Category: Hearts and Crafts

Point of view seems like such a silly thing to focus on as a plot device in romance novels, but I’d actually argue that it’s one of the biggest ways to influence intimacy and tension. If you read my piece on tension, you’ll remember that tension is created in large part by what isn’t being said. Point of view sets some pretty concrete boundaries in how feelings and information are disclosed and processed within the bounds of the plot, and that means that POV becomes the gatekeeper to what information is provided and what is withheld. It’s like a camera lens—you see what the camera allows you to see; some things are clear and some are fuzzy, and your ability to trust the narrative relies exclusively on what you’re allowed to see—and nothing else.

Let’s talk about how different kinds of POV impact what you’re able to experience.

First, the building of intimacy. There’s going to be a HUGE difference in the way intimacy is built (and it’s effectiveness, if you want to go throw down) based on what kind of POV is used. The same story told in third person will not hit the same way as a story told in first person, where you’re sympathetically feeling what someone else is feeling in real time. Also, a story told in the present tense, where you’re right there with someone experiencing something, is going to hit differently than a story being told by someone relating a story told from the past. Not better or worse, just differently. And an author is going to have to really think about how a relationship’s physical and emotional intimacy is going to unfold if a story is told by a neutral narrator who is omniscient—there’s an added degree of separation between the reader and the characters, and it matters. Intimacy in romance novels is just as complicated and multifaceted as it is in real life—we have books that are absolutely spine tingling yet the only physical touch depicted on the page is an accidental touch of the hand, and we have books that involve copious copulating and yet the moment of binding intimacy is bringing soup to someone when they’re sick. 

Second, the ability to manipulate tension. One of the most interesting and hotly debated ways to pull off incredible tension and a slow burn of building intimacy is to have the book set in first person, present, static point of view. This is how Mariana Zapata nails a good slow burn (if you’re into Mariana Zapata). With her works, BECAUSE you can’t see what the MMC is thinking during the slow build of the relationship, every gesture, every lingering glance builds tension between the FMC and the MMC and that’s where both the intimacy and the tension really shine through. But that’s not the only way to build tension—for example, if you’re reading a romance novel and it’s set in third person, present, alternating point of view, you’re going to be able to give the readers a TON of self disclosure—but you’re also going to need to consider how to crank up the tension without it devolving into a well of wallowing/cloying feelings. Outside nemesis? Situation of peril? You see my point. If the story is being told by an omniscient narrator (rare in romance, but still) you have the benefit of being able to watch characters headed towards something YOU know is coming, but they don’t. 

In my opinion, the reason a lot of romance writers tend to use alternating third person POV is that it provides a ton of flexibility with the plot and lens while also making it very easy to establish both physical and emotional intimacy. You can describe exactly what’s going on in each character’s mind in the same sex scene, and that builds intimacy within the story and (in a weird way) between the characters and the reader. If you need to ratchet up some tension, you can pause and switch the perspective to the other character. Plus, it’s my personal favorite when the author is able to dive into two very different voices and really bring them to life and then bring them together.

There’s one more interesting factor that plays into POV that I think is worth mentioning: the trustworthiness of the characters. In third person, you’re getting a much more straightforward account of what’s happening–there’s a degree of removal between you and the action, so you can see things they can’t. In first person, you’re kind of held willing hostage by whatever the characters think and experience. I find a lot of the “I Misjudged You” plotlines tend to work better in first person, because you’re strung along by hints of blind spots and misread intentions and can experience the “shame and shift” bit that follows along with the character who was hurtful. On the flip side, I suspect this type of setup is exactly what enrages some readers and I think it can be very difficult to get right. There’s a fine line between seeing that a character is untrustworthy because they have some mess to go through and some growing to do, and feeling like a character is untrustworthy because they’re genuinely someone who shouldn’t be trusted. 

