A few months ago a pretty well known agent read and liked my book. She called the story original, praised my writing, and then just when I thought she was going to represent me, passed on the project.
Want to know why she decided to pass? She felt that the hero didn’t act rationally. He did things that didn’t make sense, said things he shouldn’t have, and seemed incapable of thinking through the consequences of his actions.
Um…that pretty much describes my entire romantic life.
You know how all this romance novel stuff got started? I read the Sookie Stackhouse Mysteries (which, by the way, are in no way mysterious) and thought “I can do that.” It seemed so easy, like a math problem even I could solve. In my head, it went like this:
1 beautiful (but unassuming) woman
+ 2 gorgeous (and vastly different) men who want her
+ grope, grind, squeeze
= instant bestseller
Easy, right? Nope. Wrong. It turns out love is hard. It’s hard to be in, hard to hold on to, and really hard to write about.
Would somebody please tell Charlaine Harris that I’m sorry for doubting her.
i like romance novels. so what? i like the beautiful women, the even more beautiful men, and the boiling passion that spills over into unbridled, mind-blowing, sheet ruining sex; i like the coy words romance writer’s use to describe the female genitalia and their casual use of the word cock; i like the easily surmounted insurmountable differences that threaten to keep the hero from the heroine; and i like how after dealing with any lingering abusive ex-boyfriends / crushing intimacy issues / vampires, everyone lives happily ever after.
what’s not to like?