There Can Be Only One...

© Suto Norbert | Dreamstime.com

Winner, that is.

Thanks to everyone who took sides in the Firebird Hero vs. Hero Smackdown—it was fun! Here's how the 61 comments broke down:

38 of you sided with Deanna and Team Rob, while 19 of you favoured Molly and Team Edmund, leaving 1 commenter leaning towards Team Rob but officially undecided, and 3 of you who refused to decide at all and wanted both men!

So, a pretty clear victory for Rob, then.

As for the giveaway, the one commenter selected at random to receive signed copies of Deanna's A Spear of Summer Grass, Molly's Crazy Thing Called Love, and my The Firebird, is......

Melisa M.

who commented: "I love Rob and can't wait to meet up with him again BUT I'm joining team Edmund on this one!"

Congratulations, Melisa! Just email me at susanna(underscore)kearsley(at)yahoo(dot)ca and let me know where you'd like us to send your books.

And since Melisa chose Team Edmund, here's a little extra Edmund excerpt for you, just to reassure you he can take a punch or two and hold his own:

He stood apart, a cup of drink held cradled in one hand, his gaze fixed idly in a contemplation of the passing ships that ran along the river, and the Duke of Holstein’s yacht with all its guns.

     She did not notice, to be honest, how his coat was cut, or whether it was worn through at the sleeves. She marked the color of it—deeply blue—and noted that he wore the yellow waistcoat underneath it, and his hair was neatly tied with a black ribbon at his collar, underneath a fine three-cornered hat. He looked, to her, a gentleman enough.

     It was the rush of anger running sudden through her veins that, in the end, undid her. She could very easily have turned around and left him as he was. He had not seen her, and the way he stood there, unconcerned, reminded her he was a man of strength, and had no need of her. Of anyone.

     But hearing Mrs. Hewitt and the others speak so rudely of him, Anna felt her temper rise in answer to it. Keeping her reaction in control, she calmly paid her honors to the other women as she passed, then raised her chin with new determination as she crossed the grass.

     He turned his head, and watched her come towards him, with no alteration of his stance or his expression. She could see, then, why he had not wished to burden General Lacy’s reputation by his presence at the banquet, for the skin across his cheekbone had been split and badly bruised.

     She saw the light of curiosity flash briefly in his eyes as she approached him; watched it change to dark amusement as she spoke.

     ‘Mr. O’Connor.’

     ‘Mistress Jamieson.’ His head inclined politely.

     It was, in truth, a livid bruise, the mark of a disreputable man. She should not have remarked on it, she knew, and yet she could not keep from asking, ‘Is it painful?’

     ‘Only when I try to smile,’ he said, and did just that, if briefly.

     There was still a space between them, and he stood regarding her across it as one soldier might regard another on a field of truce. And then he tipped his head a little to the side and offered her his arm, and asked her, ‘Will you walk with me?’ He did not miss the small betraying glance she cast behind her at the others, Anna knew, because he added, with a trace of his old mockery, ‘Or do you fear to harm your reputation?’

     Anna studied him a moment. Then she told him, ‘I am not afraid of anything.’ And stepping forward, took his arm.

     ‘Indeed,’ was his reply. ‘So I’m beginning to believe.’

 

Hero vs. Hero Smackdown: The Firebird

© James Steidl | Dreamstime.com Used by Permission

Full disclosure: I have Awesome Writer Friends. Not only in the sense that they are awesome writers (which they are) but in the sense that they themselves are awesome.

In that long, self-doubting stretch of time between the day I finish edits for a book, and that book's publication day—which can be months and months away—I sometimes sneak a copy to my friends. The more I love a book, the more I need their reassurance. With The Firebird, I was very, very needy.

What I didn't expect was that this advance reading would set off a good-natured, rather amusing debate between two of my friends on the subject of which of my heroes is hotter.

Deanna Raybourn became a vocal champion of the modern day hero, Rob McMorran, a Scottish policeman who hails from the Borders and balances work with his volunteer shifts as a Lifeboat crew member, both jobs helped along by the fact he's a psychic. When I asked Deanna what her favourite scene was in the book, she wrote back: "Anything with Rob ;-)"

Molly O'Keefe, on the other hand, much preferred Edmund O'Connor, the plain-spoken Irishman living in exile in Russia in 1725, born—as he tells us—with "cards in my hands and my fists up", who shows skills at both, though he'll not cheat an honest man. "Perfect," was what Molly tweeted to me after reading the book. "He was perfect."

And that was the start of the rivalry.

Given that the three of us interact just about daily on Twitter, I couldn't help noticing they kept it up even after my back was turned, as in this little exchange that I captured on Storify.

