Happily Ever….
One of the most – cough – discussed posts we’ve had on Queer Romance Month recently has been about the happy ever after in queer romance. What the post, and the responses to the post, highlighted for me was just how complex and emotive this issue is. And while that would probably make any normal person STFU, I’d kind of like to talk about it. So the next two QRM-inspired posts for AAR are going to be about the HEA: in this one I’m going to ponder what HEA means in the context of queer romances, and in the companion post next week, KJ Charles is going to talk about why the HEA is valuable and necessary on its own terms.
Before I get into it, however, I would like to clarify that I have no issues with the way in which the romance genre is currently understood and defined. Romance as a concept is a very broad and nebulous thing, but, if we take genre to be, in essence, a publishing construct that tells us what we’re getting, then I am fairly comfortable with the idea that a genre romance is, unchangeably, and at its heart a “central love story with a happy ending”. Romance often comes under attack for being described in a way that seems to imply a formulaic structure, but actually most genres work that way. Thrillers are defined by there being a threat that is confronted and overcome. Horror, by contrast, is defined by there being a threat that is confronted and not overcome. Mysteries are defined by there being a mystery that is posed and solved.
Usefully, I think you can make a strong analogy between the revelation at the end of a mystery and the Happy Ever After at the end of a romance. And, yes, you could write a story in which a mystery was a raised and was never resolved (The Name of the Rose, The New York Trilogy and even The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time all spring to mind) but it wouldn’t really be genre mystery, it would be literary fiction using the modes of mystery storytelling. Just as many romance readers read romances to feel good, many mystery readers read mysteries to play along at home, and not finding out whether you got the answer right would be deeply frustrating.
To me, the history of the mystery novel provides an interesting counterpoint to the current discussion about the position of queer romance within romance, especially as it relates to the HEA. For much of the early twentieth century, the mystery novel (or the detective novel if you prefer) was dominated by a tradition that had its roots in likes of Murder in the Rue Morgue, Mystery of the Yellow Room and The Moonstone and traced its lineage through Sherlock Holmes to Poirot and Miss Marple. The revelation in what you might call the British Country House Mystery was a distinctly amateur and a distinctly upper class affair. It’s a quirky educated man gathering all the suspects together in the Chinese Drawing Room of Waverly Manor and declaring with absolute authority: “So, you see, it is only possible for the killer to be the victim’s sister, Lady Penelope Stoatthrottler.”
When the genre migrated to America the old forms no longer really fit. The USA has a notable shortage of manor houses, mysterious bequests and posh twits with too much time on their hands. What it does have, however, are mean streets down which must walk a man who is himself not mean. The American detective story gave us a new breed of hero who embodied a new set of values. Whereas the classic British detective story is all about the world being restored to its natural and hierarchical order, the hardboiled detective story is all about a lonely individual’s attempt to make sense of a fundamentally lawless world. While the setting changed and the characters changed, the basic structure of the narrative didn’t: there was still a mystery (or a crime), there was still an investigation, and there was still a revelation. The important thing is that the style adapted to suit a new subject and a new audience, but in a way that left the heart of the genre intact.
To bring this back to romance, I would argue that opening the romance genre up to queer stories is analogous to opening the detective genre to American stories. All the key features remain the same but they may wind up looking very different in their new context. Insofar as a happy ending is a definitional part of genre romance, it is a definitional part of queer genre romance, but a happy ending in a queer relationship cannot be defined solely by reference to heteronormative conventions. As part of the discussion over on QRM, Kaetrin essentially defined the HEA as: “Together and alive [fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][except in the case of zombies]” and while I like this a lot, especially the zombie clause (embracing diversity etc: the dead deserve love too), I think in practice it’s more complicated than that because while I think we can probably all agree on a definition of alive, what “together” means is different for different people.
The conventional fairy tale definition of “together” implies, not to put too fine a point on it, eternity. When a story ends “and they lived happily ever after” it does not admit of the possibility that the prince and princess had a tempestuous affair that lasted eight months, and from which they walked away enriched as people. It doesn’t allow for them have two kids, kind of go off each other, but remain together out a shared mutual respect and real feelings of love for their family. It doesn’t encompass the idea that they could go out clubbing one night, meet a handsome blacksmith’s son and take him back to the palace with them. The phrase “happy ever after” evokes a very specific and very normative image of a socially accepted, religiously sanctioned, heterosexual, emotionally and physically monogamous relationship that probably involves children. This is an idea which doesn’t even appeal to all straight people, but which actively excludes a great many queer ones.
