LOVE

The third in my BIG THEMES series of articles, which are easy to spot because I USE CAPITAL LETTERS. For some reason.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about romantic subplots in fiction, a technique used, to a greater and lesser degree, by greaters and lessers throughout literary history. They're everywhere, and, when done well, can spark a story into further life.

Everyone knows Star Wars. It’s that silly film that was never originally called A New Hope and is glued so firmly to the traditional three-act structure that it practically serves as a template for HOW TO WRITE A STORY* (those caps again; when sh!t gets real you can be assured of their appearance). A space opera concerning the rescue of a princess set against a civil war in a ‘Galaxy far far away’ in which Imperial forces working for the Galactic Empire are destroying civilisations across the universe and a group of rebels are throwing stones at them. Definitely not a love story. Except it is.

The original film, despite George Lucas’ bluffing to the contrary, was not part of a planned franchise and Luke and Leia are demonstrably not written as siblings. They are the couple of the piece and their chemistry is undeniable. She kisses him before a rousing, swinging escape from Stormtroopers across a Death Star canyon and they look very pleased with themselves at the awards ceremony at the end. Something’s been going on off-screen, for sure. Later, the brother-sister thing was retconned and Han takes centre romantic stage, with their love story being an integral addition to the mythos. In short, Star Wars is not all about lasers and heavy-breathers in black masks. Without the love story subplot or subplots, it would be weaker as a fiction. Incomplete.

*Since you ask, it’s something like this:

Beginning - Rebels are captured by Vader and the big bads

Inciting Incident - Luke discovers Leia’s message and meets Obi Wan

Plot Point One - his aunt and uncle are barbecued, bringing him fully into the story

Rising Action - Luke meets Han Solo and learns about the Jedi world and the forcey force

Midpoint - Alderaan is destroyed and the Millennium Falcon is tractor-beamed into the Death Star

Second Rising Action - fighting in the Death Star, attempts to rescue the princess

Plot Point Two - Obi Wan is killed and our sexy heroes flee

Descending action - they join the Rebels and plan their assault on the Death Star

Climax - Death Star destroyed by Luke using the forcey force

End - award ceremony

Now I'm going to stop talking about Star Wars, because this has really got out of control.

Romantic subplots are pretty darn essential to storytelling. We can’t all know what it’s like to be a spy, or a warrior queen, or an American teen who wakes up as a werewolf, but we’ve all had our hearts broken, or felt longing or unrequited desires or attraction or any of that gooey stuff. Romance, without taking a central story-line, grounds our characters in reality. Unless it’s a rom-com, for example, there’s no need for it to overshadow the story. Done well, a romantic subplot helps us to care about the people we’re reading about, and lights a fire under the main plot itself. We’ve all groaned when the leads, out of nowhere, turned to one another and kissed at the explosive climax, so we instinctively understand when it feels forced or bolted on.

A subtle, burgeoning relationship between characters can add intensity and intrigue to any story. Give them something in common, or a shared foe. Connect them at a time of vulnerability. These characters should be more than just devices, however; the love story, doomed or fulfilled, straight or gay, vanilla or cookie dough, allows the protagonists to see themselves in a different light. The dystopian novella 1984 is not about Winston Smiths’ feelings for Julia, it’s about the fight against The Party, but without the human element we’d care so much less. The same can be said for Great Expectations. No one would ever call it a love story - the main plot doesn’t centre around a romance - but without Pip’s feelings for Estella, the ending would feel ‘off’. It doesn’t work for all fiction, granted, and would seriously unbalance Lord of the Flies or Animal Farm, for instance, but when verisimilitude is required, love’s a great humaniser.

Which is why, in Frankenstein, we feel for the monster. It yearns for love, but can never achieve it. Our pity makes that novel work. It’s romantic and Romantic (that’s CLEVER because Romanticism isn’t, at its core, about romance, but you already knew that; Romantic = the 1800+ movement that took, as its inspiration, Roman-era aesthetics). The same could be said of many of the Gothic greats, and the better retellings of Dracula use, at its staked heart, the principles of centuries-old, unrequited longing as a device.

It can be used badly, of course, like all of the tools in the writer’s toolbox. Sometimes a screwdriver’s used to hammer in a nail. We’ve all read a shallow, filler romantic subplot and known at a stroke that the author threw it in there to pad out the story. Love is a powerful emotion, and it can make humans act irrationally, but if our protagonist behaves in a way that puts themselves in danger we’re the first to call it out. In screenwriting terms, this is known as a Romantic Plot Tumour. Similarly, if you can edit out the love story from the A plot-line and it makes no difference, then it has no right to be there in the first place. I’m not trying to justify such techniques. Love should not be tokenistic. I’ve never read any of the Harry Potter books (sue me), but the late-era Ron and Hermione subplot is something even its author regrets.

In many ways, I wonder whether it’s harder when the love story is the A plot, because if the love story fails, the whole thing falls apart. But then again, fiction is full of mismatched couples who are unbearable. Tom and Daisy in The Great Gatsby are a horrible pairing and treat one another abominably. See also the abusive Catherine and Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights. And don’t get me started on Romeo and Juliet. The young lovers fall in love at the masquerade ball and marry the next day. The following day, Juliet fakes her own death with poison. That’s not love, that’s full-blown idiocy. The day after that, Romeo discovers his ‘dead’ wife and kills himself. Four days! Get out of here. Stupid stupid Shakespeare (the story he stole from in the first place, Arthur Brooke’s The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet, allows the same events to unfold over nine months).

Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back again. The most common story we have. Certainly the most enduring.

So, in conclusion, to pep up a narrative, consider a lovey dovey subplot. Best to make it your B plot, as opposed to your A, though. Or, to put it another way: If you want to spice up a story, add a little Han and Leia paprika. Make sure you don’t overdo it or the whole dish will spoil. If the love story turns out to be the main course, your readers will throw it up. This sickening extended metaphor (I’m hungry) is simply to say: your readers didn’t pick up a romantic novel and they’ll feel cheated if a corny love story now overpowers the tale (remember when the Doctor started sticking his tongue down the throats of his companions? Left a bitter taste, didn't it?).

Sorry about all the sci fi. It won’t happen again.