Tag Archives: Heroes

Writing the opposite sex

Men are my favorite part of romance novels and hands down my preferred characters to write.  Why?  I grew up around men, never had any sisters, and because of that, tend to be bewildered when it comes to certain female behaviors.  For example, I take less than a minute to order off a restaurant menu. When I go to the hair salon, I’ll chop my hair off on a whim and not cry about it later.  And yes, handbags the size of houses are just plain odd. 

Stereotypes aside though, I do love romance novels (a decidedly feminine interest, or so I’m told).  In a well-written romance sexual tension and witty repartees cannot be beat and although the experience hinges on a relatable  heroine, the hero should tantalize the reader.  Otherwise we’d be reading chick-lit wherein bad boyfriends with bad teeth and bad manners reign and maybe, just cross your fingers, the heroine is slightly happier in the end.  (OK, chick-lit is not that bad.  BJD and the like were very, very good.)

More often than not, creating compelling male characters results from toeing the male pov line, which next to your complicated heroine’s brain should be refreshingly simple.   Heroes are action oriented beings, moving the plot along at a quickfire pace until confronted with the sole problem they cannot conquer and immediately solve: lust and subsequent love for the heroine.  Rationality doesn’t work in dismissing the hero’s interest just as flat out charm fails in gaining the heroine’s affection.   They must fight and fight dirty to end up happily ever after. 

This is where writing by gender (or switching it up) comes into play.  Vexing the heroine is a beloved sport and the hero often accomplishes this with masculine observations, i.e. vulgar and/or amusing honesty.   Although contemporary romance might be the exception, this direct manner of speech does not work so well with the historical heroine, no matter how feisty she may be.  Men can get away with so much more than women:  noncomittal grunts, the cliched pleated brow, the stalkerific yet somehow compelling stare.  They don’t even have to talk to get their point across!

Male characters also have freer license to act unreliably.  They can make demands without being regarded as high maintenance or bitchy.  They can be unbelievably rude, sexually frustrated, evasive, and dense without these flaws overshadowing their character.  Display this behavior in a woman and many readers are going to assume there’s something imbalanced about her. 

But the most rewarding aspect of male characters is that you, the writer, can forget using all adverbs and many adjectives, throw out vague modifiers, and stick with strong verbs.  “Would you kindly step aside?” becomes “Get out of my way!” and so on.   There’s also the fact that men get to bellow and bark, which is a minor cherry on top. 

Now Get Working:

Writer’s Digest has a great article to jump start your thinking on “How to Write Intriguing Male and Female Characters.”  For reference, I also like to read work by alpha dogs like Hemingway and then scale back degrees from there in terms of speech and observation.  His style is sparse and to the point, some may even argue masculine at its best.

Hope you enjoyed!

The Hero, Part 1: The Highwayman

The gallant figure of the highwayman has seduced women for ages.  He is the lone anti-hero on a dark road, the dashing gentleman turned rogue by ill-fortune.  Sometimes, more tantalizingly, his thieving is done by choice, by the sheer predatory pleasure of taking what he wants.  He thrives off the hunt, stripping ladies of their jewels and weaker lords of their pride.   An archetype for the forbidden, flipping laws for his own amusement and livelihood, he represents a desire many women cannot even name – the total escape from society’s rules.  A highwayman is the ultimate bad boy, tempting a heroine to run away from the trappings of her sex – the dull husband, the incessant drone of shopping and babies and gossip – and the best part about it, a part of her wants to.  Really wants to.

This man whose cocksure grin causes a lady to surrender her material pleasures for just one glimpse of the forbidden is one of the heroes of the ages –  think the medieval outlaw, Robin Hood; the 17th century Claude Du Vall; the Irish Captain Gallagher.   And in fiction, he is undeniably sexy.  Why?  That question is the very reason.  A highwayman has a dark, hidden history that led him to rob stagecoaches.  He is an enigma, perhaps a gentleman, dispossessed of his wealth or title, or maybe a benevolent rogue who steals in contempt of the rich.  He joins the ranks of pirates and smugglers and we just have to believe, underneath it all, he is honorable.

And what about the highwaywoman?  That reversal might be fun, shocking lords and gentlemen everywhere!

Want to know more about this kind of rogue?

Outlaws and Highwaymen (awesome links too)

Robin Hood History  (There’s a series of fantasy romance-ish books that are worth checking out by Jennifer Roberson)

Dangerous Hero Addict Support Group (for those books to read!)

Also, listen to Loreena McKennitt sing “The Highwayman” by poet Alfred Noyes.  It’s a beautiful poem.

The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding–
Riding–riding–
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He’d a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He’d a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle–
His rapier hilt a-twinkle–
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter–
Bess, the landlord’s daughter–
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened–his face was white and peaked–
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter–
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o’er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching–
Marching–marching–
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
“Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding–
Riding–riding–
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight–
Her musket shattered the moonlight–
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him–with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy’s ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding–
Riding–riding–
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter–
Bess, the landlord’s daughter–
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Check back in for more dangerous hero profiles.  I’d love to hear about your favorite type!