FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

Isn't it Romantic?
By Tobly McSmith

PAGE TWO:
"Honey," oinked the fat princess, "that's Rita Ewing, NBA player Patrick Ewing's ex-wife. She didn't start writing romance till after the break up."

This made the table burst into laughter that roared to even louder heights when the princess let out a snort that knocked the tiara off her Ms. Piggy head. Visualizing super-sized Patrick Ewing slam dunking a ball left me with the notion that the ex Mrs. Ewing was not as delicate as she looked after all. Definitely oversexed.

I began assaulting the table with questions. After all, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The women reveled in the undivided attention and their eyes lit up accordingly. I began to wonder how much mind the world paid to these women. Busy husband, pre-occupied children, greedy pets. These writers found their voice and hungry ears in their tales of lust. They found a bond with the other writers and a pact with all women. They understood a woman's needs, and were both filled and let down with the same expectations of love conquering all. I was sitting in a room full of EveryWife. It wasn't sad and it wasn't pathetic, it was empowering. The feeling built with every spill of laughter. Maybe this wasn't about sex. Romance is fleeting and somehow these authors and these books make that feeling timeless. Maybe romance novels don't invoke reactions of "why-isn't-it-me?" but more of a "this-is-me." I am a Scottish bride. I am a lusty Victorian beauty. There is a setting sun, and a white horse, and a strong man comfortable in loving me. Even if it is all just for one chapter.

The waiters cleared the plates of filet mignon and brought out the dessert, which was something that was set on fire. They placed it on the table smoking. How fitting. The women "Oohed" and "Ahhed" at the chocolate mousse melting thing. I leaned in to the two schoolteaching cabin dwellers acting as if I was going to ask a secret. I whispered several questions about writing. How they picked their storylines, how they decided what color hair to give the evil stepsister. I wanted to know their inspiration. They looked at each other and let a pregnant silence set in. Then they both began talking at once and one quieted down respectfully. "There is a formula," she began, "a wonderful heroine, a worthy hero, a situation to throw the lovers together, an obstacle they must overcome, a moment that could end the hot steamy love affair, a twist, and most importantly a happy ending."

She took a deep breath and a big chocolaty bite. She had shared something with me. I was now in the romantic know. They then took turns showing me pictures of the cats waiting for them at home. It was obvious these cabin girls were undersexed but that didn't mean their life was empty. They had their imagination, they had their writing, and for two weeks each summer, they had each other. They were each other's inspiration and their indulgence was their words. Respect couldn't have summed up what I felt, and the goosebumps that covered my body only reinforced that feeling.

The room filled with cheesy dance music, and as the alcohol had kicked in, the women took to the dance floor. A group of three ladies fell down and rolled around giggling with a lightness that would have made school children embarrassed about how silly they were acting. For tonight these ladies were free. I finished off my glass of red wine and looked a few tables down. A co-worker was signaling to me. I walked over and took a seat with him and a woman with a diamond on her finger that was only outshined by her toothy smile. She was introduced as Meg Cabot, the author of The Princess Diaries. She laughed with a fullness that made you join in, even if you had no idea what was so funny. She was as enchanting as I was captivated. My co-worker excused himself and I got Meg Cabot to myself. We watched the ladies, now doing the chicken dance, and laughed together. She let out a deep breath signaling that her night was about to end. I had to make this quick. "This has been a real experience tonight," I said. "I came here wondering if these ladies were hungry for sex or full from it."

"So?" she asked, "what's your conclusion?"

I took a second to watch the ladies bock, bock, bock and simulate drunken chickens.
"Both," I said. "Some have it, some yearn for it, but none of them need it. That isn't why they write the stories, there is something more fulfilling. They don't need the perfect romance or the muscular lover; if they had it they probably wouldn't appreciate it." I playfully pointed at Rita Ewing. "They have something else, a dream of what is perfect for them and a medium to tell everyone that cares to read about it. Just as men sit around making up lies of sexual acquisition, women sit around and play perfect romance."

"Cheers," she said, as our glasses clinked together and we shared a smile.

When I got home that night I peeled off my cocktail/bridesmaid dress and was so inspired by the events of the dinner that I picked up Snowflake Kittens. I read two pages and put it down. Kittens shouldn't talk or fall in love, I am not into Fabio, and I still don't know what a Viscount is. Clearly romance novels were not for me. But I was glad to have had a little peek into their odd, breathy, meaty world.

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