© Anthony Bowen | Dreamstime.com

So, in the interest of clearing the air, I invited them here for a smackdown refined conversation. And here's how it went: 


Me: Hi, guys. Toss of the coin to start. Who calls heads?

Deanna: HEADS!

Me: [tossing coin] It's heads. Right then, whenever you're ready. 

Deanna: There is no contest here. While Edmund is delicious—and totally deserving of adoration—he is simply outmanned by Rob. Rob is dark, brooding, sexy as hell, oh, and did I mention, HE CAN READ YOUR MIND? And he rescues people for a living. Susanna did not miss a trick in crafting a hero who is completely swoon-worthy.

Molly: Yeah...Rob can READ YOUR MIND! Where is the mystery? (though I will say that first scene when they sort of accidentally mentally brush up against each other—DELISH!) However, back to why Edmund is a far more sexy and intriguing hero—he's all mystery. Nothing but drama and scarred hands. And heroic? He saves birds! Come on, I got you there Raybourn.

© Suto Norbert | Dreamstime.com

Deanna: The mystery? The mystery is never knowing when or how he's going to read your thoughts. And the straight-up knee-knocking lusciousness comes from the incredible restraint he shows in NOT abusing his abilities. The slow tease of having him read something, then pull back? Intoxicating. And speaking of intoxication, I offer Exhibit A—the hallway clinch where Rob knows EXACTLY what she wants, how, and when. WHUF. Oh, and your guy saves birds. My guy saves mammals. Advantage, Raybourn.

Molly:  Exhibit A is good. I will grant you—very good. But if the question is noble restraint? Edmund wins hands down. I mean, did you even READ that scene on the boat? I gasped. I clutched my e-reader. So satisfying. So dramatic.


Deanna: Yes, Edmund is a very worthy hero, but if we're going to talk self-sacrifice, Rob can more than hold his own. When the woman he KNOWS is meant for him can't handle the connection, he doesn't stalk her or sulk or badger her. He gives her space, patiently biding his time until she's ready. He's confident enough that he doesn't have to prove himself. And when she does finally come to him for help, he's encouraging and patient and MASTERFUL while still respecting her autonomy. He pushes her, gently but firmly, to test her own boundaries and he provides the safety net she needs to do it.
And Exhibit B? How adorable is it when he tries to speak Russian?

© Martin Brayley | Dreamstime.com

Molly: Patience, smatience...give me Edmund who argues with Anna, forces her to understand her place in this new world and to see her value as HE sees her value. He is not happy until she sees herself as he sees her, beautiful noble and brave.
Edmund Exhibit C—which really after the scene in the boat and the scene when he saves the bird I can't believe I even need—the eggs.

© Sharpshot | Dreamstime.com

Deanna: Exactly—Edmund insists on making his point, while Rob would rather encourage her to discover her power and beauty for herself. Game, set, match. ;-)

Molly: Either way readers can't lose—both heroes are amazing (even if one is so patient he nearly loses the love of his life twice).



Me: OK, so clearly this isn't a battle discussion that's going to end soon. But it IS a good excuse for me to hold a little giveaway in honour of The Firebird's publication here in Canada next week. 

I've got one set of paperback copies of each of our latest books: Molly's Crazy Thing Called Love, Deanna's A Spear of Summer Grass, and mine, and I'll send them to anywhere, worldwide.

To enter, just comment and tell my two friends here whose team you think you'd be on—Edmund's, or Rob's? If you want to get a glimpse of both the heroes, you can read a short excerpt with Edmund here, and with Rob here.

You have till Sunday, April 28th, to leave a comment. I'll announce the winner Monday. Best of luck.      

Why Read Romance?

Today being Valentine's Day, there's a hashtag that's trending on Twitter and picking up speed—#WhyReadRomance—wherein people share all the reasons they read romance novels. I love this, and yet I can't help but wish there was no need for that hashtag; no need for those readers to have to explain why they read what they read.

After all, you would never see hashtags for #WhyReadMysteries, or #WhyReadLiteraryFiction, would you? No one's ever going to be teased for reading modern poetry, or picking up a thriller. And no one's ever asked me, 'Why on earth would you read Vonnegut?'

Choose a romance novel, though, and eyes will roll, the implication being romance is a lesser form of fiction, not deserving of a place at the big table of 'real' writing.

When I disagree—when I point out I write romantic fiction, and that I have friends who write for Harlequin, and that the genre is a broad and varied one, like any other genre, filled with writers who are brilliant at their craft—I only get the rolling eyes again. And if I name specific books as evidence, I'm often told, 'That book transcends the genre.'

