Love & Books: “Romance and novel paint beauty in colours more charming than nature, and describe a happiness that humans never taste. How deceptive and destructive are those pictures of consummate bliss!” ~ Oliver Goldsmith

The following is something I wrote last year but never posted on this blog. I’m posting it here now, slightly edited, because … well, because I want to. It’s not the easiest or happiest of times for me right now, there are people I love who are very much on my mind and this piece is somewhat in keeping with that and my mood.

I have some more loose ends to deal with soon, a couple of awards and a meme type thing that TheJules tagged me with eons ago, I apologise to the lovely folk who I’ve kept waiting, I haven’t forgotten and to my blogchums with posts I haven’t read or commented on yet, I will get round to it, I promise. I’d just rather wait until things have improved and I’m feeling cheerier and had my humourectomy reversed.

After all, nobody likes a Glenda Glumchops.

I’ll be back soon with smiles x

I'm tired.

There are a number of reasons for this, most of them I won't go into; but I will admit that one of the main reasons is because I have spent the last three days glued to a book. I think it was just before 4am this morning that I finally came to my senses and put the book down.

I have spent a very long week helping my mum sort out and dispose of the fine collection of junk that had accrued in her spare bedroom. She wanted to do it so that she could empty the even more impressive collection of junk that SHE has accrued in her room into the spare room, so that she can redecorate. To be fair, it's a job that has needed to be done for some time, even when my Grandmother was still alive. Now that she's gone it has become a small obsession to my mother, but it's been hard work and a somewhat sad and poignant job. We found all kinds of things that my Grandmother had carefully wrapped up and hidden away, most of these things we kept, not because we wanted them ourselves or thought them potentially useful, but simply because they were obviously things she had cherished. My Grandfather I think has found it especially hard. The first day he came upstairs and "helped", but he found it too painful to see my mum disposing of things in what might have seemed a rather callous manner. He didn't come up any more after that, and he has seemed quiet and withdrawn all week.

My bibliophilia is something I inherited from my mum. She doesn't have anywhere near as many books as I do, but even so it took us best part of an afternoon to sort through her "library" and move the ones she didn't want to part with into the spare room and box up the ones she didn't want, ready to take to the charity shops in town. As we sorted through them our conversation naturally turned to books, those we'd read, those we'd like to read and making recommendations to each other. At one point my mum held up a book, "Have you read any of hers?" she asked. It was called "The Duke & I" by Julia Quinn and had a bright pink cover and one of those cartoon illustrations on the front that seem to be the trend in women's novels at the moment, "GAH! CHICK LIT" I thought to myself rather snootily. You see, I don't do chick lit. It always seems so bland and the main female characters are invariably pathetic and annoying. I said I hadn't read it, politely, but in a tone that made it clear I wasn't really interested. "Oh! You should read them!" said mother, "they're funny. They're like Georgette Heyer with naughty bits".

Now Georgette Heyer, I should explain, played a major part in not only our mother/daughter bonding but in my awakening to the glory of books and history.

I always loved to read, even as a small child I would spend hours quite happily on my own with my books. Before I could even read properly I would just gaze at the beautiful pictures, I knew the stories by heart from having had them read to me over and over. As I grew older and my reading skills developed my mum would suggest books for me to read. I have always loved that we had that connection and shared interest.

I think I was around 12 when my mum first suggested a Georgette Heyer book. I had started to take an interest in boys and I suppose she felt I was ready to venture into romantic literature. Her grandmother had introduced her to the books and now she was passing the gift on. And what a gift it was. I'd always seen the books on her bookcases, there were dozens of them, I'd even looked at the pictures on the covers, but having briefly skimmed over the synopsis on the back I had never felt an urge to read one. Not one of them had anything to do with magic or dragons or wizards and fairies! And that equalled an unworthy book in my childish opinion.

The first one she suggested was of course her personal favourite "Fridays Child" (I’m a Friday’s Child btw). She said she thought I might enjoy it. That was an understatement and a half. I loved it. Actually, I still love it and it has become my personal favourite too (it was also Heyer’s favourite). It was so funny, so romantic! And even better, it wasn't romantic in a sloppy way, as I'd first feared. Heyer's books are predominantly set in Georgian/Regency times and are remarkably historically accurate and detailed, because of them I became obsessed with Georgian history, the events and people (most of whom were factual) mentioned in the books. In those days a blatant show of affection or emotion was not encouraged and that is reflected in the books. The heroes are mostly a set of lovable "lads", perfect gentlemen to the gentle-born heroines but who you just know would ravish them in a second if they could get away with it. The romance is always a background aspect of the storyline, cleverly woven around a mystery or a set of misunderstandings that invariably work to keep the lovers apart, or in some cases even unaware of their true feelings for each other. It's chick lit, but it's good, intelligent, humorous chick lit. My mum passed on her Georgette Heyer collection to me when I first left home and they now form a large, revered and much loved part of my own budding "library". I hope that one day I'll have a daughter to pass them on to.

But I digress.

So now I hope you understand why what my mum had said so caught my attention. If these books were even vaguely Georgette Heyer'ish then I wanted to read one. Simple as that.

Then my mind darted back ... wait a minute!

With naughty bits???

Eww!! Mother!!