The point here (see what I did there) is that point of view is not a choice authors make based on what feels good or what they prefer (although I bet most do have a preference)-—it’s a razor sharp tool that heavily influences how readers interpret their works, and it can make a huge impact on how we as readers feel about a book’s effectiveness.

---

Want more on POV? Here’s a group post we did in 2022.

My LEAST favorite part of being in a writer’s group is when you’re sitting there and watching everyone pick apart your latest work, and someone points out that whatever you made your character do is…out of character. And then they look very sanctimonious and shrug and say, “So when this happens…so what?” 

I absolutely hate it. Those two words make me want to toss the table. I hate it because whenever someone asks that question, it’s usually for a really darn good reason. SO. WHAT. So why does that matter to the character? Why does it direct their choices? So it happens. So what?

It matters because everything the main characters do in a book needs to be directed by two things, and lead to one thing. Altogether, these factors impact how the readers are going to be able to invest themselves into the story and buy into the plot. 

Why?

All main character behavior is driven by two things: their greatest fear, and their greatest desire. It’s not always spelled out, but if it’s done right, you can see it. Take for example my recent review For Butter or for Worse. Leo’s inherited his father’s line of comfortable Italian eateries but isn’t himself a chef or a restauranteur. He’s also suffered from panic attacks since his father’s death. His greatest fear is being exposed, both as a fraud and as being weak. His greatest desire is to find a place he belongs. Ultimately, he gets what he most desires, but only after facing his greatest fears. By making sure Leo’s shaped with that in mind, the author is able to create character depth, tension (will he ever get what he needs?), and an emotional connection with the reader.

What about externally driven plots? Well, that is an EXCELLENT question. I’m so glad I asked it. 

Even if the main characters are captured by a band of pirates and their relationship is strong (so the plot is driven by what’s happening TO them and not BETWEEN them), we the readers still need to know what motivates these characters. What are they able to see that others can’t? What chances will they be willing to take to win? And really, just how awful can things get for these characters? We need to know these things–it can be subtle, but it has to be there.

What For?

Ultimately, trying to avoid the things they are most afraid of leads to the black moment. This moment in the plot has different names, and it can hit at different points in the story. Often it’s where the second and third acts meet, or around 75-80% of the way through the plot.

The Black Moment has to involve the characters facing those fears they tried so hard to avoid. So essentially, the author has to take these characters they’ve lovingly crafted and put them through hell. (Mua ha ha…)

And in romance, THIS is super important–by this time in the story, we’ve seen them grow together, but in a limited way. The Black Moment is the moment we need to see them grappling with the realization that they might not make it, or that they ultimately should not be together. 

And what about books with the Fated Mate trope? Well, that gets a lot more interesting and multi-faceted, but it could be that they’re looking at facing the rest of their lives (or forever, if they’re immortal) miserable together, or one of them could face death. 

So what, though? Well, we say that in romance, the characters need to grow separately and together in the end. Their relationship has to stir transformation, and that transformation ultimately needs to bring them through what they’ve been fearing and lead them to what they most want. 

The books I’ve found that are most satisfying tend to avoid making another person be their greatest desire. I think deep down it’s not really that satisfying to see someone go through hell exclusively to be with another flawed, raw person. But it COULD be that a character’s greatest desire is to find a home, and they find that in someone else. Or, to be seen and loved as they are. To fully open themselves up to another person. Those are valid things to want, to sacrifice for and to work towards. 

When we see this executed poorly in books, it can run from being very obvious (a character feels flat and boring, and you don’t care what happens to them) to being very subtle. Sometimes we’ll feel like a decision or action taken doesn’t fit the character we’ve come to know and love. Or we’ll feel like the couple shouldn’t actually end up together. My favorite is the “unreliable narrator”–if the characters show no self awareness, and that’s not a deliberately written flaw they need to overcome in the Black Moment, we can’t trust the story at all. And that can feel very frustrating. Erin really can’t stand it when characters write off love forever after one bad relationship–that’s not necessarily poor character development, but she’s probably sensing some weakness in the character development. After all, there’s a huge difference between “my last boyfriend broke my heart and so I’ll never love again” and “I grew up in a perfect home with loving parents and never expected someone to betray me like my last boyfriend did, so it’s made me question my ability to trust and read people and I don’t know what to do with these feelings.” Same basic idea, but with a lot more vulnerability and backstory.

