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Why Romance is Like a Cheeseburger

Hello, Fearless Readers! I know I have been a very quiet around these parts. I apologize. If you've been keeping up with my twitter (@Dean_Ocean  and @Dogitmayconcern) you would know I've been recovering from surgery. And there were some complications. I am going to be fine and dandy soon enough, but the recovery is slow going. And because I'm too stoned on pain medication to be much good as a writer (or blogger) I have coerced people to write posts for me. Really it was more like "Hey Gus, wanna guest blog?" And it was on. So with out further interruption and mindless rambling from yours truely, Gus explains to us why Romance is like a Cheeseburger. While he does that, I am going to get something to eat because a cheeseburger sounds delicious...

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WHY ROMANCE IS LIKE A CHEESEBURGER 

Hello readers! I’m Augusta Li, or Gus, hoping to entertain you with a guest post. Thanks to Dean for letting me take over for a bit. Today I’m going to talk about expectations and tropes particular to different genres of literature, and how much authors should adhere to them. And food. Please feel free to comment and offer your opinion. I would love to know how readers feel.

Readers come to every genre with a set of expectations, usually developed from reading other books in the genre. For example, most readers who pick up a romance novel are looking for a love story, obviously. But they expect more than that. Usually, they are anticipating some tension between the protagonists, some obstacles along the way, internal and maybe a bit of external conflict, all culminating in a happily ever after in which two people forge a bond of love and trust and plan to journey through life supporting one another. This formula has worked well for a long time, and some (though not all) readers can be disappointed if an author strays too far from it. Romance is one of the few genres where the author must divulge their conclusion if it’s something other than what’s expected. After all, mysteries and crime novels aren’t required to come with a warning if the ending is less than a fairy tale.

I’m not saying this is a bad thing. When you purchase something, you expect to receive the item you were told you’d get, within reason. Say you go into a diner and order a cheeseburger. You expect a meat patty, bun, and cheese at the minimum. Are you outraged if you get cheddar cheese instead of American? Probably not. A slightly different style of roll? It’s still a cheeseburger, still basically what you thought you’d get when you ordered. Now, if you order a cheeseburger and get spaghetti and meatballs, well… you have every right to be a bit cross.

There’s a lot you can do with the humble cheeseburger, though. Creative chefs have imagined infinite variations on the classic formula, and if you stay away from the fast-food chains, you’ll likely have a different burger at every establishment you visit. You’ll get your meat, cheese, and roll, but it’s what the chef chooses to add that can make that sandwich phenomenal, or… completely disgusting. Sometimes the smallest addition can take it from ordinary to extraordinary. As with most things, taking bigger risks will either succeed phenomenally or fail spectacularly. 

 

So, my metaphor is food-based. Go figure. I swear I didn’t plan it that way. But I truly see the romance genre like a cheeseburger. You start with those three basic components—meat, bread, and cheese—or, two protagonists attracted to each other, some conflict, and a happy ending—and build from there. Sure, you can stay pretty true to the original formula and end up with something pretty damned delicious. With some attention to detail—the right seasonings, fresh bread, a fat, juicy slice of tomato—it gets even better. What about some roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, and an artisan mustard? The possibilities are endless and limited only by the creativity of the cook—or author.

How would you feel about a slice of avocado on that burger? Wasabi mayonnaise? Hummus? Kim-chee? What if the burger isn’t beef, but turkey or salmon? How about buffalo? Kangaroo? When does it stop being a cheeseburger and transform into something else? Just how far can one deviate from the meat/cheese/bread formula and still be justified in offering their creation as a cheeseburger? I think there are a few factors.

First, the chef (or author). If you bite into it and it’s so amazingly delicious it completely blows your mind, you’ll probably like it, right? Even if it’s a little, or maybe a lot, different than what you’re used to. Likewise, if you put down a book that’s so well-crafted you miss it instantly and the characters stay in your thoughts long after, you may not mind a small swerve off the established path. This is all in the hands of the creator. I’m sure somewhere in the world there’s a master chef who can make a cheeseburger with peanut butter on it and make it scrumptious (Thai-style, maybe?) Can most of us pull it off? Probably not. But does that mean we shouldn’t try? No guts, no glory, but on the other hand, we don’t need anyone throwing up. It’s a fine line.

Secondly, of course, the reader and his or her preference. Some people just want McDonald’s, want to know exactly what they’re getting and that it will be relatively uniform each time. Nothing wrong with that. They read/eat for a familiar, comforting experience—one they can trust to give them exactly what they’re looking for. Then there are the foodies who go in search of the warthog burger. They want something completely different, and they’re willing to risk it being unrecognizable (and maybe awful). And there’s everything in between, the whole spectrum. I’m a reader who enjoys both. Sometimes I’m in the mood for something bizarre, and I take a chance. Ebooks are pretty inexpensive, so if I have to spit it out, I don’t feel like I’ve lost much. But then there are those days when I just want a Happy Meal: simple, maybe a little predictable, but it hits just the right spot sometimes. Most often, I land in the middle: a lean, juicy burger, hand-seasoned, a fresh roll, mushrooms, swiss, onions, pesto-mayonnaise. Made with love. That’s what I really look for.

