Our eyes are probably the most powerful possession in our arsenal. They can speak without words.
Imagine a park or picturesque college campus. A young man is leaning back against a stately, old tree. As the leafy canopy above him flutters in the breeze, he's sprinkled and splashed with sunlight. One of his knees is bent to support a rather thick paperback, but he's no longer interested in his book. No, he keeps glancing at a trio of girls sitting at a picnic table a short distance away—or rather, one of the girls. We don't need to know why her gaze flicks up that first time. What matters is her indrawn breath, her sudden silence. Her lashes coyly drop then slowly sweep open again. Their eyes connect and she retreats in surprise and her cheeks bloom with color. His smile is subtle. He’s encouraged. He looks down at his book, unable to focus on the text. His gaze inevitably returns to the girl and he catches her looking at him. There's a flash of beautiful teeth behind his smile. Though she averts her eyes, she’s smiling too. She can’t resist what’s happening and her attention strays back to him. What color are his eyes? Does it matter? They could be a warm, rich brown. They could be a blue, so vivid and intense it takes your breath away. The color is irrelevant because their power comes from the intimacy of simply looking back at someone. When people do that, there simply is no one else. The world recedes and all they know is they're sharing a moment. What will come of it? I'd like to think this young man closes his book, grabs the backpack beside him and gets to his feet. The group of girls will fall silent when he approaches their table. He'll swing his bag onto his shoulder and venture a friendly, "Hi." The pretty girl, the object of his attention, will find herself smiling back and invite him to join them. Hopefully, in due course, her friends will make a graceful exit and allow another fresh and wonderful romance to unfold. But then, I'm an optimist. Originally posted 8/28/2012
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Why is romance treated as the embarrassing guest at the party, the one the hosts would have preferred not to invite but couldn't find a way around it?
I half expect there's an awful lot of place card shuffling before we're seated as far from the action, and the liveliest conversations, as possible. Perhaps we're one stumbling step away from the swinging doors of the kitchen or the basement stairs. More likely, we'll find ourselves stuck behind a large pillar, out of sight of the snooty hostess and her favored guests. She's probably already spoken to the wait staff, directing the cheaper bottles of wine our way and advising them not to allow us to overindulge and humiliate ourselves further—or anyone else, while we're at it. How come I feel this way? I'm quite proud of my work. I know which forks to use and the differences between the glasses set before me. I'm not about to blow my nose in my linen napkin. Romance’s popularity and solid sales numbers (in both units sold and dollars earned), not to mention the loyalty of its audience, are deemed irrelevant in comparison to serious fiction. We're like the talented comedic actor or actress who will never have a shot at an Oscar no matter how hard they work to deliver an unforgettable two hours of entertainment. They have a snowball's chance against dramatic contenders and they know it. Yet, they show up and give it their all anyway. The largest newspaper in my state puts out a weekly Books section that lists the best sellers, includes articles on area writers, reviews, mentions book signings around the city, and does a hell of a lot to promote local talent. They’ve even serialized books. Has the paper ever once acknowledged the romance genre? Written a feature on an area romance writer? How about sent someone to sit in on a local RWA meeting to talk to writers about their passion for the genre? I try and fail to cite one example. We’re invisible. It doesn’t matter how many books written or sold, how many years of dedication to the craft, we are snubbed. Sadly, newspapers aren’t the only ones ignoring romance. Radio is blind to the genre as well, inviting mainstream writers on instead and plugging their new releases (heck, even first novels) and giving those authors an enviable amount of publicity in the bargain. Unless you’re purposely looking for the top romance titles, don’t expect to find them on the big bestseller lists. Romance is teased out of those. If included at all, romance titles will be listed separately where they can’t be confused for, or compared to, actual fiction. You know—books with substance. I've read so many glowing reviews of debut books, nice bios of new authors, but none for romance. There's a tight-lipped silence from most mainstream media. Poetry, mysteries, biographies, and angst that'll make you hide the razor blades? Sure. Those are covered. Write romance and you'd better be prepared to do the leg work all by yourself. We're directed to the table at the back and watched surreptitiously to be sure we don't slip silverware or an extra roll into our clutch purse. At least there’s USA Today’s Happy Ever After to give romance a little boost. Still, if I wore a tie, I'd be tugging at that knot right about now. I hear ya, Rodney. I hear ya. Originally published 2/25/2013 You never know who'll be in your corner. Help can come from surprising sources. Enjoy this scene from Grading on Curves. When Curt spotted Casey in the science wing on Monday, he beckoned to him. “I’ll catch up,” Casey told his friends. The kid ambled over and Curt forced a casual smile. “How’s the arm?” “Fine, I guess.” Casey gave him a curious look. “That’s good.” “What’s up?” “Um, can we step in here for a second?” Curt tipped his head toward his empty classroom. Casey glanced at the clock in the hall and hesitated. “I don’t know.” “I’ll give you a pass to your next class, if you need one,” he offered, understanding perfectly. “Okay.” They walked in and Curt dropped his voice discreetly. “How’s your mom?” Casey’s eyebrows shifted north by a quarter inch. “My mom?” “Yeah.” “Fine,” he answered slowly. “You could call her.” “I’d like to, only—” Feeling even more awkward all of a sudden, Curt rubbed the back of his head and admitted, “I don’t have her number and you guys aren’t listed in the phone book.” Casey snorted, flipped open his notebook, and gave the end of his mechanical pencil a click. He scribbled away then tore off the sheet and handed it to him. “I put her work number on there too, just in case.” They both laughed at how weird this was. “Thanks. Do you need that pass?” Curt asked him. Casey looked at the clock. “I think I’ll make it.” “If you have any problems, tell your teacher to talk to me.” “Don’t worry, you’ll get the blame.” Curt grinned and waved the paper in his hand. “Thanks again.” “No problem.” Casey chuckled and took off running. *Take a chance on a younger man and read Grading on Curves today. It's Teaser Tuesday and I'm sharing a scene from Friends and Lovers. Enjoy. The gym was dark when they got there, but Wes had his own key. He let them in, locked the door behind them, and flipped a switch. A single fluorescent fixture flickered on way up high, providing just enough light to navigate by.
