I'd Put Myself First

Same colour as Kryptonite.

This morning, after an hour on the ellipticals watching trashy music videos (I’m obsessed with learning the dance steps to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)”), I was in dire need some some hydration and electrolytes. Being as my weight loss is negligible despite the fact that I’m at the gym for over an hour five days a week (at least), I’ve decided to up my protein and skip the simple sugars found in Gatorade and Vitamin Water. That was when I spied this green drink, which boasted 40g of protein and 0 carbs. And it was apple-melon, two flavours I enjoy! Surely this is a match made in weight loss heaven!

Unfortunately it tastes exactly as it looks: like green Kryptonite. Too bad I couldn’t read the back of the bottle as it sat in the vending machine, which would have warned me to steer clear. It boasts that it is “crystal clear steel” and “bottled detonation”; incidentally, two things I don’t exactly want to be drinking. Going down it doesn’t seem so bad, but it leaves a fuzzy coating on the tongue afterwards that seems a bit suspicious. If I mysteriously develop cancer tomorrow, I think we’ll know why.

I’ve been thinking about the nature of romantic relationships in fiction recently and specifically YA fiction and I’ve been finding most…wanting for something, although what I can’t quite seem to articulate and then I spied this post on Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, which is a reaction to this column in The Guardian about “broken heroes.” Specifically Smart Bitch Sarah refutes Mariella Frostrup’s assertion that Mr. Darcy is a “broken hero” and while I have my own thoughts about that, I won’t delve into them now.

It is the concept of a “broken hero” that stands out to me; that is, a tortured and angst-ridden romantic lead who is in dire need of the love of a good woman to save him, and more importantly, to heal him. (This only seems to apply to women saving men; I have rarely seen the opposite trope in fiction.) I’m not sure what it is about the female psyche that finds “poor, broken things” attractive. I have heard that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but the way to a woman’s is through pity.

I find this disgusting and reprehensible but I am clearly unusual among most women. While I’m all for the girl saving a boy because she loves him, it’s something else again when the implication is that “all wounds will heal” if her love is strong enough and the even deeper implication of that being his love for her is large enough to overcome his emotional hurts and become whole. I call this the If He Loves Me Enough He Will Change phenomenon and I really, really hate it.

But JJ, you say, Your favourite fairytale is Beauty and Beast. What’s that if not another The Love of a Good Woman Will Redeem a Bad Man story?

Touché. But what is resonant about that particular fairytale for me isn’t the fact that she saves him; it’s that she loves him despite his appearance and therefore (as it seems to me) his essential self. Like so many fairytales, it has a myriad of interpretations and a myriad of meanings for different individuals, but this is what I hold as the most romantic story of all: love of the essential self. Unfortunately, this seems to be an interpretation unique to me and very few individuals; otherwise the redeeming factor of her love seems to figure prominently with other people.

Yesterday I picked up City of Bones by Cassandra Clare off my shelf for a light, quick read on the subway down to Park Slope, the neighbourhood in which the protagonist resides. I read and loved Clare’s epic Harry Potter fanfic trilogy back in high school which contains many of the same tropes found in her work, including the beautiful blond male defined by his inner pain that he hides behind a rapier wit. And while her characterisation of Draco was similar to how she writes Jace, I loved one but not the other. In fact, most of the time I want Jace to stab himself in the eye with a seraph blade. I think it’s because in the Draco Trilogy, it’s actually still Harry’s story. (And I loved Harry, especially hers.) When the Angst Muffin is not the protagonist, I mind him less. Also, the relationship dominating the fanfic, especially in the last third Draco Veritas, is Harry and Draco’s: as friends, as brothers, as something possibly a little bit more. In that story, it was Harry’s love that heals Draco and while people loved the slash aspect of it, it wasn’t romantic love that fixes the broken doll. The romantic relationships that formed the work were Harry/Hermione and Draco/Ginny and for this reason, I found the story so very compelling.

On the other hand, Jace can’t be saved by anyone except Clary. (And if they actually end up brother and sister I’ll eat my shoe because I’ll have suffered through their respective whining for three books for nothing!) Moreover, he is the romantic lead, which means I ought to be sympathetic with him, I ought to find him attractive, and I ought to want the protagonist to end up with him. Unfortunately, I don’t. My love is reserved for Simon, the dorky best friend (although not as the romantic lead; I would love to see Simon as a protagonist). In fact, I’m not particularly sympathetic with Clary either, although she doesn’t make want to kill myself the way Jace does. She does, however, suffer from the same sort of blandness that afflicts many female protagonists.

Identification is important, of course, and living the story via proxy is also important, especially when it comes to fantasy. But there is a fine line between identification and self-insertion (on the part of the reader) and Clary sometimes dips too far into Mary-Sue territory. She is magically good at what she does: she can create runes and moreover she can create the most powerful, bestest runes ever. Potential romantic leads fall in love with her for no discernible reason (except in Simon’s case) or else she arouses irrational jealousy in rivals (Alec and Isabelle). She is beautiful but doesn’t believe it. Etc.

This is the stuff of adolescent female fantasy: to be the shiniest, prettiest, bestest, most awesomest person ever. I get it. I understand why these stock figures exist in YA romances. Unfortunately, it doesn’t move me, not anymore at least. Yet despite this, I still love the YA genre best, but alas, it seems to be a little oversaturated now.

Oh well. Back to work.