My Origin Story: In Which Our Heroine Explains Why She Wants to Write Romance Novels

Here ye, here ye, gather round my children, and hear a tale of wonder. A tale with no end. A tale of a girl’s dream to become a romance novelist, her quest to figure out how to write and publish such a book, and just some pictures of cats. 



(as promised)


This is the Origin Story.


Long ago, when I was an awkward teenage girl, I fell in love with romance novels. It was a natural progression from Nancy Drew books and Young Adult fantasy. I also volunteered at the library after school -- partly because it looked good on college applications and also because I wasn’t very cool or athletic -- which gave me unfettered access to classics like “Wicked” by Susan Johnson. 


Before we go on, I should tell you that “Wicked” is not a very good romance novel. I write this confident that Susan Johnson will probably never read my blog because she’s a very successful NYT Bestselling author who writes under three different pen names and has better things to do, like write books and also count all the money she’s made writing books. Implicit in both prior sentences is the underlying lesson that sometimes what makes a writer successful isn’t just being the best writer.


 Susan Johnson is a successful romance novelist because her books were extremely risque for the 90’s. “Wicked” was published in 1996, when the Romance genre still wasn’t very mainstream, and your average book cover was a dramatic tableau of a lusty redhead with bad 80’s makeup and ballooning bosom spilling out of a halfheartedly “historical” dress, draped like a dead ferret over the arm of a shirtless (and body hair-less) man with flowing locks.  


Yet despite the blush-inducing covers, in old-school romance novels our two fated lovebirds didn’t get it on until about 3/4 of the way through the plot, and after much breathless simpering and more bosom-heaving and gentle caresses, the scene fades discreetly to black like in the movies.


What really set “Wicked” apart was that they just took it a step further: the cover was just a close-up of a man’s crotch. See below.





“Wicked” also featured a scintillating plot, in which the hero was a really bad person and the heroine is really stupid. I’m sorry, did I say plot? What I meant to say was that these two characters meet and immediately start having sex, and then continue having sex for reasons I assume were explained at some point, and around page 340 of page 368 whatever conflicts they have are finally resolved because of all the great sex they had. The book wraps up with a halfhearted attempt to pretend like these two worthless people actually love each other, but who cares? What’s important is that “Wicked” featured a scene in which the hero, Beau (actually his legion of lovers call him “Glory,” because of his masterful dick or whatever), takes a candlestick and commits improper acts with said phallic object upon our heroine, Serena, who for an innocent female in Regency England is surprisingly 100% cool with it foreign objects being inserted into her lady parts by some dude she JUST MET.


Needless to say, I enjoyed reading these choice scenes aloud at lunch to my friends. It was shocking! Scandalizing! We were fourteen years old and it was the high school girl equivalent of what boys were no doubt doing with Playboy mags stolen from older brothers. 


As the romance novel industry evolved, the quality of writing got much, much better. With better writing came higher standards from readers: we wanted more varied plots, we wanted smart and sympathetic characters, we wanted tasteful but steamy sex scenes, and we wanted some goddamn respect!


It took about 20 years, but the industry got there. Romance novels aren’t like “Wicked” anymore; in fact, if you want emotionless, kinky sex — there’s an entirely separate genre now called “Erotica.” You can even find it at your friendly neighborhood bookstore! So if you’re reading this blog and you’ve never read a romance novel, I feel it necessary to declare proudly that the Romance genre is a noble, respectable thing now, with complex characters and real problems — and also still close-ups of men’s crotches on the covers, because no one was complaining about that part. 


The more I read romance novels, the more I wanted to write one. For one, I love to write — it’s fun. I can make things with words! I’m a magician! For another, it’s my dream life to work from home, on my own schedule, as my own boss, talking to imaginary people all day instead of real ones. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m not a “people person.” I know this because I spent the last 10 years of my life in the Hospitality industry, the entire foundation of which centers upon being a “people person.”  


I’d like to say I was actually very good at my former career, but that’s probably because I’m biased. Any of my former team members who didn’t feel like I was very good just didn’t tell me to my face, because I was the boss. Being the boss feels great because everyone at least PRETENDS to like you, which is more than I can say for my pre-professional years, in which I was super uncool and not many people pretended to like me. 


I was at my last job for three years, and probably in an alternate timeline I’m still working there because I loved my job. I also hated my job because I never slept well, lived in a constant adrenaline-fueled state of stress, and cried myself to sleep multiple nights a week in despair because I always felt like I was failing. I’d actually already put in my three-month notice at work (ostensibly to seek out an even harder, more challenging role with a fancier title, because apparently I’m a masochist) when one morning I just woke up and said:


 “Fuck this, I want to be a writer. But for real this time.”


That’s because I’d tried this before for the brief span of three weeks (three years ago, to be exact). At three weeks and one day, I looked at the state of my bank account and immediately started job hunting. I got my most recent job a few days later and didn’t look back until now. 


On March 27th, 2017, I woke up and for the first time in three years I didn’t have worry about work anymore. Finally — my dream of writing a romance novel could begin!


So naturally I fucked around doing nothing for three weeks and did absolutely zero writing. 


Of course, I did get out of the house. I went to a bachelorette party in Austin, and then spent nine days on a road trip to different desert parks with my boyfriend. I felt carefree and happy! I could go wherever I wanted! Hakuna Matata! 