How does this impact what reviewers are looking for in books? I think it varies from reviewer to reviewer, but just because we know what’s coming doesn’t mean we can’t squee with joy over how it’s being executed. I always try to figure out what’s driving the characters, because it helps me impartially dissect the plotline better. I’ve read a lot of books I didn’t personally care for, but I knew that the book was well executed and that my personal preferences needed to take a back seat in the review. The characters have well-planned motivators, those motivators (the fears and desires) bump along together to generate tension, the tension leads to a satisfying Black Moment, and then the resolution is solid.  Being able to pinpoint these factors can also help me specify where other things are going wrong with the characters, and if you’re going to criticize something an author has painfully birthed and is willing to share with the world for all to judge, it’s important to be specific and provide evidence that your criticisms are fair. 

So, essentially, I try to do precisely what ground my gears in the writer’s groups–I ask, “so what?” I just try really hard not to sound sanctimonious and gleeful when I do it. 

---

Previously in Hearts and Crafts:

• Introduction
• Three-Act Structure
• Writing Tension

Tension.

I’m going to go ahead and say that this is my absolute favorite thing to discuss about good writing. In fact, I’m going to assert that 76% of the time a book is described as “bad”, it’s because of tension issues.¹

The actual word “tension” comes from the Latin word tensio(n- ), and from the French word tendere, meaning “stretch.” I normally shudder when I see someone starting a paper with a definition, but here is my exception, because it’s just so COOL. When we experience good tension, we feel it physically—our throats tighten, our stomachs clench, we feel the muscles and ligaments in our joints stiffen and “stretch” taut—all from words on a page. It’s a visceral response,  and here’s the best part—when we experience tension, we’re not responding to what an author is saying. We’re responding to what isn’t being said.

That’s right—tension comes from deliberate space. It’s the shadows, the negative space, the darkness. We’re scared of the night when we’re little because of what we can’t see. And tension in writing is the same. When we read, we physically tense up because we can sense that there is something being left unsaid.

Now, we’re talking about romance here, right? Not murder mysteries. But guess what, same principal applies to sexual tension. We physically respond to what COULD happen between the characters we’ve become emotionally invested in, and the author executes that the exact same way—by creating tension through what isn’t said. 

Here’s why I think analyzing tension is so cool: good writing adds tension in a lot of sneaky ways. 

First off, let’s discuss the obvious. Crafty information gaps in the plot. This one will smack you right in the face if it’s done poorly. The reader doesn’t want to be told exactly what’s going to happen and why in a straightforward and no nonsense way. We love nonsense. We LIVE for nonsense. The hero has a dark and sordid past? Leave me little clues and make me guess. The heroine is secretly in love with her brother’s best friend and it can never ever happen? You better let me see some serious pining, but don’t you dare just spill those beans. 

But here’s the thing–it’s harder than it looks. An author can’t withhold too much of the plot and just dump it all at once, or the reader will feel duped. It’s a mutual relationship the author and the reader have, and the reader wants to be involved in the unfolding. An author also can’t drop too many hints, or the reader will feel bored and unsatisfied. They can’t just throw in some sneaky plot twists and call it good. Essentially–tension is a lot harder to execute than it might look.

Continue reading “Hearts and Crafts: Writing Tension” →

Here we are, delving into the first real meaty Hearts and Crafts. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE AND THIS WILL BE AWFUL! IT’S HAPPENING NOW AND IT IS AWFUL! Ah, I’ve written the first paragraph, and it’s better than I thought. I am filled with relief and satisfaction.

And there, my friends, are the three acts of a Romance novel–or really, the bones of the whole plot. Let’s investigate.