What about you? What’s your favorite burger? How far are you willing to step outside the box? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tried (food or book) and was it a rewarding experience? Are you a Burger King person or an alligator-burger person, and why? Or does it all depend on the talent of the person who made it?

Thanks for reading and sharing. I’ll leave you with the blurb and an excerpt from my most recent novel, Ice and Embers, the sequel to Ash and Echoes. If I have to guess, on the burger scale, it falls somewhere in the middle with a slight leaning toward foodie-weird. No peanut butter though.

Blurb:

go buy this! Support the poor and
starving artists of the world!

Despite their disparate natures, Yarrow, Duncan, and Sasha united against overwhelming odds to save Prince Garith’s life. Now Garith is king and the three friends may be facing their undoing.

Distraught over Yarrow’s departure to find the cure to his magical affliction, Duncan struggles with his new role as Bairn of Windwake, a realm left bankrupt by his predecessor. Many of Duncan’s vassals conspire against him, and Sasha’s unorthodox solutions to Duncan’s problem have earned them the contempt of Garith’s nobles.
When word reaches Duncan and Sasha that Yarrow is in danger, they want nothing more than to rush to his aid. But Duncan’s absence could tip Windwake into the hands of his enemies. In addition, a near-mythic order of assassins wants Sasha dead. Without Yarrow, Duncan and Sasha can’t take the fight to the assassins. They are stuck, entangled in a political world they don’t understand. But finding Yarrow may cause more problems, and with his court divided, King Garith must strike a balance between supporting his friends and assuaging the nobles who want Duncan punished—and Sasha executed.

 

Excerpt:

THE bairn of Windwake cast off his golden ceremonial cloak emblazoned with the crag eagle livery and let it fall heavily to the stone floor of his chambers. Duncan collapsed into an upholstered chair by the inglenook and rubbed his forehead. The fire had long ago diminished to embers, leaving the expansive suite dark and chill on this early spring night. Ruling Windwake had turned out nothing like he’d imagined, and the stresses of yet another day of listening to the demands of squabbling nobles wore on him. When Duncan had been granted his lands and title, he’d anticipated protecting and providing for his people, much as he’d done when he’d been a knight. The reality clashed hard against his expectations. He’d rather face an entire field of soldiers than those nattering, duplicitous aristocrats any day. At least men with swords were honest about wanting to destroy him, and he knew how to counter them.

Duncan had no sooner let his eyes fall shut and his head rest against the padded velvet of the chair when he heard a sound, even softer than the flutter of a night bird’s wings, on the balcony opposite his hearth. He tensed, his exhaustion replaced by alertness. Many of his vassals couldn’t be trusted; he found them avaricious, their only loyalty to their own treasuries. Some of them still owed fealty to Taran Edercrest, the traitor whose mantle Duncan had assumed after the man’s death in a failed attempt to overthrow Selindria’s true king. Duncan knew at least a few of the backstabbing nobles might stoop to murder if they could profit from it. He crept as quietly as he could to the weapons stand and picked up his greatsword. He held it in both hands as he approached the balcony, ready to defend himself.

With the sole of his boot, Duncan nudged the wooden double doors, and they swung open with a rasp and a groan. The red-tinged crescent moon provided little light as he glanced from one end of the parapet to the other. Nothing moved except a few leaves tumbling across the stone in the light breeze. Duncan blinked hard as sweat dripped into his eyes. He knew he’d heard something, but now he wondered if the combination of his weariness and the ever-present threat of treachery toyed with his mind. He’d never been a paranoid man, but as he stood looking out from the western side of Windust Castle, over the deep, round Barrier Bay, sheltered on three sides by high cliffs, he heard nothing but the gentle lap of the waves against the strong, gray ironstone that made up so much of Windwake. On a clear day, Duncan could see almost to the southern shore of Lockhaven from this balcony, but the gloom of the night and the chill mist rising from the water restricted his vision to the dozens of ships huddled close to the shore, bobbing gently on the calm tide.

“You should be more careful.”

Duncan started and turned toward the low, velvety voice. He scanned the shadows but couldn’t locate the speaker. Then, at the opposite end of the terrace, a sliver of shade separated from the wall, and a lithe silhouette tiptoed along the thin, stone railing before leaping down in front of Duncan without even disturbing the leaves. His boots met the stone silently, and the leather armor he wore didn’t even creak or rustle.

