I once took a writing class with a writer who said she keeps a sign by her computer. The sign bears three words: “What’s at stake?” She told the class about this sign to make the point that a writer should know what is at stake in her story and in every scene of her story. So “What’s at stake?” is one of the questions that I try to remember to ask myself when I write.

If a character (whether it’s the hero or the heroine) is isolated when he or she meets the other protagonist, then there is that much more that’s at stake in the outcome of the story. It’s not just about two happy people who have almost everything they want and need becoming even happier. Now it becomes about whether they will remain lonely and isolated. Not just their togetherness, but also their happiness is now at stake.

From a perspective of psychological health and well-being, it’s obviously better to have a strong support system. A relationship in which both people have that is probably less likely to become dysfunctional.

But from a dramatic storytelling perspective, that means the outcome of the relationship is less vital to the characters, and therefore, all other things being equal, probably less important to the reader as well.

Perhaps for that reason, I’m somewhat resistant to the notion that characters in books need to be models of psychological health and well-being. I think the unhappy or confused or even somewhat dysfunctional character is often the more compelling one. I’m not saying that a character can’t be both well-adjusted and compelling; I think they can. But it’s harder to pull that off. And for me personally, there haven’t been very many books along those lines that have really hit me hard and stayed with me for a long time.

Please don’t take that to mean that I think all heroines should be isolated. Nothing is further from the case. I think we should encourage variety, in this as in many other things. But off the top of my head I can think of two incredibly potent books with isolated heroines, by two of my favorite authors: Kinsale’s Seize the Fire and Gaffney’s To Have and to Hold. I cannot imagine either of those books working had the heroines had strong social support systems.

Secondly, I have thought of another reason for authors to isolate their characters. I’m now, as I work on writing a romance, becoming keenly aware that characters take up pages, and with wordcount constraints being what they are, it is getting more difficult to write books with many characters. The more minor characters one includes, the fewer words are available for the main characters’ story. Especially if one aims to try to make all those characters round and multi-dimensional.

In J.R. Ward’s case, the Brotherhood alone includes several characters, and her books are already quite long. If she gave the heroines the kind of social network her heroes have, and still kept all the Brotherhood characters as fully developed as they are, the books would be even longer. So it may be (though this is pure speculation on my part) that this is one of her considerations.

“In a lot of romantic suspense with female protagonists, on the other hand, the default is the coming-of-age/being tested/turning point in life, and it’s the mode of saving-oneself or saving-the-world that’s in question: will the heroine save herself or will the hero or the two of them together?”
This could also occur in a genre flip-flop of “epic fantasy”, where it rests on the heroine to be the savior. It may not sit well with women who wished to be saved by strong men but the notion is empowering, particularily if the love interest is stalwart but due to circumstances, is unable to challenge the adversary.

This topic of romance genre flip-flop is timely as I am scripting a Period Fantasy Romance screen adaptation, atypically showcasing a female lead and surprisingly, the heroine is not isolated. Interesting to note, these are two of the four vital elements for film, genre flip-flop and unexpected twists. Therefore the book might not suit readers of pure genre but the film industry considers it both viable and desirable.

On the stalker plot, one view might be that it’s just another means of setting up the isolation and quest–but a means that creates an atmosphere of urgency and lack of control rather than of introspection or hopefulness. In another view, romantic suspense is interesting as an end member within suspense.

In straight suspense with a stalker, the baddie might set up the main character’s isolation–literally isolated, or isolated by the threat, or by everyone else’s incomprehension. The hero would then save himself (or occasionally herself) and possibly the world, often with lots of action but less self-discovery. For the very hero-centric suspense there’s often a romantic interest in the background, but she doesn’t share in his glory. On the other hand, some best-selling suspense is not stalker-focused but involves some kind of discovery quest–exploring self, religion, love, etc.

In a lot of romantic suspense with female protagonists, on the other hand, the default is the coming-of-age/being tested/turning point in life, and it’s the mode of saving-oneself or saving-the-world that’s in question: will the heroine save herself or will the hero or the two of them together? I think many of the older 20th C. Gothic romantic suspense novels (e.g. Brandon, Stewart, Whitney) have this type of heroine: she’s at a turning point, scary things happen, she saves herself in part through a new relationship.

There are a lot of other ways to carve up suspense and romantic suspense; I think you’re right that there’s plenty of material there to argue over.

Aoife: It took me a while to get freaked out by the Ward heroines, too, primarily, I think, because it went from one heroine to a pattern. And I think that’s my concern with the genre. I mean, how many of these isolated heroines are that way because the author has made a deliberate choice to have them isolated, or is it just a default, either because it makes it easier to hook her up with the hero or because it’s so much a trope within the genre? From book to book I can see how it works for me or doesn’t, but on a meta-level it takes on a different significance for me, I guess. And I think it’s the same, frankly, for the heroine surrounded by the interfering family — how often is that sequel bait, for heaven’s sake?

RfP: your comment and Tumperkin’s take me back to my initial frustration with the isolated heroine — how often does she really discover her own power and how often is that deferred to the hero? I was talking with Jane recently about how paranormals either seem to follow the pattern of Kresley Cole books — the heroine-centric, independent female model, or the Ward pattern where the heroine becomes primarily empowered through the hero’s love and then maybe makes some secondary female bonding connections. Very little in-between (although, as I said, I think Lara Adrian’s books are searching for it).

And Jennifer Crusie’s books were among those I was thinking of in regard to a well-connected heroine, although it’s interesting how often Crusie’s characters have problems with their mothers. In fact, it’s often the hero, who finds the heroine all “round” and “soft,” not overtly a mother-substitute, but there are sometimes some interesting dynamics there. But I think one of the reasons I love Fast Women is because IMO it breaks so many genre stereotypes, both in regard to the female friendships and in regard to the heroine’s sexuality.

Where I’d like to think about this more, actually, is in Romantic Suspense, where, as your comments lightly referenced, you often have this stalker figure who functions to place the heroine in a vulnerable place from which the hero can rescue her. So again there’s this dilemma for me between the virtues of the rescue fantasy and the incredible vulnerability of the heroine and how that is resolved. It may, in many cases, by like the rape fantasy, where the heroine becomes powerful through the thing that in RL so utterly victimizes her. But I’m not sure.