Book rants mark the spot where suspension of disbelief collapses in a pile of cravats, and the reader reaches for the keyboard and emails me the ire. All the ire. Every last ounce. I am never upset to receive a book rant – I fully understand the feeling. And many of us have had that feeling.
This book rant comes from Julia, who is a bit flummoxed as to the musculature of a historical hero’s thighs.
I just finished reading Eloisa James’ Your Wicked Ways. Amusing story- nothing like a little husband and wife get back together fun. Let’s disregard my feelings on a vicar who is 1) able to leave the vicarage for nigh on a month with little concern and 2) willing to abandon the cloth for a lady love with very little “dark night of the soul” torment.
My main beef with the book is this:
The heroine, Helene, waxes rhapsodic about the muscular nature of the hero’s legs. Rees, said hero, is a composer. (My autocorrect wanted to make that “composter”. THAT would explain some leg muscles.)
Does he compose by tapping out rhythms in fancy shoes? He does not.
Does he compose by dictating music whilst doing dips and squats? He does not.
Does he leap up in the middle of composer’s block and go for a quick run along the Serpentine? He does not.
While Rees does occasionally walk for exercise, he does NOTHING, NOTHING through which he would have gained this swoon-worthy physique.
While am I so perturbed by this?
I live with two men.
Get THAT picture out of your mind. One is my husband and one is my brother.
My husband is in the military. Physical training (PT) is part of his work. He gets time DURING his work hours to exercise. He’s in good shape. I happen to think he’s pretty attractive. He has nice legs.
Swoon-worthy…? Well, how much wine have I had?
His “low-key” exercise is to walk 3-4 miles at a slow pace on the treadmill, playing a video game, and wearing an 80-lb weight vest.
My brother works as an administrative assistant. He is in voice training to be an opera singer. He plays the piano. He also builds sets for plays, shovels snow, wrestles with his niece and nephew, and runs. Judging from how women flock to him, I’d say he’s got good looks. His muscles, like those of my husband, are also worked for.
I have no idea how a man who ONLY plays the PIANO all NIGHT long would get muscles, especially LEG muscles, to die for.
Are the standard “piano-weight” keys magically heftier in this book?
Are the pedals hooked up surreptitiously to a leg press?
Is his harpsichord the only one in Regency England to be played with toes?
I’m willing to suspend a LOT (and, I mean, a LOT) of disbelief as a romance reader. I get that no one wants to reader about a pale-assed sunken-chested knock-kneed composer who bleeds out from a paper cut from a frenzied flipping of pages in the score.
Nevertheless, when one hears about the hero’s muscular legs over and over again… one needs some semblance, a mere wisp, the barest hint of logic as to how said limbs came to be in such a glorious state.
Here ends the rant.
I’m off to find a book about a pedicurist with biceps like Hercules.