And obviously I’m not suggesting that every HEA in a romance necessarily implies marriage and babies, although in my experience few of them are incompatible with that interpretation. If I’m saying anything, it is that there is a spectrum with “are literally together forever” at one end “don’t get together at all” at the other. It’s fairly clear that the “together forever” ending counts as an HEA and the “not together at all” ending doesn’t, but there is no sharp line you can draw inbetween to say where romance ends and not-romance begins. I think it’s reasonable to say that a story would fail as a genre romance if, at the end of the book, the reader does not believe that the relationship will last and have value, but how we judge that, both in terms of what we think will happen and what we think it will mean for it to happen, is very subjective and very personal.
I got into an interesting conversation on Twitter a while ago about Georgette Heyer’s Venetia. As it happens, it’s one of my favourite Heyers. It’s kind of a rake & virgin story but, more interestingly, at the same time a friends-to-lovers. Towards the very end of the novel, with the frankness that has characterised their relationship throughout, Venetia and Damerel (the hero) have a conversation about his sexual proclivities.
“You’d know about my orgies!” objected Damerel.
“Yes, but I shouldn’t care about them, once in a while. After all, it would be quite unreasonable to wish you to change all your habits, and I can always retire to bed, can’t I?”
“Oh, won’t you preside over them?” he said, much disappointed.
“Yes, love, if you wish me to,” she replied, smiling at him. “Should I enjoy them?”
He stretched out his hand, and when she laid her own on it, held it very tightly. “You shall have a splendid orgy, my dear delight, and you will enjoy it very much indeed!”
I had always read this as the two of them playing about, but for several people involved in the thread, it ruined the HEA for them. They felt Venetia’s failure to extract a solemn promise of sexual fidelity from Damerel, and his failure to offer one, meant that he would inevitably cheat on her and that this would, in essence, invalidate their relationship. For me, it really doesn’t. Partly because Damerel is very much a Rochesterian rake, driven to sexual excess from boredom and self-loathing, rather than any particular interest in, well, shagging so I can’t actually imagine him wanting anyone except Venetia. But mostly because I simply don’t see sexual fidelity as a necessary part of a successful relationship, assuming everyone knows what they’re getting into, and it’s very clear from this scene that – even if they’re not joking –Venetia does.
Nevertheless, this discussion made it clear to me that, for at least some people, “happy ever after” does not just mean “together and alive”, but “alive, and together in a very specific way.” And, of course, it’s completely okay for people to choose their reading matter on whatever basis they like, and to invest in whatever they invest in, but I think it’s also highlights the subjectivity of these judgements. I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying Venetia wasn’t a genre romance just because some people don’t believe in the happiness of the ending.
Part of the issue with the subjectivity of happiness in a romance ending is that the genre and the genre-reading community naturally builds up a shared language of signs, symbols and signifiers which together communicate that the relationship will work. Interestingly, a lot of these signs and symbols actually make very little sense. The fact that someone has saved you from terrorists or given you your first orgasm or woken you up from a hundred years sleep is not, in reality, any kind of sensible basis for a long-term relationship. But we accept these tropes because we are used to them. If the conventional happy ever after rings hollow in some queer narratives and to some queer readers, I suspect that it is because so many of these tropes cease to be accessible. At its most basic level, the biggest relationship success trope that the romance genre has is marriage which, across most of the world and throughout most of history, has actively, and with the full force of law, excluded queer people.
There are so many things which heterosexual couples take for granted and which queer people have to fight for that the structures necessary to render a HEA plausible in a queer narrative might be utterly different from those that appear in conventional heterosexual romance. We know from decades of romantic comedies that a big romantic gesture in a public place is code for “these two people are meant to be together and their relationship will work out fine” but, for queer people, just having the right to express your romantic interest in public is not a given. If Notting Hill had been about a same-sex couple, by standing up a press conference, Hugh Grant’s character would not only have been apologising to Julia (Julian?) Robert’s character he would have been actively outing him, which would very much have changed the context – and arguably the romance – of that scene. It is only possible to believe in a relationship that is founded on something as shaky as a last minute airport dash or a climb up a fire escape or a boombox under a window if you start from the assumption that your relationship is validated and supported by the world you live in. If you can, essentially, take as read your right to love who you want. And the sad truth is, this is a luxury a lot of queer people don’t have.
