIn the current trashy book I'm reading (which is "Angel" by Johanna Lindsay -- so old it's got a Fabio clinch stepback for a cover), there's something that's just bugging me a lot. I take it for granted that the heroes in romance novels are supposed to be phenomenally handsome and virile to a fault. That's just the way it goes and probably the way it's gonna go for as long as there are books about twue wuv! between a silly girl and a powerful guy.
But this book just isn't conveying the whole hot dude thing to me. It's got that tradition of early '90s romances where the hero's hair is disreputably long, he's domineering* at first but has a change of heart when he realizes he wuvs! the heroine, he shoots people for a living . . . so it's got all the tenets of your basic Western romance novel. Bad dude meets good girl, add trouble, shake vigorously, and the end result is a cocktail of love. Except for one thing.
The gosh-darn hero is described as constantly wearing a bright yellow slicker/raincoat. Over all black clothing, natch. So every time the slicker is mentioned, instead of imagining some really handsome dude in a raincoat, I imagine this guy. Only more bumblebee-y.
Not good, Johanna Lindsay. Not good.
*Seriously, who finds someone who's constantly trying to control your actions, telling you you're wrong, and is insanely jealous a good life mate? Why did that cliché persist so long in romantic fiction? Drives me nuts!
But this book just isn't conveying the whole hot dude thing to me. It's got that tradition of early '90s romances where the hero's hair is disreputably long, he's domineering* at first but has a change of heart when he realizes he wuvs! the heroine, he shoots people for a living . . . so it's got all the tenets of your basic Western romance novel. Bad dude meets good girl, add trouble, shake vigorously, and the end result is a cocktail of love. Except for one thing.
The gosh-darn hero is described as constantly wearing a bright yellow slicker/raincoat. Over all black clothing, natch. So every time the slicker is mentioned, instead of imagining some really handsome dude in a raincoat, I imagine this guy. Only more bumblebee-y.
Not good, Johanna Lindsay. Not good.
*Seriously, who finds someone who's constantly trying to control your actions, telling you you're wrong, and is insanely jealous a good life mate? Why did that cliché persist so long in romantic fiction? Drives me nuts!