“Instead of boxing tonight I thought we’d practice some self-defense moves since I can’t seem to get you to drop by my class.” “Because I already took a class,” she said for the umpteenth time. “Then you’ll have no trouble showing me what you know.” Lauren went back to the putrid green dressing room and changed into shorts and a tank, then cut through the large musty main gym. The entire space was dark now. Whatever light escaped through the connecting door to the smaller gym was sucked up into the high rafters and neutralized. Lauren screwed up her face at the smell of stale sweat mingled with years of accumulated dust. Circling around the boxing ring she headed right for the only light in the place and took a peek inside the door. There was no sign of Wes. She took a tentative step into the room. “Wes?” A hard arm clamped around her so suddenly Lauren screamed. Her feet left the floor, and a heavy hand covered her mouth, cutting off the sound. Mute and immobilized, she fought to squirm free, but when that failed, she shifted to inflicting damage instead. Unfortunately her arms were pinned in such a way that she couldn’t even bend her elbows. She was just short of outright panic when she was thrown down on the mat and pinned. “That was pathetic, Lauren.” Wes scowled. She tried to free her hands, get him off of her, but couldn’t. “You’re coming to class or you’re taking private lessons—you decide.” She glared up at him and tried to buck him off using her hips but he was serious weight. It was useless. “Get off of me.” “Fight back.” “I’m trying, damn it.” “I thought you said you knew this stuff.” “I thought I did.” “And now you’ve lost your purse. Shit, you’ve probably been raped. Maybe you’re bleeding down some dark alley while your attacker drives off in your car with your pin number written on his hand. That’s if you’re lucky. He’ll probably just kill you rather than risk letting you live to identify him.” “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working. So give me a clue.” “Hell no. Your life is on the line, Lauren. Do you care enough to fight back?” Lauren threw her knee out to the side and brought the inside of her foot up to smack Wes in the back of the head with it. He laughed at her. “Is that all you’ve got?” “Screw you!” She was getting seriously pissed off now. “Take me down.” “Oh, you’re going down,” she grumbled testily. She wanted to punch the smirk right off his gorgeous face. Twisting and writhing, she fought to free her hands but his grip was like iron. “You’re going to pay for this,” she snarled. “I’ll make it easier for you.” He transferred her right hand to his left, and holding both of her wrists tight, he used his free hand to stroke down the center of her chest, the heat of his hand taunting her. To Lauren’s annoyance her nipples bloomed, ripe for the picking. Wes smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Something on your mind?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ignoring her irritated taunt, he circled first one then the other with his index finger, lightly tracing the faint impressions of her areolas. All the fight went out of Lauren and Wes relaxed. His face was just as serious only now in a different way as he covered her breast with his hand and squeezed gently. She moaned with pleasure and arched into his palm. Wes found the bottom of her shirt and hauled it up, exposing her bra. With a flick of his fingers the front clasp gave way and now it was Wes’s turn to groan. He shifted back to take a nipple into his mouth. Distracted, he made it easy for Lauren to wiggle one hand free. It was less easy to keep her own mind focused since her body was humming like a harp, but somehow she managed it. She teased her fingers down his shoulder and ruffled the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Wes shifted to the next nipple, releasing her other wrist in order to support himself while he massaged her with his newly freed hand. Lauren’s eyes narrowed, and with a feline smile, she combed through his hair, lulling him into a comfort he shouldn’t take for granted. Without warning, she yanked his head back and cut him across the throat with the sharp edge of her locked hand. Wes rolled to his side and coughed, trying to draw air. He was staring at her in disbelief as she leaped to her feet and took a defensive stance. “What the hell was that for?” “You challenged me to get free. I found a way.” His eyes locked on her jiggling breasts and he grinned. “Works for me. Nice breasts, by the way.” “Are you serious?” “Well, I like them.” “Aren’t you mad?” “No. You used what you needed to. I respect that. Fight dirty when you have to. You distracted me, it worked. No fault in that.” “You’re amazing.” He gave her a cocky smile. “Word gets around.” She snorted, not even remotely prepared when his leg kicked out and swept her feet right out from under her. Lauren crashed to the mat and they were right back where they’d started only now he was kissing her for real and her hands were free to roam where they willed. Wes scooped up Lauren’s breasts and pressed them together, nuzzling and nipping both. “Beautiful,” he said with a reverent sigh. No longer interested in hurting Wes, all Lauren wanted to do was touch him, anywhere and everywhere she could reach. “If you’re going to stop me, you better do it now,” Wes warned. Lauren flashed a naughty smile and pushed his head down to her jutting nipple. “Not when I’ve got you right where I want you.” Her eyes fell closed as his warm mouth sealed over her. *Get caught up in this gripping and intense romantic suspense today. The question of how soon we move our characters from searing glances, hot make-out sessions, and frustrated teasing into the bedroom is a big one. I like to give my hero and heroine time to move beyond their attraction and discover what's on the inside of their love interest before I allow them to take things to the next level.