This isn’t to say that HEA endings don’t have a place in queer romance, because they absolutely do. Nor is it to say that because happy endings might look different for some queer people than for some straight people that queer romance is an entirely separate entity from mainstream romance. But to make a happy ending ring true for a queer audience you can’t necessarily rely on the same markers and assumptions that come pre-packaged with a heterosexual relationship. Everybody has the right to a happy ending, but it has to be an ending you can believe in.
Author Alexis Hall was born in the early 1980s and still thinks the 21st century is the future. To this day, he feels cheated that he lived through a fin de siècle but inexplicably failed to drink a single glass of absinthe, dance with a single courtesan, or stay in a single garret. His latest book is Sand and Ruin and Gold.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]
At risk of the internet exploding all over me again, I dare to comment. ;)
The discussion at QRM was pretty wide ranging and I think it was Sirius who first said ‘together and alive’ – to which I agreed in the sense that I was trying to indicate I have a very broad view of HEA/HFN and the author can sell me on just about anything so long as the couple are together in at least an emotional sense.
Alive isn’t even a pre-requisite actually *spoiler alert* In one of the Black Dagger Brotherhood books (the title of which I can’t be bothered looking up) V ends up with Jane who is a ghost. (It was unsatisfactory for a number of reasons but there is no denying there is a HEA in the book).
I can absolutely see that queer romance may well have a different kind of HEA depending on when and where it is set. For example, a HEA in a contemporary set in Uganda or Russia might have a couple living separately and remaining deeply closeted but together in the emotional sense. I could buy that. Absolutely. In fact, I’d like to read it. *hint*
Queer couples in historical times didn’t have the “”marriage and kids”” option that some queer couples do in many western countries now. Of course their HEA would look different. But essentially, they were “”together”” in the emotional sense at the end of the book and intending to stay in a romantic relationship. And that is absolutely enough for me.
What is entirely unacceptable to me is “”not together at all””. And Gone With The Wind (I spit on GWTW) is most definitely not a romance because it has a majorly sucky ending and why why why? (I heard that one of the reasons that the RWA definition of romance is so wishy-washy is because they wanted to include GWTW in their definition! That book has much to answer for!!). For the record, I hope Rhett was shot of Scarlett and found someone else entirely.
As for Venetia – I haven’t read the actual book – I’ve listened to an abridged audio (I know, how could I, etc, – my answer: Richard Armitage. Enough said.). I’m not sure whether Damarel will have sex with other women but what I am sure of is that if he does it will be with Venetia’s blessing and her knowledge. It won’t be infidelity because he’s being honest. In fact, there’s a suggestion she’d join in. And, if that’s how the couple wish to define their HEA – monogomous but with occasional guest stars, or a version of polyamory or anything in between – well, that’s fine. That works as a HEA too. Whatever works for the characters and the story.
So I basically agree with you :)
As usual, I’m late seeing this and I just wanted to say thank you to Alexis! I feel this post answers the question I put in the discussion of HEA in queer romance and helps clarify things for me. I realize that the road to HFN/HEA in queer romance is in some ways rather different from that of het couples, still in the end the characters end up happy and together (in whatever form/sense that may be).
Really interesting piece. That idea that the happy ending in queer romance can simply look different, while still being a genuine happy ending really resonates with me. There are only a fairly limited number of queer romances where there can be an HEA that’s identical with the m/f HEA. In historical it’s probably impossible. The characters have to create their own version of it.
I’ve always been more of a HFN person anyway. If they finish the story looking like they’ve got a pretty good chance of being together for a long time, I’m happy. Even if they make me think “”you two are going to be great together for about five years and then make some divorce lawyers very rich”” I’m generally happy too. I don’t have to believe “”these two will be together until they die, no argument.”” Alive and together sounds good to me. A few of mine end that way. They still have plenty of problems to fix, but they are fixing them together – that’s the point.
