FRESH YARN presents: Isn't it Romantic... by Tobly McSmith

FRESH YARN presents:

Isn't it Romantic?
By Tobly McSmith

Ah, the elusive romance novel. Those well worn paperbacks with a chiseled man embracing a scantly clad lady on the cover, featuring an equally cheesy title. Somewhat of an endangered species, banished to supermarket check out lines, aisles of pharmacies, and the oversized purses of oversized women.

Or so I thought.

I used to not spend any time thinking about romance novels aside from the occasional poke at the lonely housewife that escaped her empty life with chocolate and cheap paperbacks with Fabio on the cover. But I could no longer ignore the fact that romance novels made up a thriving, multi-million dollar industry, which I learned when I took a job at a publishing house, and was forced to get to know, intimately, the ins and outs of this genre of "literature."

For the love of money, and the sake of paying rent, I spent several hours a week familiarizing myself with love stories of passion and deception, lies and heavy breathing, midnight meetings of separated lovers and did I mention deception? Large, breasty men gallivanting around as cowboys and rogues, pirates and Viscounts. What the hell is a Viscount? I trudged through titles like How to Marry a Marquis, Sighs Matter, and Mr. Cavendish, I Presume. You get the steamy, watercolor picture.

My intrigue in the romance novel was not fully realized until one summer day several months into my job while sifting around in a box of books in the trash outside an Upper West Side brownstone, a favorite pastime of mine, I found a romance novel based on kittens. Snowflake Kittens is a rousing tale of soft love and even softer kittens. Kitties! True love! I was dumbfounded. People read this? People actually read this? And more importantly, people write this? There must be a market for this cozy romance because some publisher, thankfully not the one I worked for, actually produced it.

My utter fascination of such a novel and such an author came full circle a year later when I had the humbling honor of attending a fancy-pants dinner that was the keynote to a week-long workshop for about 50 romance writers from around the country. Most of these women, and they were all women, planted their flag in small town middle America, or hailed from deep in Jersey. This kind of event was worth every penny it took to get my only cocktail/bridesmaid dress dry cleaned. It's no secret that publishing isn't the highest paying business out there.

I was on a mission to find out just what kind of person it took to pen two or more romance novels a year. I couldn't help but wonder if one is born a romance writer. A young girl gazing passionately at a setting sun, daydreaming about discreet lovers tumbling around on sheets made of silk only growing up to live secluded and alone with multiple cats or with a husband who thinks romance is a bucket of chicken and a six pack. Or does such a writer orgasm her way to adjectives such as "breathy" and "meaty"? Do these women's passions for the romance novel come from them being inherently undersexed or luckily oversexed? I was about to find out.

The night of the gala, I scooted into the ballroom and found a martini. Everyone was mingling like children that had been at camp all summer. Inside jokes and loud cackles abounded. I tried to act cool as I picked chilled oysters off the trays carried by circling waiters in tuxedos. The event was so luxurious I couldn't help but wonder if some of these women were queuing fodder for future novels. Maybe a steamy scene with an actor-cum-waiter in between an ice machine and a cool and clean steel dishwashing sink? Complete with heavy petting and false promises. I think I was getting a contact romance high. I needed to sit down.

The first writer I met was a stay-at-home mom from a small town in Iowa. Her demeanor was shy and stand-offish. She was playful when she told me about her cats. It crossed my mind that this could be the very author of Snowflake Kittens, but I refrained from asking. She told me she was devoted to her husband and kids. She was overheating when she told me about her novel's hero's chest. There was sweat, both on his chest and on her forehead. I took a step back, for safety. She explained that she preferred the beau of her story to have massive steroid-induced muscles. The mild mannered housewife was damn near about to faint when she told me about how beads of sweat formed on his muscular, pumping pecs. I filed her in my "undersexed" column.

Saving the day, my boss sauntered up with another romance novelist on his arm. This one had pumped out several best selling Scottish themed books. Think: Fabio in a plaid kilt. She was from Minnesota and had never been to Scotland. She called the beaus in her stories "rakes". I immediately started plotting out my own Scottish novel entitled Rakes and Hos. It would take place in Scotland and feature a hooker heroine and her big brute of a hero who occasionally pimped her out when the change pocket in his kilt was low. My attention was diverted back into the conversation which had become as empty as my drink. Luckily I was once again saved when dinner was announced. I said my good byes and moved on to my assigned seat in the Grand Ballroom.

I was seated at a table of six writers including two schoolteachers that retreated together to a cabin in the woods two weeks a year to brainstorm ideas for steamy plots and soul-shocking deception. Two ladies in a secluded cabin for two weeks? Now that is what I call a steamy plot. I sat close to a zaftig, overzealous woman who wore a mini tiara and acted as the self-appointed leader of the pack. She wore confidence like she was uncomfortable with it and needed it at the same time. All three ladies were delighted to speak with me, a Texan taking on the Big City. I stopped talked when I realized they might be trying to steal my storyline

A best selling author was at the podium giving mock awards out like "Most Likely to Ride into the Sunset" and "Most Tipsy". Oversexed, undersexed. Oversexed, undersexed. I couldn't take my mind off of the debate. As I glanced around the room, I could find no woman that was uncomfortably beautiful until I laid eyes on a petite, soft skinned, black woman sitting two tables away. She was eating delicately, and making small talk with the lady beside her. She was fragile like a milk chocolate china doll. I leaned in and asked the ladies at my table who she was. They all laughed like I should have known.

"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.