Evangeline Holland

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September 20th, 2013 by Evangeline Holland

Historical Romance Week: Erin Satie – Chicken or Chess

Historical Romance Week

A lot of craft discussions focus on how to amp up the tension in a novel. What’s the recipe for delicious angst? Ask someone else. I’d like to argue that the appeal of historical romances derives, to a substantial degree, from the release of tension.

Lisa Kleypas Dreaming of You When one of Lisa Kleypas’ heroines prefers an ‘uncouth’ self-made industrialist to a pedigreed aristocrat, I don’t have to worry that she’s making a terrible decision. I don’t fear, as the heroine must, that her descendants will regret her fall from grace. On the contrary, I can feel as smug about her choice as Biff from Back to the Future, multiplying her profits over time. Good call, heroine. Good call.

The future is unknown, and terrifying. The past is inert, and soothing. In some sense, the only true HEA is an HEA set in the past. It’s the only way that the author can be sure her protagonists end up exactly where they are most likely to prosper in years to come. (I wonder how many contemporaries during the dot-com boom ended in Silicon Valley?)

Jane Digby Here’s another really satisfying, relaxing thing about history: whatever story you’re looking for, you’ll find it. Like Hogwarts’ Room of Requirement, only with real people and events. For example, have you ever heard of Lady Jane Digby? An aristocratic beauty born in 1807, she married a courtesy baron, later an earl, who divorced her for infidelity in 1830. She bounced back from the public scandal and made her way across Europe, marrying three more times—to a Bavarian baron, a Greek resistance fighter, and finally a much younger sheikh—before finally settling down in Syria.

I’m fascinated by Victorian travelers, and Victorian women travelers especially, but most of their biographies read like tragedies. Not Jane Digby. She’s the needle in the haystack.

And so I like a ‘modern’ heroine in historical romances. An ‘independent’ heroine. Why not? Jane Digby was real. And, of course, it is soothing when fiction reinforces beliefs that I already hold. In this case: even though women can be conditioned, pressured, and bullied into submission—we have always come in all kinds, and there is always evidence.
Do I sound tongue in cheek about this? Because I am, a little. But not entirely. When we write in the present about the not-now (the past or the future), the books are inevitably referendums of the present.

So why choose the past over the future? What’s the difference? The past is known. And that makes it like a petri dish. Set a plot thread down into a dish of agar and develop it. Whatever grows in that neutral, jellied ground will stand out clear as day. It can expand, unimpeded, to fill the whole landscape.

Cecilia Grant A Lady Awakened I mean, for example, the way that Jo Beverley questions the idea of the alpha male in An Unwilling Bride, or Sarah Maclean asks why a woman must be embarrassed by spinsterhood in Nine Rules to Break While Romancing A Rake, or Cecilia Grant separates sexual skill from sexual pleasure in A Lady Awakened. Yes, this is possible in any genre or sub-genre. But it’s so crystal clear in a familiar, controlled environment.

Reading over what I just wrote, I’m tempted to keep going until I’ve contradicted every point I made. But I wanted to at least jab at one of the more irritating aspects of the genre, which is the sameness of its environments.

I do wish that historicals weren’t so stuck in the Regency. I do see the genre’s problematic elements—the phrase ‘escape into privilege’ has haunted me since Merrian Weymouth (@MerrianOW) first typed it on Twitter—and I wonder, sometimes, if ‘undermining’ those problematic elements is a symbolic gesture, more insult than evolution.

I’d like to see the genre change. But, to put my argument in another way, here’s why it shouldn’t die: setting a story in the past transforms a game of chicken into a game of chess. We know the board, we know the pieces, and that allows us to concentrate on the play.

Biography: My life is pretty quiet these days. I live on a farm in Kentucky and write books. In the past, I’ve lived in places like New York City, Paris, and Cairo. Much more exciting. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking of all the places I’d like to go and haven’t been yet. I don’t like to stay in one place for very long, but now I have a dog, so that might change. And, anyhow, quiet is pretty interesting for a change of pace. Visit Erin online or follow her on Twitter @ErinSatie.

Comments

4 Responses to “Historical Romance Week: Erin Satie – Chicken or Chess”
  1. I love the Petri dish metaphor! So many stories began with the faint spark of one scene–usually one in the middle.
    And, yes, I also get irritated at criticisms of “too modern” heroines in historicals. As you pointed out, you can find every kind of example of women in history, if you just look.

  2. Yes. The ‘too modern’ thing reminds me of the way that, occasionally, laymen will insist that curse words with a venerable pedigree must be modern, too (I’d name them, but maybe this isn’t the place?).

    But I’ve often felt that part of the lure in a historical is that heroines get like, extra credit for attitudes that would be considered quite mild today. Speaking up in conversation, making and defending a point, isn’t normal…it’s brazen! Shocking! Creates a disruptive ripple throughout the room!

    So if you fear speaking up, all of a sudden there’s an environment that responds to your fears. That’s calming, in a way–seeing a fear realized and codified. But, alternatively, if you dream of being brazen & just aren’t forward enough in the present, the historical atmosphere will nudge the finish line a little closer.

  3. The opening two lines of this essay are such a terrific insight; I’m sort of struck dumb by it. (Also, I hadn’t heard the phrase “escaping into privilege” and I *love* it. It’s so perfect for how I think a lot of histrom readers read.)

    Have you read the poem “Nuns Fret Not” by Robert Browning? It’s about these nuns (fancy that) and how they find freedom within the rules of the convent. It’s also a self-referential poem. It’s a sonnet and it’s about why a writer might choose to write within a given form. I think there’s some wonderful resonance between you chess metaphor, Browning’s poem, and the appeal of genre fiction.

  4. What a great way to look at historical fiction – like chess – knowing the board, knowing the pieces, and being allowed to play. That is utterly brilliant.

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