The Romance Novel Cover Good morning (or whatever) 69ers! I know you’re used to all the smut you can handle, and that’s great! I loves me some good smut. But I just can’t write it. Benjamin has been trying to drag my inner slut out for a long, long time. The problem is that I am just too immature to write hot and lusty. Whenever I write, “He caressed her…” I want to say boobies and giggle. I’m much better at writing a good fight or torture scene. I think that says a lot about me.
I do like to read a good smutty book. Nothing is better than slipping into a bubble bath with my latest copy of hot and steamy. Well, maybe not nothing. (PS I just married a smokin’ hot Brazilian who can do absolutely amazing things with….HAHAHA BOOBIES!!) See it’s a sickness. It can’t be stopped. What I’m trying to say is that I have done my fair share of research in the smut genre of literature. I have an obscene collection of romance novels. I recently moved and while sorting through my library I started to notice a pattern in the stories. It’s almost like there are five or six form blurbs on the back of every book. Most covers of romance novels could read like this.
Bricker (because all men in romance novels have names that sound like last names or dog names) is an ex- special forces operative (because no real romance man would be an accountant) who has lost hope in humanity. His time spent serving his country has left unseen scars on his soul (because PTSD is way sexier than the loss of a limb or a gunshot wound to the belly). Bricker is troubled by unseen demons (being haunted by the spawn of Satan is much cooler than having bad dreams and flashbacks). His life is turned upside down when he meets the beautiful (because romance women are all cast from the same mold as Angelina Jolie) Kevin (because all romance women have male names). Kevin is a successful attorney (because while all romance men barely passed their GED, romance women all went to Harvard on an academic scholarship) who has dedicated her entire life to her career (because all romance women are workaholic spinsters at the age of 24). When the client of a pro-bono murder case (because all romance men are demons and all romance women are saints) becomes obsessed with her, she must rely on Bricker to save her life (because romance women always put their lives in the hands of total strangers). Will their love be able to survive when things take a turn for the worst (because it can always get worse than being hunted by a homicidal maniac)?
While carting literally dozens of boxes of basically the same novel out of my house, my husband noticed the trend. They were covered in half naked, long haired men and half naked, long haired women. He asked me why I read what appeared to be the same book over and over. I gave him some bull shit answer like, “The plots are different.” It didn’t really matter what I said because he bought it. Then I started thinking, why did I read these books? Was my life really that empty? Was I so desperate for any type of romance that I settled for the crisp, sterile, inhuman pages of a novel? Was I turning into a woman with 52 cats who eats entire tubs of frosting in one sitting??? WAS I???
The answer to my questions was no. I read them because I wanted to escape into a world where I could pretend to be a pirate princess, or spy, or vampire torn between my love for one person and my desire to rip their throat out. I wanted to believe there were men out there who didn’t leave their socks in a puddle on the bathroom floor or think foreplay was muting the football game. (PS my smokin’ hot Brazilian doesn’t do either of those.) I wanted to be swept away from the every day. Is that wrong? I don’t freaking care! Those books got me through five years, FIVE YEARS, of celibacy and now, they’re just really great reference material.
You know you’d all like to win a copy of Katie Harper’s life changing book Never Say Just. (Probably won’t change your life but it sounds good.) Leave a comment and one lucky person will be given the chance of a lifetime. (Again, probably not, but comment any way!)
Katie Harper started writing when two people showed up in her head and wouldn’t leave until she told their story. They had a party. Invited a few friends over. Now she does the bidding of imaginary people.
She lives in a city made for sin on the edge of a desert with her smokin’ hot Brazilian husband, her daughter, no pets, and enough lemon bundt cake to give a refugee camp an obesity problem.