Duncan blew out an extended breath and lowered his weapon. “Goddesses, Sasha. Why must you sneak around like that? I could have cut you in two before I recognized you.”

Sasha answered with a sensuous laugh devoid of any genuine amusement. “I don’t think you could have.”

“Perhaps not,” Duncan conceded, his happiness at his lover’s return trumping his slight annoyance. Besides, he knew Sasha spoke not out of arrogance but simply stated the truth. Sasha had been trained by a cult of assassins so legendary and feared most doubted they even existed. The Order of the Crimson Scythe held mythical status throughout Selindria and Gaeltheon, and Duncan had witnessed Sasha’s lethal skill on more than one occasion. If he’d been inclined, Sasha could have cut Duncan’s throat while Duncan stood watching the boats like a dull-witted child.

Sasha’s training was also responsible for what Duncan saw when he stepped closer to his partner: a face that, while exotically beautiful, betrayed no hint of emotion. Shrewd, black eyes offered no clue of the intentions behind them. Though they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, Duncan looked into the cold face of a killer, not the warm smile of a lover. He tried, unsuccessfully, to staunch the hurt by reminding himself Sasha had been taught almost since birth not to feel love or attachment, let alone show evidence of what he’d been told was weakness.

Duncan reached up and stroked the soft, black hair that fell to Sasha’s slender shoulders. Sasha batted his long, thick lashes and smiled mischievously. He had the most amazing, full, dark lips Duncan had ever seen, and the sight of them curling up and parting slightly sent a tremor of desire down Duncan’s spine. He hoped Sasha showed sincere pleasure at his touch, as much pleasure as he experienced feeling the smooth skin of Sasha’s cheek again after what seemed like forever. Sasha had no reason to perform with Duncan, but Duncan knew old habits held on tenaciously sometimes, like a cough that lingered after the fever had passed.

“I missed you,” he said, pressing a kiss to Sasha’s forehead. “But you could try using the front gate like a normal man. Or are you trying to impress me?”

Sasha curled his body against Duncan and brushed their bellies together. He rubbed his face against Duncan’s whiskers and whispered close to his ear. “Did it work?”

Duncan glanced over the railing at the sheer, four-story drop to the sharp rocks surrounding the fortress. A wide gravel road wound out around those cliffs from the docks to the gate at the southern wall, on the opposite side of the fortress. Aside from that entrance, Windust was virtually impenetrable. “I suppose it did. Did your—” Duncan still felt uncomfortable discussing Sasha’s work. “Were you successful?”

Sasha snorted as if insulted and crossed his arms over his slim chest. His devastating smile widened. “Pym Goodsal and his associates will cause no more trouble for your friend Garith.”

“His Majesty will be pleased,” Duncan said, taking Sasha’s gloved hand, careful of the thin blades hidden at his wrists and the razor-like spikes over his knuckles, and leading him inside.

Sasha shrugged. “So long as he produces the agreed-upon gold.”

Duncan almost asked what Sasha would do if Garith, High King of Selindria and Gaeltheon, the largest and most powerful kingdom in the known world, withheld the payment. He thought better of it, though, and went instead to add logs to the fire and stir up the coals. By now, Duncan knew Sasha regarded a prince and a beggar alike only as men who bled and died for his Cast-Down god.

Sasha removed his gloves, loosening the buckles and then tugging them off one finger at a time, while Duncan poked at the ashes in the hearth. Sasha unbuckled the belts over his hips that held daggers and pouches likely full of poisons, and then he unfastened the strap crossing his chest, along with the weapons it held, and let it drop onto a wooden bench. Sasha effortlessly disarmed himself in absolute silence. Duncan admired Sasha’s grace and fluidity of movement from the corner of his eye as he tended the fire. The room soon glowed warm and bright as the flames flickered and grew. Orange light reflected off the snug, deep-red leather wrapping Sasha’s slender limbs and made shadows dance across his face. The fire couldn’t melt the icy mask the assassin wore, but Duncan knew what might. He replaced the iron poker and crossed the room to Sasha, who stood only a few feet from the balcony door, as if waiting to be invited inside, seemingly unsure of his welcome.

Duncan curled his big hands around Sasha’s waist, almost encircling it. He drew Sasha’s chest against his, rubbed his palm up Sasha’s back to his neck, and guided Sasha’s head to his shoulder. Burying his face in the top of Sasha’s hair, he inhaled the spicy fragrance that almost masked the scents of leather, steel, and blood. “Sasha, this is your home as much as mine. I wouldn’t have any of it if it hadn’t been for you. You don’t have to enter it in secret.”

Sasha laughed icily, but his lips and nose felt warm as he nuzzled against Duncan’s neck. The tickle of his breath against Duncan’s dampening skin when he spoke made Duncan shudder. “So, you’d parade me before your nobles and officials? Claim me as part of your household, as your friend?”

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