You know what I like to do? I like to sit here after my husband goes to bed, turn on one of those 'instrumental music' channels, jazz and bossa nova, and just cuddle in. Rain pattering on the windows, the wind sounding around the corners, and write about serial killers who eviscerate women and leave them hanging upside down over tubs, like Ed Gein did.
Remember when I said I was going to write a romance story? (hint: last post) Well, it started in the wrecking yard, and ended up in a Youth Conservation Corps camp in Eastern Washington, our heroine hacking at the undergrowth with a machete by day and sneaking out of her bunkhouse at night to go get stoned, with a serial killer mixed up in there someplace.
Now I am not even kidding. I have a love interest in mind, I have a counter-love interest, I have a sub-plot that involves coming of age, but of taffeta and pearls there is not one atom. Or crinoline, Jon. I had to look that shit up online.
I like kittens! I like pretty things! Yes, I have a collection of Tonka Toys, but I also have a collection of medieval music and opera, too. I cry when I hear Luciano Pavrotti sing 'Nessa un Dorma'. I do! I like babies! I own makeup! (I do not wear it, because life is just too damn short, unless I have to go to a wedding or something.) And I have perfume, patchouli essential oil in fact, so I smell like a sweet psychedelic butterfly. I garden, I love roses, and I put up my hair...but the romance thing is absolutely eluding me. And the more it eludes me, the more I want to hunt it down and strangle it and hang it over a washtub and...
I think what I'm going to have to do is get over myself and actually read some romance novels. Dear sweet baby Jesus I am not looking forward to this at all, I really am not, I have those Jackie Collins novels burnt into my brain and those long discursions into the importance of getting just the right handbag and exchanging bitchy gossip and making shallow judgements based on shoes, and having pouting, moist lips aching for the kiss of GAAAAAAAH NO NO NO NO.
So. You unromantic people, you. Is there such a thing as a good, readable and most importantly ROMANTIC novel out there that isn't going to make me want to hide under the bathroom sink from self loathing?
I NEED SUGGESTIONS DAMMIT!!! GET ON IT!
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