Avoiding the “Too Stupid to Live” Heroine in Regency Romantic Suspense
Plus: Read a Deleted Scene from The Spinster’s ChristmasIf you’ve ever shouted at a movie screen because the heroine ran into the dark woods instead of toward safety, you’ve probably encountered what writers call a “Too Stupid to Live” (TSTL) heroine. As a reader and writer of Regency romantic suspense, I’ve always tried to avoid falling into that trap.
But sometimes, even the most logic-loving authors can make mistakes.
When I was about to release The Spinster’s Christmas, I hired a professional macro-editor to take a look at it. I wrote the book during a difficult season in my writing journey, and although I sensed something wasn’t working in the manuscript, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Turns out, it was a classic case of being too close to the story to see the problem.
My editor pointed out a scene near the climax where my heroine—normally level-headed—suddenly runs away from safety and into the dark woods, despite the fact that she knows the villain is after her.
That’s right. I accidentally wrote a Regency version of the cheerleader from a horror movie who runs upstairs when the killer’s chasing her. 🫣
Cue the head smack.
Thankfully, I revised the scene, and the heroine’s actions now make a lot more sense in the final version of The Spinster’s Christmas. But I thought it might be fun (and maybe a little cringe-inducing) to post the original, unedited scene here on my blog.
✨ Read the Deleted Scene
In this version, my heroine makes a very questionable choice—one I ultimately cut in the revised novella. But if you’re curious, you can read the original draft below and see how a small change can make a big difference in character logic and reader satisfaction.
***
January 2nd
It was still dark when Miranda woke and dressed. The governess on the other bed groaned and rolled over. "Miranda, it is too early."
"Go back to sleep," Miranda said. She wrapped Gerard's scarf around her neck, pausing to breathe in the scent of him.
Do not be so stupidly sentimental. She briskly threw her cloak around her shoulders, collected her portmanteau, and left the bedroom.
Cecil had given her funds for the coach last night, but she had marked where he stored the lock-box in his desk drawer. She snuck into the pitch-black library, and felt her way to the drawn curtains, pulling them back a crack. At the desk, she took the lock-box from the drawer and broke the lock with several blows from a paperweight.
She bit her lip as she extracted the money, not a large amount since quarter day had just passed. God would surely strike her down for stealing from her cousin, but since she didn't receive an allowance from Cecil, she only had a meager amount of her own, and she needed enough to survive in London for a short time. She only hoped it would be enough.
She had willingly drunk a potion of shame and desperation, and it made her irredeemable. Or perhaps her actions as a child had already done that.
Miranda struggled to unbolt the back door, and had just managed it when the first scullery maid wandered into the kitchen to stoke the fire. She stared at Miranda with eyes bleary from sleep.
Miranda slipped through the door and was gone.
She did not head toward the village and the posting inn there, but instead turned down the lane toward the next village over. There was a larger inn where the stagecoach to London would leave early this morning. She also remembered what Gerard had said about Harriet staying nearby so she could watch the house. If Miranda went to the next village over, she could avoid the possibility of being seen by Harriet.
Her breath clouded around her face as she walked. Her hands in their mittens were cold, but her heart felt colder.
Two and a half hours later, she trudged into the yard of the inn. Water had seeped into her shoes and wet her socks, turning her feet numb. However, soon she would be on the coach and speeding far away.
The inn was bustling, but the common room was sparsely populated. Miranda bespoke a cup of tea and sat in a small table in the corner next to a farmer's wife who had her three children with her.
"Going to London?" the woman asked cheerfully.
"Yes," Miranda said.
"Us, as well. But we'll have a wait of it. The coachman is having a wheel fixed or summat of the sort."
After drinking her tea, Miranda helped entertain the woman's children, who were becoming impatient at the delay. Finally the coachman entered the common room to call that all was ready, and the woman gathered her belongings and her children to bustle out.
Miranda had picked up her scarf and draped it around her neck when she happened to look up.
Directly into Harriet's eyes.
Harriet had descended the stairs of the inn, obviously having taken a room here. She froze on the last step, her dark eyes pinned to Miranda, her lips curled back in a snarl.
Miranda bolted.
She left her portmanteau and ran for her life, shoving her way past the farmer's wife out the front door.
"Here, what's up?" the woman said. Then less than a second later, "Oh, you too?"
Miranda darted out into the inn yard, frightening a pair of horses just drawn up by a stablehand. She raced around a post-chaise and toward the back of the inn. Chickens scattered before her in a flurry of wings and squawking. One flew directly into her face, and she swatted at it to get it out of her way. She skirted the pig-pen to dash headlong into the forest beyond.
Because she was already tired from her long walk, she could not outrun Harriet. But she could lose her in the woods.
Her cloak flapped behind her, and she reached back to grasp the cloth and hold it closer so it would not catch on any branches or bushes. She had lost her scarf, and the wind of her passing caught her bonnet, her ribbons pulling at her throat. She scrabbled at the ends and untied it, and it flew from her head. She would be colder, but she could see more clearly around her.
Behind her was the sound of thrashing through the underbrush. She darted around the trees along a twisting path, and slowly the thrashing grew fainter.
She had to find a way to hide. What could she do?
***
Why This Matters for Romantic Suspense Authors
As Christian romantic suspense authors, we owe it to our readers to write heroines who feel real—not perfect, but rational under pressure. Otherwise, we risk breaking the reader’s immersion (or worse, encouraging them to stop reading).
Still, this was a humbling reminder that every writer can miss the obvious—and that’s exactly why good editing is priceless.
📚 Read the final version of The Spinster’s Christmas free on my blog or my Patreon.
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Reference Footer
This post relates to Camille Elliot’s Lady Wynwood’s Spies, a Christian Regency romantic suspense series set in 1811 London and featuring intrigue, espionage, botanical alchemy, slow-burn romance, and themes of faith and redemption.
• Lady Wynwood’s Spies Series Reference Page
• Reading Order: Lady Wynwood’s Spies Reader Journey Roadmap
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