I think a lot of us imagine that writers create a book the same way we clean a bathroom–from the top down, with a little effort, and as quickly as possible. And I’m sure there are a lot of people who do write that way–but most of the writers I’ve known spend a LOT of time staring into space or daydreaming, and then even more time mapping out the plot. (And then sometimes there’s a little writing, but then it’s back to the plot map for a tweak…and then maybe they sit on things for a while and let it stew…and then they get out a few more chapters…you see my point.) You do not need to plan out or carefully time how and when you’re going to clean a bathroom. If you miss a spot, you won’t likely ruin anyone’s bathroom experience. Authors DO need to plan out their plots. Messing this up WILL sully a reader’s experience. And one of the easiest ways to make sure a plot progresses smoothly is by using acts.

Acts are essentially what they seem–just like in a play, they chunk the plot into sections that help manage the tension. And, as we know, tension is one of the most critical components of the plot–if the plot is the skeleton of the book, tension is the breath. (We’ll talk about tension soon!) Most novels tend to be in three acts, but I’m sure there are plenty of examples of authors who have successfully done this differently. For the sake of this blog post, I’m going to focus on three.

Essentially, mapping out a book into three acts splits the plot into three sections–the set up, the mess, and lastly the crisis and resolution. 

In the first Act, we should meet the characters, get settled into the setting and we should get some idea of what the issue is going to be. It doesn’t have to be spelled out in bold letters, but we should be able to begin to see some sort of a hazy question. In Romance, it’s almost always going to be “how will they get to their HEA”? If you’re lucky, it’ll be more juicy and complicated than that. As a reader, at the close of the first Act you should feel engaged, comfortable with your understanding of what’s going on, and curious.

In the second Act, we should see a build up to the Big Crisis. This section is where an author’s talent really shines through–in Romance, it helps to see both an inner unfolding of the issue and the outward. That means that regardless of POV, we should be seeing clear indicators of emotional tension and development while the plot develops outside of the characters. (Remember, Ingrid’s Theory of Romance means that the main players need to be experiencing a shift both internally and ultimately together.) In short, we get the mess. There can be multiple little bumps prior to the big crisis build up, but at the close of the second Act, we should be ramping up for that big issue, and it should be clear that this is happening. As a reader, at the close of the second Act you should feel the tension coming to a peak–depending on how intense the plot is (romantic suspense could be VERY intense) this is the part where you should feel like the couple is now unable to avoid answering that question posed in the first Act. How are they going to get there??

In the third Act, we should see at the opening that the crisis is looming. The characters are going to have to act, and this is the point in Romance where we’re going to see the internal and the external issues really collide. When the question has been answered and the internal and external tension is resolved, we (hopefully) get some time to process that sweet, sweet catharsis. Depending on how extreme the crisis tension was, the reader will need the author to walk them down from that emotional state, so this is where you might see acts of tenderness, a tension-releasing intimacy scene, sweet vindication, resolute retribution–anything that helps the reader feel steady again. As a reader, at the close of this third Act you should feel that the question has been answered and you should feel satisfied and happy. The characters have gotten the HEA they wanted or needed, and it was a wonderful ride.

Even if an author has fantastic characters, engaging crises, and fresh dialogue/content, the reader won’t engage with the book if the pacing is off. Pacing guides the tension, and tension is the breath. So–how does this look and feel to a reader when an author misses the mark?

Well, if the author misses the mark in the first Act, the reader may experience:

• Confusion. What’s going on here? Who are these characters again? What’s the big deal? 
• Inability to engage. The reader really needs to care about that unspoken question by the end of the first Act, or they won’t keep reading. Too early or too late, and the reader loses interest.
• Discomfort. When the reader struggles to click with the components of the first Act, it can cause a lot of discomfort. If characters are introduced too early or too late, or we get to know them at a weird time, it gets awkward.

