The current batch of lessons in the second workshop I’m taking as part of my Betterment Through Workshops Instead of RWA Dues program focuses on  brainstorming things that have personal emotional impact, the reasoning being that if you feel strongly about something, you can incorporate it effectively into different kinds of writing, rather than being limited to one genre or subgenre.

The assignment involves making a cluster diagram for each of several various emotional states. Some were easier than others. I ran out of room on one page and wrote only two things on another page.

I decided to check the forum to find out what other people were doing. The biggest difficulty they reported was with “hate.” Over and over and over, they invoked the old “hate is such a strong word” chestnut.

Seriously?

I obviously missed the day of How to Be a Girl School when we were taught it’s not nice to have negative emotions, so they’re not allowed to us (or, at least, we’re not allowed to admit we have them), because “hate” was the page I filled margin to margin. There’s enough injustice, stupidity, meanness, hypocrisy, and corruption in this world for me to fill up a wall, not to mention the not-necessarily-rational personal peeves that push me to the edge of homicidal rage.

Yes, “hate” is a strong word. It’s also appropriate and deserved a great deal of the time.

I think “love” is an even stronger word. I may throw it around carelessly in conversation like everybody else (if I neglect to devalue it in that context by designating it “lurve”), but I’m stingy with the feeling.  I don’t love ice cream. I don’t love Gerard Butler. I don’t love Twitter. And I will never understand how someone can use the same word to classify their feeling for their child and their feeling for Starbucks, not during casual conversation but during an exercise asking them to delve into real emotion.

Maybe my failure to embrace everyone and everything with “love” makes me a terrible candidate to write romance and I should write hack-and-slash to indulge my dominant hateful side instead.

Then again, somebody who reaches for “freshly shaved legs” as a source of inspiration when writing about love doesn’t seem any better qualified.

A frequent criticism of romance novels is that the men in them behave the way women wish men would behave, not the way they really do.

To some extent, I agree that’s true.

To some extent, I also think there’s nothing wrong with that.

I don’t expect truth in fiction. To be perfectly honest, if the men in romance novels behaved like some of the men I’ve known in real life, I’d rather read about them getting hit by a bus than living happily ever after, so by all means, make the romance hero a little bit too good to be true.

However, I do expect enough realism to lend fiction some plausibility, and there is a point at which my willing suspension of disbelief throws up its little hands and says, “Oh, HELL no.” That point sometimes occurs when a male character says something no man would ever say (i.e., “my BFF”—the first time I ever heard a male say this was in a commercial for a Bratz movie, and I thought then the dialogue must have been written by an 8-year-old not yet aware there’s a difference between boys and girls; I read it in a story recently and thought the same thing) but more often occurs when male characters are just talking, talking, talking, talking.

The only time real-life men talk that much is when they’re selling something or performing or both, and they’re more likely to be doing either or both in the presence of a woman, not amongst themselves. Even in group therapy, men do not sit around openly discussing their feeeeelings. They’re not brought up to be expressive that way, they’re not comfortable doing it, and no amount of Oprah is going to overcome that system of training on a large scale in our lifetime.

My WIP currently has a three-page (single spaced!) stretch of dialogue between two male characters. There’s a great deal of information exchanged that’s crucial to the plot, information the heroine needs in order to make a decision in her immediate future and has no way of knowing other than listening to this conversation.

I have to find another way, because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving it as is. By about the third line of the scene, I’m taunting my own characters: “You seem to be missing your testosterone, Max(ine). Why don’t you check your purse? Careful, Nick(ole), you don’t want to spill appletini on your skirt.”

It’s a point at which I know a good portion of readers will stop reading because I’ve violated a basic rule of human behavior and can’t be trusted. What will I sacrifice next, physics? Geography? History? Spelling and punctuation? They won’t keep reading to find out.

There are situations in which fictional men will have heartfelt speeches (fatherly-type interactions, the I-love-you moment), but the rarity of those is what makes them powerful.

In every other situation, writers should find more realistic ways for male characters to communicate. A hero who behaves the way women wish men would behave is okay.

A hero who behaves like a woman… not so much.

“We canna outrun them.”

Reese waved away the proffered spyglass. Courtesy of the full moon, she needed no assistance to see the other ship slicing through the obsidian water like a scythe. Despite the swift, darting movements of the shadow crew on deck, it remained as silent as when they’d it passed at noon.

She admired that bit of strategy, no doubt designed to instill fear in the hearts of their victims by creating the illusion of a spectral enemy, but tonight they had chosen the wrong target for their intimidation tactics. “In that case, let us not delay the inevitable. Drop the sails and prepare for guests.”

Conrad left her side to convey the command to the crew.

The second man flanking her at the rail said, “Their invasion won’t extend beyond the deck. There’s no need for you to be involved.”

She tipped her head back to evaluate whether his face revealed more than his flat tone. Small black eyes peered at her from a pelt-like expanse of beard and shaggy hair. With his unkempt appearance, towering height, and muscular girth, he more closely resembled a bear than a man. Most people were surprised when intelligible speech emerged from his mouth—and very, very sorry if they demonstrated the poor judgment to remark on it.

His serene expression was as devoid of nuance as his voice and probably every bit as deceptive. “I hope you’re not insinuating I can’t hold my own in a fight, Mister Ivanovich.”

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Sometimes life has a way of saying, “Okay, you really need to shut the hell up.”

Every post mysteriously had its status changed to “draft.” I re-published those I thought were most urgent to retrieve. I’ll sort through the rest of them later.

Or not.

Vampire or werewolf? Thief or assassin? Playboy or Boy Scout? Here’s a handy primer, updated semi-regularly, on the virtues of each so you’re well prepared to make your decision when IWS is ready to read.

6/26: Sooner or later, Nick will probably get you arrested. Sooner or later, Max  will probably arrest you. Bonus: Both know their way around a pair of handcuffs.

6/23: Nick is all alone in the world except for a mentally unstable… let’s say “father figure.” Max has a large family of varying degrees of mental stability.

6/22:  Nick has multiple swanky international residences. Max lives with his granny.

6/19: Nick gets all bubbly and melty in the sun. Max gets tanned.

6/18: Nick is, uh, “freelance” at this time. Max has a respectable job with a steady paycheck.

6/17: Nick is older than he looks. Max is much, much older than he looks.

6/16: Nick will toss you a tin of diced peaches and call it breakfast. Max will serve you steak and eggs, your favorite kind of muffin (warm from the oven), fresh fruit, and coffee with real cream—in bed.

6/15: Nick will make out with you in a WalMart dressing room. Max thinks public exhibition is disrespectful to you.