But then I came home and made a thousand excuses for myself for why I couldn’t start writing yet. I mean, first I had to unpack from the trip. That took several days, because I kept getting high and watching Star Trek (DS9 — we’re on Season 2). Or playing Magic: The Gathering with my roommates. Or getting my childhood LEGO collection from my parents’ house and making LEGO models of my cat until 3am. Hakuna Matata? 


I knew Mufasa would be so disappointed in who I’d become, but to be honest, I was just afraid to begin. 


The task in front of me seemed so insurmountable. 


Also, beginning is the first step to failing, but you can’t fail if you don’t begin! (Try putting THAT on a motivational poster). 


Fortunately, I did have the very baby beginnings of a book I’d started writing (during that failed 3-year-ago attempt) to start with. It took me two full days to get through the 50,000 words I’d written. I tediously organized every chapter in Scrivener (which I’ll talk more about in a separate post) and painstakingly labeled and highlighted all the areas that needed editing. 


Of the 50k+ words at my disposal, guess how many of those words made it into the final cut! If you said 0%, well, you’re wrong and kind of mean. My writing isn’t THAT bad. 


Actually, it was almost that bad. I cringed through most of it. Several chapters made me want to set fire to my computer. At certain points, I’d convinced myself there was no point in continuing this farce — my writing was so abysmally terrible that I needed to start job hunting immediately. I completed reading through the final four chapters of my work with the Poached Jobs tab open in my browser so I could continually refresh through job postings every 15 minutes. 


In the end, I was able to salvage approximately 3k of the original 50k words, though I kept most of the characters and the original concept as my bare-bones outline. 


I don’t know when I wrote those 3,000 words that I’m actually proud of. It’s just one chapter, but it’s damn near perfect. The tone, the detail, the dialogue… it’s all spot-on. Reading it for the first time after so long, I was kind of impressed. It gave me a little glimmer of hope that maybe I’m not the Worst Writer of all Time. I MUST have it within me to write Good Stuff. I don’t know how I originally unleashed that genius and where I can find it again, but it’s got to still be there! It’s probably hiding under all my cowardice and self-pity, waiting for when I’m ready to set aside my laziness and get my bitch ass back to Pride Rock and start writing again. 


First things first, though, I needed to figure out What The Hell I Was Doing. 


I didn’t harbor some magical fantasy that writing just involved me sitting at my desk whenever the inspiration struck, rain gently pattering against the window as a cup of coffee steamed gently by my side. There was no pie-eyed dream of casually sitting down and popping out a 150k masterpiece on the first go. I knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as Step 1: Sit down, write novel, Step 2: Novel published, Step 3: Become rich. 


So, I knew what being a writer wasn't; I just didn't know what it was like. 


Honestly, I’m a few weeks into this endeavor, and the only part I didn’t quite have right was the imaginary concept that I’d actually leave the house some days. I’d also built a ludicrously ambitious workout plan into my vision in which I did things like, “planking for 2 minutes” and “30 minutes of cardio,” which is actually hilarious to reconsider now, because I’ve recently gotten to the point where I feel accomplished if I remember to take pee breaks every hour (I do drink a lot of coffee). 


On my quest to figure out what the hell I'm doing, I read a lot of articles, author blogs, and books entitled, "How to Write a Romance Novel [Because if You Have to Read This Book Then Obviously You Don't Know How]." One of the concepts that was addressed repeatedly is that in this day and age -- the age of of newfangled internets and the Amazon and the unstoppable rise of heathens self-publishing their own work without permission from the Publishing House Overlords -- it's really important to have an "online presence." 


"What is an online presence?" I asked. "I'm here online! I'm present! Just look at all these baby otter videos I've re-posted from the Oregon Zoo!"


The internet sighed, nonplussed. "You're stupid. You're thirty years old, and you're already about five years behind on internet trends. Can't wait for you to start forwarding chain mail from your mom." 


"I thought blogs were for emo 17-year olds to write about their feelings. I don't have feelings [that I want to share with the world], so I just use the internet to look at cats, which is my right as an American!"


"Shut up and start a blog, or no one will read your stupid romance novels," the internet said. 


"But--"


"No. Your cats can't read."


I didn't actually have that conversation; I just wanted to show you guys how great I am at writing dialogue. So anyway, here I am. 


Writing a blog. 


Creating an online presence. 


Do you feel all that presence? 


***


So now, my sweet, dedicated readers, this tale comes full circle. Here we are at the beginning, where our intrepid heroine is about to set off to learn about what it takes to write a romance novel! Will she succeed? Only time will tell. 


Tune into the next blog installment to watch her figure out where to begin! 


Comments

  1. I have a very vivid memory of you speaking quite loudly about said scenes of Wicked in the backseat of my family's car...while my dad was driving. Gahhh!

    P.s yay! You have a blog!

    - Anchi

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I'm so glad I could make our childhood as awkward as possible for us. ;) Thank you for your emotional support and friendship through the years!! <3

      Delete
  2. I also remember said memory. Haha! I can't wait to read more of your blog!!

    ReplyDelete
  3. I don't know why my name comes up as buttons. This is Joyce. :)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I'm so glad that both of you have such fond memories of my teenage literary choices. Thank you for reading, Joyceeee!!! Maybe Furgirl can be featured in an upcoming post...

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular Posts