"I believe that I was a little bit in love with you."*
Since the royal wedding last week (and since finishing David Weber's By Schism Rent Asunder), I've been thinking about the phrase "falling in love." Usually we say the phrase in terms of a romantic relationship, but not always. After all, America can't fall in love with a new American Idol contestant or sports star romantically. (Individual viewers can, but America can't.) That phrase ("America fell in love") gets used frequently enough in the media -- whether it's about pop culture icons, political figures, or a social issue -- that it's come to have its own meaning.
A long while ago, I had a conversation with alpha-reader Arielle Kesweder, who has been a good pop culture reference for me for some time, about the word "heart" as a verb. I don't particularly care for it, but the evolution of language being what it is, no one bothered to ask me. She explained to me that "heart" as a verb means something different from "love" -- you don't really love someone you've never met, for example. But you can be involved with a character in a way that's very emotionally engaging, without any actual risk on your part. It's related to the "squee" factor, I think: say you meet an actor, or a writer, whose work you admire a great deal (or whose character you have a crush on). That encounter allows you proximity to the target of your admiration (and may induce a noisy "squee" when you share the story with friends, as you all shriek your delight). The intensity of the experience of your encounter with the target of your admiration deserves some sort of name -- but you can't really say you love the person you encountered. Instead, you "heart" them. Or, so I came to understand the case that she made.
I can't help but think, however, that "heart" as a verb is very similar to what America does when falling in love. And I myself often use the phrase "falling in love" to describe what happens to me with characters in books (in the most recent case, Cayleb and Sharleyan of the "Safehold" books). I'm not personally romantically involved, but I get warm fuzzies when thinking about the characters. As with a classic high school crush, I might get a big ol' grin on my face when they appear in a scene. My investment in them as characters is high -- but the only risk involved to me should something awful happen to them is a minor bit of heart-break. Because I'm an easy crier when it comes to books, if something awful transpires, I shall probably cry. And if it's appropriately dramatic, the scene may well stick with me for days on end (through what I've before referred to as a book-hangover, when a book continues to preoccupy me days after I've finished it).
That same kind of intensity of emotion, without the romantic inclination, happens with public figures we view as heroes (John F. Kennedy is someone who readily comes to mind as a person people "fell in love with" but didn't necessarily want in their beds). The intensity can happen in the opposite direction with our villains as well. In those cases, I think much of what people are involved with isn't the actual person, but rather what the person stands for in their minds. (Thus, sometimes there is rejoicing in death, not necessarily for the end of a life, but for the strength robbed from the symbol a person represents.)
But I think it can also happen with friendships, and this is where it gets hairy, because there are cultural assumptions about intense relationships -- and that these must involve romance. I remember my mother talking about how, when she was a young single woman, she argued with the older women at her church, saying that men and women could have friendships that didn't involve romance. I think we've come a long way in our cultural perceptions since the 70s as far as male-female friendships go, but that equation of intensity and romance often remains. I've been thinking about this as I'm crafting the characters for New Project; a male and female character, both heterosexual, have a very close relationship that probably leads the other characters (and likely the readers) to think they're romantically involved. But they're not, and they never have been. How can that relationship be depicted in such a way that readers will believe there's no sexual tension there, despite the intensity of emotional connection? It's something I'm puzzling out -- while also wondering how I can get people to fall in love with my characters. I'm already a little bit in love with them, of course, but I hope others will feel the same!
* Eponine to Marius, Victor Hugo's Les Miserables -- she, of course, is fooling no one, because "little bit" doesn't even begin to describe how in love with him she was. But I've always liked the quote.
A long while ago, I had a conversation with alpha-reader Arielle Kesweder, who has been a good pop culture reference for me for some time, about the word "heart" as a verb. I don't particularly care for it, but the evolution of language being what it is, no one bothered to ask me. She explained to me that "heart" as a verb means something different from "love" -- you don't really love someone you've never met, for example. But you can be involved with a character in a way that's very emotionally engaging, without any actual risk on your part. It's related to the "squee" factor, I think: say you meet an actor, or a writer, whose work you admire a great deal (or whose character you have a crush on). That encounter allows you proximity to the target of your admiration (and may induce a noisy "squee" when you share the story with friends, as you all shriek your delight). The intensity of the experience of your encounter with the target of your admiration deserves some sort of name -- but you can't really say you love the person you encountered. Instead, you "heart" them. Or, so I came to understand the case that she made.
I can't help but think, however, that "heart" as a verb is very similar to what America does when falling in love. And I myself often use the phrase "falling in love" to describe what happens to me with characters in books (in the most recent case, Cayleb and Sharleyan of the "Safehold" books). I'm not personally romantically involved, but I get warm fuzzies when thinking about the characters. As with a classic high school crush, I might get a big ol' grin on my face when they appear in a scene. My investment in them as characters is high -- but the only risk involved to me should something awful happen to them is a minor bit of heart-break. Because I'm an easy crier when it comes to books, if something awful transpires, I shall probably cry. And if it's appropriately dramatic, the scene may well stick with me for days on end (through what I've before referred to as a book-hangover, when a book continues to preoccupy me days after I've finished it).
That same kind of intensity of emotion, without the romantic inclination, happens with public figures we view as heroes (John F. Kennedy is someone who readily comes to mind as a person people "fell in love with" but didn't necessarily want in their beds). The intensity can happen in the opposite direction with our villains as well. In those cases, I think much of what people are involved with isn't the actual person, but rather what the person stands for in their minds. (Thus, sometimes there is rejoicing in death, not necessarily for the end of a life, but for the strength robbed from the symbol a person represents.)
But I think it can also happen with friendships, and this is where it gets hairy, because there are cultural assumptions about intense relationships -- and that these must involve romance. I remember my mother talking about how, when she was a young single woman, she argued with the older women at her church, saying that men and women could have friendships that didn't involve romance. I think we've come a long way in our cultural perceptions since the 70s as far as male-female friendships go, but that equation of intensity and romance often remains. I've been thinking about this as I'm crafting the characters for New Project; a male and female character, both heterosexual, have a very close relationship that probably leads the other characters (and likely the readers) to think they're romantically involved. But they're not, and they never have been. How can that relationship be depicted in such a way that readers will believe there's no sexual tension there, despite the intensity of emotional connection? It's something I'm puzzling out -- while also wondering how I can get people to fall in love with my characters. I'm already a little bit in love with them, of course, but I hope others will feel the same!
* Eponine to Marius, Victor Hugo's Les Miserables -- she, of course, is fooling no one, because "little bit" doesn't even begin to describe how in love with him she was. But I've always liked the quote.