(If you want to set my teeth on edge, just tell me that a book "transcends the genre". What that tells me, plain and simple, is you haven't read enough books in that genre).

Still, at that point, I just tend to bite my tongue, and end the argument. I do this because I remember my first year Philosophy course, at university, in which the professor explained to us why it was pointless to argue with someone who was starting from a fixed and different point of view. You'll almost never change that point of view, he warned us, and they won't change yours, and so the two of you will argue in a parallel dynamic with no end, that looks like this:

But I'm an optimist, you see. And I believe a lot of misconceptions can be changed, or challenged, by a little education.

So last weekend, in the middle of a day-long course that I was leading with a great, enthusiastic group of local writers who were wanting to explore how to use love stories within their work, I gave them all a sheet of excerpts taken from four books I owned, that I'd read and enjoyed. 

One book, I told them, was a Harlequin Romance. One was a literary novel. One was written by a man. And one I'd put in as a wildcard.

Here are the excerpts:

Lorenzo sat at his desk, idly toying with the orrery. It was a mechanical model of the solar system, showing everything in its relative position. There was something soothing about watching how the moons and planets followed their own unwavering path, each one taking its own specific place in a dance so intricate it was almost beyond human comprehension. Galileo had understood it, even though it went against everything he’d been brought up to believe.

The courage of that, the audacious brilliance never failed to impress Lorenzo. Galileo had had a vision, and he had been unswerving in his pursuit of it. But even he, with his towering intellect, had never fully got to grips with the complexities of women.

With a flick of his finger Lorenzo made the earth spin on its axis, and then slowed it right down again as he thought back to last night. That was how it had felt in the temple, in the candlelight and the silence. As if he had slowed down time. Stopped the world, for a little while.

**********

He put his hand out to assist her on the last high step into the villa grounds. She looked at his hand in front of her and wondered if he meant to stop her.

‘Signorina. May I take your hand?’

She could feel her face reddening, warmth upon warmth encroaching. She placed her hand in his palm and took the last step, breathless. He smiled again and turned her hand over. Her open palm was warm from the climb. Dante stroked the skin, none too soft, that he held in his own fine hand, stirring the blood underneath to quickness. He kissed the white inside of her wrist, quick and light, and held her hand for a few minutes more as they walked through the shaded gardens.

**********

He grabbed her to him and stood for long minutes kissing her and kissing her, dragging his hands over her, skating over her curves, enjoying her. Even through the thick cloth of her coat, the feel of her was something wonderful and the smell of her perfume was filling him. The kissing went on and on, his hands grew more and more insistent until she was pressed against him and moaning deep in her chest, rubbing herself on him, grinding against him with his hands on her as her coat rose up over her hips and her skirt followed it, sliding over her thighs.

**********

As he said his goodbye, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he meant something to her. Too bad he had so much to do. Too bad armies were on the march. Too bad Laura Brittle stood in the doorway, watching them.

He wanted to clasp Polly Brandon in his arms. He had watched over her on the Perseverance and he was uneasy about leaving her without his protection. Yes, I am proprietary, he wanted to shout to Laura Brittle. Why is it your business?

He did nothing of the sort. ‘Stay off the water, Brandon, and you should be all right,’ he said gruffly, then turned on his heel as smartly as any Marine on parade, and left her standing alone in the courtyard.

Nearly everyone guessed that the first excerpt was from a literary novel.

Nearly everyone guessed that the last excerpt was written by a man.

And nearly everyone thought that either the second or third excerpts were from the Harlequin Romance, with a large margin choosing the third excerpt over the second.

Want to know where they were really from? From the bottom up, then...

The fourth excerpt is from Marrying the Royal Marine, a Harlequin Historical Romance, by Carla Kelly.

The third excerpt is from The Good Mayor, a literary novel by Andrew Nicoll.

The second excerpt is from Dante's War, a literary novel by Sandra Sabatini.

And the first excerpt, the one most of the writers in that group felt sure was from a literary novel, is from Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper, a Harlequin Presents Romance, by India Grey. It's a beautiful excerpt, a lovely piece of writing, and the hero is remembering a night that he spent talking to the heroine. Just that, and nothing more. 

 

Surprised? If you already read romance, I'm sure you're not. Most romance readers judge a book by what's inside it, not what's printed on the cover, and they know the titles of these books aren't chosen by the authors—they're a construct of the marketing department of the publisher, and often have no actual connection to the story.

And the story, in the end, is why I read a novel. Any novel. Literary, Science Fiction, Mystery, or Romance. Good writing is good writing, and no genre, in my optimistic world view, is a lesser form of fiction.

That's why India Grey's novel sits alongside Andrew Nicoll's, on my bookshelves. And that's why I read romance.