Thank you so much for saying this and putting into words what, at its root, has been bothering me about this trope and the entire discussion surrounding it.
I’ve really enjoyed all of the QRM posts, and your essays/blog entries in particular — this one sort of struck a chord. As you say, the ‘babysploding’ heteronormative uber-domesticated happy forever and ever ending (if there are vampires involved, truly, really forever and ever… and sometimes THEY even manage to sprog) doesn’t reflect the lived experience of many people and groups. Even beyond zombies. I’m going to make a purely personal comment about this, because I don’t want to speak for anyone else… but I think maybe my experience may not be mine alone.
I had to stop reading novels for awhile, first because I was seriously ill, too ill to read (which really is a sorry state to be in) and then because losing myself in a book became too much — I suppose a ‘trigger’ for opening doors I wasn’t yet ready to open, mentally. Reading brought all of my emotions too close to the surface. When I started reading for pleasure again a few years later, I deliberately chose different genres from my usual (I was pretty much a Victorian novel/lit fic all the way, with a bit of lit-ficcy mystery & scifi in the mix). Romance was one of my ‘new’ genres. On the one hand, I owe this genre a great debt. It brought books back into my life. I rediscovered the joy of anticipating those rare blocks of time to just huddle down in bed and … read.
But romance books also made me sad. I’m a cis-gendered bi woman with an amazing partner who stayed with me throughout my illness. I/we never particularly wanted children before, but now I can’t have them… and I was permanently disabled to boot. A lot of the books I read, even the ones I loved, reinforce ways of being a woman that, looking back, even as a cis-gendered woman who has been with a male partner for years, I now see made me worry about my relationship, and MY way of being a woman. “”All the men in these books want babies… what if my partner secretly, really wants babies?”” etc. etc. So my ‘escape’ genre became a source of anxiety. Then I discovered Harper Fox, Alexis Hall, KJ Charles and… lots of other authors who write romance that makes me think and makes me happy, not anxious.
I’m not saying that books can’t be written about and for women in a het relationship who like a happy ever after complete with stork. But there is something about the repetition of that trope — I’m going to be really nerdy and quote Homi Bhabha on stereotyping, which he defines as a “”form of knowledge and identification that vacillates between what is always ‘in place,’ already known, and something that must be anxiously repeated””. The repetition provides the proof: this (het fantasy) is what it means to live happily ever after. This is what masculinity/femininity are. This is what a family is. This is what love is.
I like “”love is love”” better.
I think the HEA/HFN needs to be character-driven (and most definitely not from pressures exerted from reader expectations) and feel right for the characters in the story.
I agree. It needs to serve the plot and the characters.
I don’t need marriage, and children at the end of a novel to consider it a romance. I don’t even need a HEA -HFN is good enough for me, as long as they are together as a couple.
Nevertheless, I’m not sure your average romance reader thinks the same. I don’t think they do. The majority of romance novels keeps on including cheesy epilogues with children so I guess that’s what the majority of readers expect.
And it’s a happy ending perfectly possible in many countries, mine for instance, for a gay couple.
If the main characters do not end together as a couple, just as good friends, for instance, I would not consider it a romance novel. It can be a great novel, but not a romance as I understand the genre.
Of course it could only be the way I see the genre, and I could be wrong. I’ve seen some people consider Gone with the Wind as a romance novel, and I don’t.
Oh Gone With The Wind is an interesting one … because it doesn’t end with any sort of HEA/HFN in the togetherness sense, but Scarlet is definitely HFN because she’s worked out what she wants, and she’s about to set off and get it, and Scarlet is never happier than when she’s in full pursuit of something (or someone) she wants. I, for one, am in no doubt that she’d get Rhett back exactly as planned. After all, she’s just spent a thousand plus pages getting things her way. One man who already loves her for that exact trait doesn’t stand a chance. So I feel it has an implied HEA rather than explicit one.
But I guess for *genre romance* the togetherness has to be explicit. So I can see both why people do and don’t count. I think I’d probably be on Team Don’t but what do I know?
In idle conversation, it seems to me that quite a few readers view HFN/HEA much as you and Kaetrin article: together and alive. It’s just I don’t feel necessarily the genre entirely reflects that – as you say, even in contemporaries there’s lots of babysploding epilogues – but I don’t know to what extent that’s driven by market expectations or actual reader preference.
