I write romance novels. This...
I write romance novels.
This might not seem like a big deal. After all, there are millions of the things.
But I’m different.
You see, my father is a psychiatrist. Think Sigmund Freud. Think lying on a couch and talking about your earliest memories. Think Oedipus complex. Yes, that’s the story where the son kills the father and marries the mother then goes blind.
And some people think romance novels have unbelievable, sex-driven plots. Sheesh.
Anyway, While other romance writers I know have fathers that say things like, “I am NEVER going to read one of your books unless you tear out the sex pages, let’s just get that straight right now.” My father says things like, “Did you realize that the hero in your last book is left-handed. Like ME?”
Ugh. My father is NOT supposed to read the sex scenes! How else would he have known my hero was left-handed? That only comes up when he so adroitly uses his left hand to stroke…oh, well, you get the picture.
Let’s get it straight right here that just because my heroine in my book is an uptight gypsy who is trying to deny the wildness that is in her blood, does not mean that I’m an uptight woman trying to deny my wildness. Try telling that to my father.
This book, my debut novel, Make Me a Match, is based on the idea that every person on this earth really does have One True Love, and there’s a gypsy who can tell you his name. Now this sounds fun, right? Sexy, no? My Dad thinks it sounds like I need therapy—quick! And the expensive kind that goes on for years and years.
But my problems don’t stop with my father. No. Meet my father-in-law. He’s a LITERATURE professor. The man has written books on Dostoevsky, for heaven’s sake. That’s right, his last name—now my last name too—is going on a book with a dancing gypsy on the cover. Make Me a Match will be right next to Deconstructing Dostoevsky books on the shelf at Wal-Mart—make sure you don’t grab the wrong one!
Okay, I don’t actually know what his book is called. Because I don’t torture him by going out and actually reading it. (Plus, I don’t think there are any sex scenes…) But my father-in-law, like my father, told me that he’s planning on reading Make Me a Match—sex scenes and all. He says things like, “You wrote a romance novel with a gypsy twist? That’s wonderful! Evidence of the breakdowns of the sub-genres is a burgeoning existential dilemma! I can’t wait!”
Okay, so that didn’t make any sense, but you get the point: he ALSO is going to READ all of it.
Ugh again. This is not supposed to be happening. I did not write that scene where the heroine discovers the hero’s secret scar on—well, you get the point. I did not write that for the eyes of my father and father-in-law!
You’re probably wondering why I didn’t use a pen name. You know, those great author names like Dixie Rose? (I’d have to be Yankee Dandelion with my gardening skills.) Or the pack of authors who want to be next to Norah Roberts on the shelf and call themselves Morah Roberrats. (What, they thought you might not notice the difference?) Well, I didn’t think that my father and father-in-law would actually READ my books. After all, women read romance novels, not men. Men are supposed to scoff at them and then go out and shoot deer while drinking beer and fixing the car.
It’s not like my husband reads my books. He says things like, “They had sex how many times in an hour? Um, I’m going out to shoot some deer and fix the car. We got any beer?”
I suppose I could write non-sexy books. The trouble is, I have small children. I mean, if I don’t write sex, there is no sex in my life. (Just kidding, honey. Sort of.) But really, I love romance. And I love writing the sexy stuff. And I know most people love to read it.
I just wish a few of them (like my father and father-in-law!) would stick with crime novels.
At least my five-year-old son can’t read yet.
Yipes, I think I better go turn off Sesame Street. They’re already up to the letter “E”!
Copyright © Diane Holquist
