Last time we spoke I promised you all a blog about Nanowrimo. The problem with that is that I have failed miserably at it this year. I spent the first week in Scotland, and, between the gorgeous scenery and the quest for the perfect pair of gloves, I got nowhere fast. I have, um, 300 words and half of them are musing on the fact that I didn’t get to see a woolly cow.So instead I am going to talk about that staple of the romance cover, the Highlander.Since Bonnie Prince Charlie, there has just been something about the be-kilted, benighted and bare-chested Scot that appeals to the romantic in us all. Although, admittedly, the contemporary Rangers supporter gets a bit less love than the rebellious Highland laird in his crumbling castle. Still, there is something about those Scots.
But why? What is it about Scotland that makes it such a rich vein of romantic leads for writers and readers?
I think it is the kilt*. Not just just because it shows off a well turned calf (I am, mind you, less sure about the essential erotic charge of the hockey socks), but because it symbolises everything bloody, battered and unbroken about the Scots. Even before punks adopted it as their own, tartan stood for rebellion and resistance.
The Scots are the bikers of history and the kilt is their cut.
Now, the fans of historical romance among you are pointing out that there are lots of ethnic and cultural groups out there who were worse than the Scots. I mean, the Greeks and Romans alone produced a right bunch of sods over the centuries. I mean, you wouldn’t want to take a Spartan home to your mother, would you? Not unless she was also a Spartan, obviously. Then there are pirates, highwaymen, resurrectionists…
OK, I don’t think I’ve ever read a romance where the body-snatcher gets a HEA (do let me know if I am wrong!). However, my point is that all of those groups lack a certain romantic gild. A writer can pull a lead character out and fluff him up**, but they have to be an exception. The pirate is always a falsely disinherited Baron with a royal charter shoved up his parrot, it is never the one-legged Cornish navvy with scurvy and a missing toenail***. The praetor always treats his slaves like servants, and is horrified by the behaviour of his fellows. The resurrectionists…ok, that basically needs to be a wacky urban fantasy with zombies before you stop giving it the side eye.
The Scots, however, come pre-gilded with a romantic history of oppression and defiance. They are iconoclasts, pushing back against the imperialist English attempts to wipe out and sanitise their culture. As writers, as readers, we are pre-inclined to view them sympathetically.
You would think that would carry over to the Welsh and Irish, but they do not get as much love. With the Welsh, it is obviously the language. It is such a beautiful, lilting tongue, that it is hard for them to pull off ‘bad boy’ right out the gate. The Irish…well, to be honest, I think it was the Troubles. No matter your political sympathies, it is hard to work a romance that includes nail bombs. It is ok, though, we make up for it in crime writing.
(Native Americans used to fall in a very similar bracket as the Scottish. Only it tended to be a bit more, you know, racist.)
So how come, you might ask, I am not writing the next great Scottish romance? They make great romantic leads and I have just spent a week meandering through atmospheric castles in the rain. As archetypes they don’t really work for me. Not as a writer, anyhow; as a reader I wallow in a good bit of brogue.
The thing about archetypes though, is that you can apply them to suit your needs. So you can take what works for a bad boy Highland codpiece ripper (oh come on, that’s clever!) and apply it to whatever era your hero comes from. For me, the core elements that make a Highland romance work are these:
1: Injury. Whether societal or personal, your bad boy needs a genuine injury to fuel his attitude. Without it, he just looks like a brat having a temper. Not sexy.
2: Distinct sub-group. Whether your bad boy is a Marine or a Grim Reaper doesn’t matter, he just needs somewhere to belong. Preferably one with a dress code. As a society we tend to romanticise groups like this anyhow, they also serve to bolster the bad boy’s attitude. In a group of outlaw bikers it makes sense for him to be edgy and hair trigger, put him in a pod of accountants and he just looks like the guy you don’t want to get in the office Secret Santa.
3: Enemies. Everyone needs an antagonist, but a bad boy needs an antagonist who is stronger than him. Otherwise he just looks like a bully. Everyone roots for the Highlander against the English, if they were putting the hockey sock to the Welsh it would be a different matter. Like comedians, bad boys always have to punch above their weight.
4: Minorities. This one is very much ‘what TA Moore thinks’, and even I am not always sure I agree with me. However, I think it is very easy to go wrong if you make your character a bad boy because he is a member of a minority group. The problem is that it can edge into objectification so easily, and it can look like a dismissal of real world issues. This isn’t a hard and fast rule, but something to bear in mind.
Next month, I might have something on how terribly I fail Nanowrimo and why I still think it is great. I would tell you all about the Outlander/Sons of Anarchy crossover I just came up with, but I am sure that only amuses me.
Find out more about TA Moore at www.nevertobetold.co.uk.
* I have so many jokes I wanted to use here! From the impracticality of a kilt in a land rife with thistles to the old sheep calumny. I hope you appreciate my restraint!
** I was interviewed for a job doing this once, when I was young, naive and at severe cross purposes with the man on the other end of the phone.
*** As demonstrated on Once Upon a Time, Cap’n Hook gets love and Smee gets shoved.