Of course, there are exceptions. My hero and heroine in Friends and Lovers both carried a silent torch for the other for fifteen years. I figured they'd waited long enough. They had a lot of pent up longing that needed to be unleashed. It was the right move. But in general, I really do want my characters to be interested in more than the pretty package. I've read a few books that seem to focus exclusively on the superficial attractions. They invariably disappoint me. These are supposed to be love stories, after all. There has to be more to recommend the hero than rock hard abs and a killer smile. I want characters to have substance too. I suppose this is why I read very little erotica. I prefer stories heavy on the romance with nookie thrown in, not the other way around. It's funny, how much time I spend thinking about this subject. Will my characters go to her place or his, or maybe the nearest sturdy surface? Are they prepared or will they have to abort the mission when neither has a condom? How neat is the guy? Is his bedroom going to be littered with dirty clothes? Could his bedding be deemed a biohazard? For the most part, I try to adhere to the three date rule. That gives the couple time to move beyond the getting-to-know-you small talk and into deeper conversation. The second date is a nice place to intensify the physical attraction and introduce more touching and exploratory kissing. He might even make it to second base before one of them realizes they're moving a little too fast and pulls back. Independent reflection often follows a loaded scene like this. They both need to take stock, decide what they want, where they hope this might be going. Only then do I stand aside and let them pounce. By then, I understand these characters better too, Except now, they're calling the shots and I'm merely taking dictation. This is no longer my story. It’s become theirs. Sweetheart, meet Sassy. I love assertive heroines striding confidently through their own stories. It's great to see women with backbone and a saucy little swagger when the hero's gaze is locked on them. Simply by revamping the heroine—or vamping her up, depending on what you're reading or writing—you change the flavor of romance. These ladies are more likely to go toe-to-toe with the hero rather than stomp their foot like a petulant child and storm off to do something rash as soon as his back is turned. Arguments can still be heated, but they're more productive and rational. It's that independent spirit I find so appealing. She doesn't necessarily need the hero, but she wants him. That alone levels the playing field and changes the dynamic of the central relationship. It's less about pursuit and more about the seductive dance between the sexes; the toying, the teasing, advance, retreat, and finally, the inevitable satisfying surrender of both. The heroine is in a power position. She isn't passive, but rather, provocative. Oh, she'll probably drive the hero crazy sometimes. He's going to drive her nuts too. Are there any relationships out there where this isn't the case? But those rubs make the modern romance feel so familiar. We recognize aspects of ourselves in these characters and that's what makes us warm to them. I find there's more balance in modern love stories. We didn't take anything from the hero by eliminating the heroine's dependence on him. What we did is give him a woman fit to stand beside him and worthy of his love. Maturity is bliss. Read Shadows and Doubts and understand exactly what I'm talking about. I think the husbands and significant others of romance writers are a sterling breed. If they're anything like my husband, they have to be tolerant of all the man candy pictures we save -- purely for research and inspiration. It takes a secure man to watch us fall in love over and over again with our creations without showing a hint of jealousy. He has to be cool and unfazed by the fact that we're visualizing and writing love scenes he'll have no part in. There's something special about a guy who can carry on with what he's doing, without raising an eyebrow, when the wife yells down to him, "Is there a hyphen in hard-on?" He knows she's about to describe some other guy's equipment, at least to some extent, and it has nothing to do with his. Talk about a strange world. None of my heroes have ever resembled my husband, and yet, there's a little of him woven into each and every one of them. He may not be sporting those biceps or abs. He's got years on these characters, but if I was going to be completely honest here, the fantasies I've created would have been flat and lifeless without the inspiration of the man in my life. I fashioned the image, the qualities and emotions I've found with him have given them depth. *originally posted 2/21/2013 |
Tara MillsHopeful scribe and word-aholic. Loves reading, loves writing, loves my family and friends, and I'm tickled beyond measure that you've stopped by. Click the buttons to find my titles at the following retailers.
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