I write romance.
There. I said it. And I'm not ashamed.
Since long before I wrote a book, long before I was published (oh right, I'm not published yet), I've been reading. Though I read anything I felt like reading, anything as long as it was well written, I've always been drawn to romance. I love the feelings. I love the emotions. I love that romance can go ANYWHERE. And still make your heart skip a beat or your stomach fall to your feet.
But when people find out what a voracious reader I am, and then ask what I'm reading, and I tell them the title or author of the fantastic historical or contemporary romance I'm devouring...
They smirk.
Or I blush.
Hide the title?
People ask: What books does your blog review?
Well, it's called The Book Whoreders. So aside from clarifying the spelling of WHOREder, I feel like it speaks for itself. But there have been times I felt silly. And maybe like I was revealing too much about myself.
People ask: 'Can you recommend a book?'
But they qualify with: 'Anything but romance.'
Now, I write. And people ask: 'What do you write?'
There's always a moment when I'm faced with someone who works with the White House, or is a surgeon, or has more security clearance than the president, or invented the bar code, or teaches trapeze. It doesn't matter. They ask and I have a moment where I can prevaricate the genre I love or I can embrace it with the confidence that comes with knowing what we all want!
Why do people shy away? Romance is a human function of desire and love and sometimes it's our only way of emoting. But there are so many ways of displaying it.
What IS romance?
Romance is not perfect. It's not neat. It's not happy all the time. But sometimes it is.
It's messy and dirty and absurd and complex. The feeling of love is more complex than any other.
It makes us laugh and cry. Roll our eyes. Makes us shiver and swoon. Gives us goosebumps. Makes us hot or leaves us cold.
But our world is filled with it.
Did you know that the Satin Bower Bird scrounges for any blue objects, be it bottle caps, pebbles, straws, pacifiers, or napkins, all to woo a potential mate? Romance.
Why do I know that? Because romance, in time, gifted me a son who taught me. We saw it on National Geographic.
Romance is weird.
Why is buying flowers so hard? Or holding open a door? Pulling out her chair? Going fishing with him? Shooting a gun?
Of course, it doesn't have to be one of the aforementioned. My sister hates cut flowers. Knock down a wall into her kitchen, or paint her bathroom instead. She's in.
For me? Send me a text. Ask me about the book I'm reading. Empty the dishwasher. Make me coffee. Tell me my ass looks great. Change a diaper. Hold me in a hospital while I cry. While I try not to cry. Happy or sad. Be there.
Pet my dog.
For the love of all things sacred, pet my dog and show me that you see how special she is. How important she has been to my life, therefore shaping our lives. Help the old girl down the steps and save some of your dinner for her.
Kiss me whenever you feel life it.
Make love to me even if you don't think I feel like it. Convince me.
Romance is not dead.
And despite what people want to tell you, romance is real.
Read romance.