See I always hoped Rhett would come to his senses.
I read the ending of Gone with the Wind the exact same way. When Scarlett says she’ll think about it tomorrow, you know she will. You know that every time in the novel she said those words, she accomplished her goal. So at the ending, I was 100% sure she’ll go out and get Rhett back after making a plan.
One of the main reasons I read queer romance as opposed to het romance is that I am tired of the tropes and the babysploding epilogues and the enforced monogamy. Oh and don’t get me started on the rants against cheating. That is so junior high! If the story calls for it, then ok. Bring it.
Yes, I feel exactly the same about the so-called outrage about “”cheating.”” I am though a romance reader in hopes of more alternatives aside from marriage and babies and wouldn’t mind seeing more options explored in the conflicts between the hero and heroine, including cheating.
yes this!
I think you pretty much hit on every point I was trying to make in the original conversation plus expanded ideas and added on new ones that I think are spot on.
Thank you :) I’ve been thinking about it since the discussion over on QRM, and I really liked your comment over there as well. I nearly commented on the comment but I realised that I am basically following you around the internet going “”YES THIS! WHAT THEY SAY!”” and it must be getting annoying :)
considering the fact that 99% of all replies or comments to you is pretty much the same I don’t think I’m in any position to judge :)
I love the Notting Hill analogy. Another lovely post, Alexis. Thanks.
Thank you for having me, and KJ, and QRM :)
It’s awesome.
Weirdly, thinking about the Notting Hill thing really does want me to read – or maybe even write – that story :)
Yes! Do do do.
Found it:)
I can’t find the first blog post. I’d like to read it.
Excellent article. It is dangerous whenever assumptions are made about what is “”the norm”” and applied without thought across the population, as if we all are the same race, religion, gender, culture and sexual orientation.
To push it even further, consider that HEA may also be vastly different to gay man than to a lesbian or bisexual for that manner.
Thank you and, yes, exactly.
There’s also to an extent to which it varies broadly even within groups – as you say, not all queer-identified people want the same sort of thing, and neither do all straight people.
I disagree. I think America has plenty of posh twits with too much time on their hands.
I stand corrected ;)
More seriously, I think they’re of a slightly different flavour.
Nice article! I definitely agree that access to literary tropes shapes how readers interpret texts. The example of _Venetia_ is helpful in this respect as it my require a different understanding of how a couple defines happiness with each other, though I too tend to read the ending as playful more than anything else. Still, it’s a very self-aware bantering going on. I wonder too though about the “”markers and assumptions”” within heterosexuality as that can come dangerously close to essentializing heterosexuality. For example, feminism throws a nice monkey wrench into conventions of behavior that may define normative understandings of gender and especially, normative constructs of an HEA. Can men and women have loving, committed and long-term relationships while eschewing many of the dearly loved conventions of marriage entirely? More so, can men enter into happy unions with feminists that challenge male supremacy? Can feminists be happy in relationships that require heavy challenges to conventional roles, including refusing to take a man’s name? Perhaps, working while the man stays home and raises their child? Out-earning their male partners? Some readers might feel that some or all of the above characteristics of a feminist romance lies too far outside of the realm of belief. In that respect, it might share more in common with queer romance than not. One thing though that I do like from all of this pondering is that it may encourage readers to think critically about the very notion of norms!
I definitely read it as playful but, actually, I can see where people are coming from in reading sincerity in the banter – there’s quite a lot of this in Venetia particularly, and Heyer more generally. I think it stands either way.
I definitely think there are broader questions about the assumptions feeding into the HEA than those raised solely by queer stories. I brushed against it lightly when I was writing the article but I didn’t want to prod at it too deeply because, well, it’s not really my place. Obviously what’s possible is shaped by setting – it’s hard to imagine a historical that didn’t end with a marriage just because that’s kind of a high class woman’s only option for any sort of freedom or security, but while I don’t want to over-generalise because contemporaries are vast and varied, as I said in the article if they don’t end with marriage and babies, they tend to end in a way that implies/suggests/takes for granted that this might and probably will be a thing that will happen in the future.
And I don’t know how to what extent that reflects what’s possible or even desirable for some readers. As you say there lots and lots of entirely viable alternatives.