I wrote the following column about ten years ago, and pulled it out to use part of it for something related to book 4, Anchor Point. If you acquired the book through me, you will have received something extra slipped between the pages of the book, and this is the complete article that only a portion is shown on the back side if you'd like to read it in its entirety.
A New Romance Novel
Her breath caught in her throat. What was that noise? Had she been found out? Would he suspect the reason she was here? Earlier at dinner, it just wasn't enough. Surely he knew that—he had to have felt the same way! She wanted more—she had to have more! Her hands moved stealthily along in the dark until suddenly, she grasped a firm, muscled leg. Her mouth opened in anticipation as.... the light came on.
Her husband stood in the doorway shaking his head... the turkey leg froze midway to the guilty woman's mouth...
I'm working on a title for this potential romance novel, but I can't decide between: Ravaged Turkey... Leftover Rendezvous... or The Incredible, Edible Leg...
What is it about these paperback romances? Women aren't just reading a couple of them now and then. They are devouring them to the tune of a bazillion dollars a year. Are these stories fulfilling something missing in their lives? Are they living vicariously through the fictitious lives of these scantily dressed, panting, pouting, unrealistically gorgeous victim/heroines who are held captive and escape and fight and fall in love with these buff oxymorons?
Does it lessen the image of our husbands a bit when we can't help but compare them to the Gentle Rogue's well-defined biceps and abs attained naturally from hard physical labor:
1. on a ranch out west;
2. being raised by the Indians; or
3. acquired from previous intensive military training?
It's hard for them to compete with a Sensitive Savage whose sole desire in life is to save and protect the heroine [usually from herself] as well as carry her to that nebulous realm of ecstasy and back at every given place and opportunity. [Just a reminder to you young girls--these are female fairy tales--fictitious--not real]. A friend told me she just wants to slap her husband after she reads one of these stories. He just doesn't seem to measure up to the Tender Warrior for some reason.
Do men ever read this genre of books? Probably not. I don't believe they can get past the titles. The Vulnerable Viking and The Clever Clod simply do not have the same appeal to men as macho titles such as The Barbarous Brute or Rockhard Blackguard might have.
And have you noticed that most of these stories deal with two people meeting, the breathless chase towards each other, and the amorous collision? Then the story ends.
Is that love, or is it just physical desire? Love means patience. Love means respect. Love is commitment. Love is unselfish. Love is also what gets you through the days you don't like each other very much. Love involves deference towards another. Love locks onto the insides of people--- it's not velcroed to the outside where the least bit of life's pressure or change in one's appearance pulls it apart.
Maybe I'll get up the gumption to write a realistic romance someday. The hero will be a hard-working man that's doing the best he can for his family. He'll be wide in the shoulders and slim in the hips. His wife won't mind what's above the belt buckle or his thinning hair. The heroine will have plenty of smile lines and just a few worry lines on her face, some gray hairs that her husband doesn't seem to notice, and an ample lap with lots of comfortable spots grandchildren can cuddle up to.
Some days he'll rescue her from the kitchen. Other days she'll watch his back and save him from embarrassment. Some days he'll be married to a self-centered damsel. Other days she'll be married to a scoundrel.
But the story keeps going.
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