If the author misses the mark in the second Act, the reader may experience:

• Frustration. At this point, the reader has gotten invested. So a pacing misstep can really throw the reader for a loop. What’s happening here? Why would the characters do this thing? 
• Loss of interest. If the reader has stuck with it for this long, and there’s a failure to generate tension at the right time, they’re going to put the book down or rage read until the bitter end. 

If the author misses the mark in the third Act, the reader may experience:

• Confusion. Again, if by this point the pacing is messed up, the most important part of the emotional experience is going to be ruined. 
• Disappointment. If the question posed in the first Act isn’t satisfactorily answered, the reader will be disappointed. And if the question IS answered, but it happens in a way that is too rushed or sudden, or it’s sluggish…it’s a let down.

I bet if you take a second you can think of a book that didn’t work for you, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. The characters were fun, there was an interesting crisis, and they got their HEA–but it didn’t work for you. I’ll bet if you take a closer look, you’ll find an issue relating to pacing. When Acts aren’t structured right, the pacing is off. And when the pacing is off, the reader can feel it. 

If you want more information about Acts or if you want to try some smutty writing for yourself, check these resources out:

How to Outline a Romance Novel – Savannah Gilbo

Romance Novel Structure – Lyss Em Editing

From as far back as I can remember until I went to college, I wanted to be a writer. But then I realized that I needed too much therapy to handle the rejection that goes hand-in-hand with writing. So, I decided I wanted to work in publishing. Then, I realized what working in publishing is actually like (because I did it, and it feels like when you take the tube of a vacuum and you point it directly in front of your face and try to breathe normally, only instead of the air leaving your body against your will it’s your self-worth), so I decided I wanted to be a homesteader in an idyllic setting where I could preserve all my own food and weave lovely and practical things. But I don’t want to live in a rural area, canning is a little scary, and I don’t actually have room for the wedding china my mom insisted I register for, let alone a loom, so here I am.

Some things just won’t die though, and for me it’s how much I love writing. It doesn’t even have to be my writing—I could sit in a writing circle and pick over someone else’s hard work for hours, happily. I do it with my author friends now just for fun. So, when Erin and Holly suggested I channel some of my “I know how the author executed that THING in this book and I can gush over it until either your eyes glaze over or you suddenly see what I’m talking about” impromptu lectures into a feature where I discuss the craft of romance novels, I immediately thought, that sounds like a terrible idea. I’m one of a gazillion English majors, from a college no one knows exists, and my resume isn’t impressive at all. (Seriously, Erin once called it “a hiring manager’s nightmare”.) Lots of people like writing, and lots of people critique it, but that does not make them Anne Lamott. And I am not Anne Lamott. I pick dried applesauce out of doll hair and keep track of who went to the dentist when. I am not qualified to present anything to anyone.

So anyway, my answer was no, that’s a terrible idea, I would love to. Let’s absolutely do it. Also, let’s do it as a recurring feature so I can really dig in and get nerdy about it. Because it’s fun, and really good romance novels have a ton of interesting things going on that work together to make them look “easy” and “trashy” and like “mindless beach reads”. And honestly, it turns out that unlike doctoring, there isn’t a regulatory board for romance novel analysis. So no one’s going to arrest me for failing to be suitably superlative. (I did check.) I can just do it because it’s fun, I can, and I want to.

So that’s pretty much the idea here. I want to isolate some of the tools and skills romance authors use to craft their work, and I want to explain how they’re used effectively to evoke a strong response in the reader. I’m going to pick apart things that can be really subtle but make a huge impact on how we readers respond emotionally and mentally, like pace, sentence structure, and dialogue breaks. And I’m probably also going to make some wild assertions that I hope you can challenge me on, like, “slow burns work better in 1st person present with a single POV” and “for good tension, it’s more about what you don’t say than what you do”. And I’ll come with receipts, because I paid like, $80,000 for my English education and I might as well use it properly. 

So this is Hearts and Crafts, where I take my glue and scissors and break down how we make romance work so beautifully. Is there anything YOU want to learn more about?