Glittery HooHa
Via sabotabby, one of the coarser, more colourful articulations of a literary convention that I blame for messing up a lot of people's ideas of how Wuv works: The heroine's glittery hooha (GHH).
Romance author Jenny Crusie's quandary:
my hero, who is supernaturally irresistible (stick with me, it works) sleeps with at least twelve women before he goes to bed with the heroine. That’s believable given his character, but here’s the kicker: my heroine won’t sleep with him because he’s promiscuous-she’s no dummy-and he actually gives up other women to have her and keep her. I mean, what are the chances?
And, outside the cover of a book? Probably not great. But Jenny's an author, and she (along with her heroine) has literary convention, and reader expectations on her side. The hero will find that the heroine is his Wun Twoo Wuv, and forgo all other women, because here, at last, is something he didn't know he'd been missing but will, having found it, forgo all other pleasures.
So what's with that?
It's not homosophrysne. It's not even really good conversation. It's not the shoe that fits only her, or that she's aristocratic enough to feel the pea under the fifty featherbeds. It's not her cooking. It's not the spark of conversation, or the way he looked into her eyes while dancing and knew there was her, only her, forever and aye. It's not any other plausible explanation. So what is it?
Gotta be the glitter in her hooha.
Romance author Jenny Crusie's quandary:
my hero, who is supernaturally irresistible (stick with me, it works) sleeps with at least twelve women before he goes to bed with the heroine. That’s believable given his character, but here’s the kicker: my heroine won’t sleep with him because he’s promiscuous-she’s no dummy-and he actually gives up other women to have her and keep her. I mean, what are the chances?
And, outside the cover of a book? Probably not great. But Jenny's an author, and she (along with her heroine) has literary convention, and reader expectations on her side. The hero will find that the heroine is his Wun Twoo Wuv, and forgo all other women, because here, at last, is something he didn't know he'd been missing but will, having found it, forgo all other pleasures.
So what's with that?
It's not homosophrysne. It's not even really good conversation. It's not the shoe that fits only her, or that she's aristocratic enough to feel the pea under the fifty featherbeds. It's not her cooking. It's not the spark of conversation, or the way he looked into her eyes while dancing and knew there was her, only her, forever and aye. It's not any other plausible explanation. So what is it?
Gotta be the glitter in her hooha.