Pace in my romantic fiction
Pace in my fiction depends on what genre I'm writing in. This determines
what I focus on. When I write romance, I like to be tactile, highlighting the
positive aspects of any setting. I focus on appearance, the sensual aspects,
the thoughts and feelings of my characters. If there is violence in my
romances, it is not dwelt on.
In my novels, I find that pace can be increased by showing and involving
the reader in the characters's dilemmas. Each time a viewpoint is changed or a
new setting is used it can 'refresh' the reader and so add to pace.
Pace does not need to be unrelenting, I find, or stories can seem
rushed. There can be times for moments of reflection, particularly when a
character learns or chooses something. I always feel that a crucial scene
deserves a full showing.
As a reader myself, I know that romance readers are curious and love to
learn. If I can make the research interesting by putting it in a character's
mouth and also imperative - the character really needs to know it, the stakes
are important - then so much the better.
I also find that anticipation can be an important device in pacing -
readers love to anticipate. You can make readers 'wait' in writing. For me,
anticipation is one of the ultimate appeals of romance - I know the hero and
heroine are going to have their happy ever after ending, but how?
I finish with an excerpt from my Christmas Sweet Romance, "Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure." In it I switch points of view between hero and heroine, something I love to do so the reader sees the characters through the eyes of my romantic leads, drawing my reader in and so hopefully adding to romantic pacing.
Excerpt
Sir Conrad, steward of the forest high lands, glowered at
the latest miscreant to be dragged before him in the great hall of the northern
sheriff’s castle. A castle that has never
felt like my own, for all I am reluctant steward here.
Despite his instructions, Sir David, his
under-reeve, would bring the wretches up in fetters, even the women. Conrad
tightened his already crushing grip of his sword hilt to stop himself from punching David and rose from his chair to approach the small, slight
figure before him.
“What, where and who?” he snapped at his
shorter, stockier, second-in-command. The woman—girl, really—did not flinch,
which surprised him.
Conrad knew he was harsh, unsmiling in his
manner. Since Joan had died three winters ago, leaving him a widower, feeling
angry, cheated and bereft at the age of twenty-four, he had been unable to be
anything but cold to anyone. He had no interest in brief affairs. I witnessed too much tumult and heartbreak
from my father and brother and their parade of mistresses to do the same.
Although this girl—
Studying her, he recognized two
things at once. The first was that he truly desired her. To his own shock,
Conrad wanted her badly, with a potent drive he had not felt since he was a
youth. Is it the picture she makes in her
chains? I would chain her to my bed, if I could. She was delicate, with a
fragile profile, sweetly upcurving lips, masses of glossy blonde hair and eyes
as blue and big as a summer sky. She seemed both graceful and slender and at
the same time determined, standing straight, poised as a dancer, facing life
head on.
That was the second thing he realized. The girl
was brave. Dressed in her dirt-coloured gown, her mud-spattered,
heavily-stained tunic and shedding cloak, in old leather boots that were
splitting at the seams and looked too small for her, she watched him with the
poise of a cat, all barely-hidden fire.
If she smiles at me I
may even kiss her, and yes, I would love to keep her by my bed. But why did she seem
familiar?
“David?” he asked.
His under-reeve blushed. “We found her in the
lower castle.”
Sir Conrad felt himself become dangerously
quiet, the background chatter of the great hall burning away in a blaze of
righteous anger as memory spurred him to move. In a dazzling flash, as if he
had been struck by lightning, he remembered earlier that morning.
He had been striding to the stables when
yelling and the thud of punches had
erupted from a mob of youths, kicking about a clattering wooden ball. As the
lads’ shoving and shouting quickened and Conrad spotted fisted hands groping
for knives, a small hooded and cloaked figure skirting the edge of the group
suddenly tottered. Pushed savagely from behind, the tiny, limping rag of a
creature threatened to tumble headlong into the boiling mess of arms and legs.
“Hold off!” Conrad had bellowed, sprinting as
he warned. In a few long steps he rammed past the fools, seized the falling
figure and had carried it to safety, setting his light burden down on the top
of the outer keep staircase.
The work of moments was forgotten in the
fierce tongue lashing he flung at the lads. But he recognised her now.
No wonder she seemed
familiar. “I rescued you,” he said aloud.
The girl pierced him with a glare, clearly
disputing his version of events. Do not
expect me to be grateful, her eyes said.
“….She was swept up with that group of
‘prentices…” David was explaining, oblivious to the currents between them.
Exasperated at the girl, Conrad was still glad to break their battle of stares
and looked back over his shoulder at his second.
“The ruffians rioting in the bailey this
morning over a foolish game?”
His stocky second shuffled his booted feet and
muttered something about kicking a ball about being harmless entertainment.
“That is as maybe,” Conrad growled, his
quicksilver temper flaring afresh as he stalked closer to the one he had saved,
his cloak snapping round his heels. “The girl could have been crushed in that mêlée, you idiot! Why is she in chains?” The iron shackles
were a bitter grey against her pale, delicate wrists.
David hunched a little, clearly uncertain how
to answer, and the girl spoke for the first time. “I confessed, sir.”
“To what, girl?”
She studied him with narrowed eyes, a
shuttered expression falling across her pale face, then she straightened
afresh, with a faint rattle of her fetters. “To whatever would bring me before
you so I could ask for your help, sir. And to propose a bargain.”
Sir Conrad stared
anew.
****
The steward glowered
and Maggie held his darkly brilliant gaze, seeing herself reflected in his deep grey
eyes. Towering above her, he looked like a scowling saint. Somewhere between her dread for
her brother and her surprise that she had truly startled him, Maggie
admitted that he was handsome.
Handsome and bereft.
Strange words for a hardened warrior and knight but true for him. “Handsome but keeps to himself, not like his brother, more's the pity.” “It’s
said he loved his wife, didn’t he, and she’s dead.” “Will his children be as striking, I wonder?” The muttered comments about the steward were all
true, except for that one thing. Sir Conrad was not just handsome, but
vulnerable.
UK https://amazon.co.uk/dp/B07KW6K5RL/
Lindsay Townsend
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