Today I'm worried that I have an addictive personality. Not that other people become addicted to my charming ways, but that I so easily get addicted to things and usually ridiculous things at that. From iced coffees to solitaire. The deceptively simple Facebook application (I still can't use the 'app' word) Scramble has me so addicted, when I shut my eyes I see letters and when I'm reading I start rearranging words in my mind. (Opts, tops, pots, stop!)
One of my life-long addictions is romance.
I wonder why romances are so uncool. (Almost as uncool as the word 'uncool'!) Derided and scorned for being aimed at silly women, romances have a credibility issue, which is not unusual for something that is so female in its orientation. This is despite a good love story often being at the core of the best of literature, art and film and television.
For as long as can remember, I have been drawn to romance (the 'love story' definition – I was so disappointed when I read 'Romance in the Forest' to discover the meaning of the word 'romance' has little to do with HEAs).
Without even thinking about it, I've searched and scanned through books for couples and happy endings. I longed for the 'Naughtiest Girl in School' to end up with Julian, The Doctor with Sarah Jane (or anyone really, except Rose) and Anne with Gilbert. (Heaven forbid L. M. Montgomery writing a book without a romantic thread: straight to the unread, back of the bookshelf section for you!). I think it takes a special kind of skill (or delusion) to read six Norah of the Billabong adventures to get to the wedding or see a love story blossom in the Faraway tree.
I can't even blame Disney Princess indoctrination which has swept my Kindy-Girl away. She too sees romance in everything from “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz's” Scarecrow and Dorothy to Captain Mac and his space monkey.
It was a revelation then, to finally get to Jane Austen in grade nine. Books that gave me exactly what I was looking for that were also lauded and magnificently written. Devouring these I moved to Brontes then Georgette Heyers, still craving more and more. I thank my great aunt for introducing me to Victoria Holt (Gothic melodrama) and then, to the even less reputable, Mills and Boon category range.
Horrifying my father and kept as a guilty secret from anyone outside the family, I became a Mills and Boon addict, the fast food of romance readers. I could binge on huge quantities, feel terrible afterwards, but quickly get back on that dashing steed and indulge again (especially if exams were looming). I quickly learned which authors made me gag and which authors wrote beyond the formula and managed to cram couples with surprising depth into tiny word counts.
And that's the way it is with Mills and Boons. The covers and titles mean nothing to me. It's all about the author (in fact, sometimes the covers and titles have nothing to do with the story, which you'd have to hope for when you see the doozies they come up with, 'Pregnesia'?). In the absolute joy of a good read and the despair (and hilarity) of a bad one, I decided I wanted to be a part of making romance too.
Not dissimilar to my film philosophy, quality writing makes for good reading, whether it's romance or wild west-cooking-poetry novels.
I know a lot of writers have 'road to publication' sites but I'm a little worried about coming out to the world with my ambition so strongly, what if I'm held to it? What if I fail? All those cliches (which pepper trashy novels) sum it up though, hesitating gets you left behind, I won't know if I don't try, loving and losing and all that. So this is the beginning (maybe even the ending).
If I have to write a blog then perhaps I will keep working on novels too. (Like I've written multitudes.) At least I'll have an avenue for all those words that have been swimming around in my head since Kindy Girl was born. My brain has been filled a gelatinous, blobby goo that slows everything down, derived from sleep-deprivation, adult-conversation-deprivation and workplace-deprivation. Although it's a bit of a worry. What makes me think that anyone will be interested in my inane iterations and worst of all, what if someone reads what I write? Argh!!
I'm worried that this has been way too long – next time it will be more concise.
I'm also worried I won't live up to the standards of the wonderful women at Smart Bitches Trashy Books.
Their review of 'The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable Girl' is spectacular!
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