Like anyone of my age I still have a great aversion/fear to any kind of reference to sex by my parent. It also made me question the quality of the books ... naughty doesn't happen in Heyer's books, the most you get are smouldering looks across a ballroom and passionate kisses once a marriage has been agreed between our hero and heroine. All very prim and proper. If the new books had naughty bits then there was a good chance they were not only poorly written, but historically inaccurate ... and THAT is a very big issue with me. I know my history and I find it intolerable when someone takes on an historic project, be it a book, film or dramatisation on TV and then doesn't get their facts right, (don’t even get me started on the casting of the skeletal Keira Knightly being cast as Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, a woman who battled with obesity her entire life, in the recent film “The Duchess”) or worse, rewrites history to fit in with their storyline. History is exciting and fascinating enough, it doesn't need to be changed or enhanced! Grrrr!!!!!!

I made these comments to my mum. She assured me that it wasn't done in poor taste or out of context, and said again that she thought I would like them. Her judgement, as far as books are concerned, has seldom been wrong. So I took one home with me that night.

Since then I have averaged 3/4 hours of sleep per night.

The books are ok. They have no real substance, and they’re never going to win a Booker Prize, but they’re very easy to read and for reasons quite unknown to me, they’re somewhat addictive. They're certainly not perfect, the author is American and it shows in places. She has clearly done a lot of research, but not quite enough in my opinion. Her faults lie mainly in the dialogue, 95% of the time she gets it spot on, but when she makes a mistake it's a glaring one that makes me growl softly and grind my teeth in annoyance. Right in the middle of a perfectly Georgian speech she'll have the character slip into modern American and gives herself away. Imagine reading Pride & Prejudice and finding Mr Darcy saying “Gee, Miss Bennett” right in the middle of his terribly British declaration of love and then having Elizabeth Bennett sassily putting her hands on her hips and saying “Whatever!” … Well it rather spoils the effect, doesn’t it.

And the names she chooses for her characters are all very British by today's standards (at least, they would probably seem so to an American) but would not have been heard of in those times, especially amongst the aristocracy who generally regurgitated centuries old family names. She also falls into the "clone" trap found in so much chick lit, especially when the author has penned several books on the same theme. The ghastly Barbara Cartland and Catherine Cookson are prime examples (and the worst offenders) of this type of writing in my opinion, all the characters in all the books are basically the same, once you've read one you've read them all.

However, none of this is a big enough problem to detract from the general pleasure of the storyline. Whilst Quinn's books have an element of the "clone syndrome" I haven't yet found it annoying or tedious, although to be fair I've only read two so far and there are at least a dozen in the series, so time will tell.

Her heroines are strong and feisty, and whilst all of them have (so far) simply craved the love of the hero it is not in a pathetic way that makes me want to shake them and tell them to "get a grip love!". And it must be remembered that from a historical point of view aristocratic women were simply there to bring a hefty dowry, good breeding with pure blood and a healthy male heir to ensure the continuance of all the important families in England, nothing more. I'm sure they had nothing better to do than obsess on men and love. Actually, that’s what most women still do today, aristocratic or not, so not much has changed.

And as for the heroes ... oh! They are simply delicious! Tall, manly, strongly built, imperious, intelligent, funny and frisky to a fault. Basically my perfect man.

And maybe, if I’m honest, that's the big attraction of the books. They’re the purest, most simple form of escapism for hopeless romantics who just happen to be historically-minded, are slightly soft in the head and have a crush on Mr Darcy.

I've often considered whether my romantic ideals were shaped by the books I read in my formative years. Long before I fell in love with a real live boy (NOT Pinocchio btw! Thought I'd get that in before all the smart-arse comments start) I fell in love with the male characters so charmingly created by Georgette Heyer. And maybe, (a more lowering thought) that has something to do with my own, rather unhappy and disappointing, relationship history. Because as much as I keep dreaming, men like that don't really exist. Do they?

The men in Heyer's and Quinn's books are male with a capital M. You can practically smell the testosterone seeping out of the pages. They're strong, not just physically but mentally too. They're men's men, they love the company of their male friends, sport and fighting, drinking and gambling but they also love women and are effortlessly sexual, gentlemanly and more importantly, protective even to the point of aggression if need be. They have a ready, dry wit, made all the more intriguing because they are reticent, strong, silent types who can say more with one searing glance than all the poets of history put together.

But sometimes that makes me wonder if I can ever really be happy in love.

Have my literary heroes turned me into my own worst enemy? Can any man ever stand up to the perfect image I have of the "Perfect man”, and if not then where does that leave me?

By reading and loving the books I have, have I doomed myself to a life of romantic disappointment? In my 29 years I have only ever met one man who came anywhere near it, and he came pretty close, it has to be said. But that just made it all the harder, all the more heartbreaking when I realised that he couldn’t or didn't want to be the hero I was so keen and ready to let him be.

I don't have the answers to those particular questions, and to be honest I don't really feel like dwelling on them right now.

For now, Ms Quinn has come along with her paper refuges and offered me some much needed escapism. In the early hours of the morning I can be found in Regency England, snuggled up to a gorgeous Duke. I know I can't stay there, as soon as I put the book down I'm back in my own little universe, and of course that's as it should be.

But for a very short while I find distraction and amusement, and I think that's probably what I need right now.

But gosh, I'm tired!