The Randy Romance Novelist(26)
He was there when I wanted to watch porn—not in a creepy way—and he was there after I farted on a chin for the first time, and he was there to help me after I kicked a man in the balls, and he was there to hold my hand during the crazy dating world, telling me time and time again how beautiful I was.
I wrote about him; the hero in my book was an exact replica of Henry. He was on my mind, but I didn’t realize it at the time.
If I’d learned anything from writing this book, it was that no matter how you might read characters in a book, real life was always different. It was easy for a writer to spin a story to make the hero or heroine seem smart and intelligent, for them to make the right moves, take the correct steps toward their future, but when it came to real life, it didn’t quite happen that easily.
People were constantly making mistakes and showing insecurities, even when they didn’t realize it, and being so imperfect that it actually made them perfect . . . because they were human.
Those were the kind of characters I wanted to write; they were the ones I wanted to portray. The characters who made mistakes, who were flawed, who acted stupid, because in reality, there was not one person on this planet who hadn’t made an error along the journey we call life.
Were these flawed and apprehensive characters annoying to read in books sometimes? Yes, I’d seen plenty of reviews that claimed the heroine was irritating, indecisive, and na?ve, but that’s what made them relatable to the average woman.
The average woman was a size twelve to fourteen; she was tough but scared; she was an inspiration, but also a menace. I didn’t want to write the typical heroine in a romance novel that I used to read. Blonde hair, fair skin, ravishing looks with a heavy, heaving bosom that drove every man sword in the village to pant like a dog.
I wanted to make her like me: a curious, loveable, but wide-eyed girl with the inspiration to lose her virginity. I wanted to share my experiences, make people laugh, and talk about this crazy, all-consuming thing called love.
Reading my words over again, I sighed with satisfaction. Meghan was so oblivious to her best friend’s advances, just like I was. This scene made it so evident that all the best friend wanted was one single night with her, but Meghan was too blinded to see that.
It’s a turning point for the readers; it’s a frustrating moment for them, one that causes angst and for the reader to feel for the boy who just wants to catch the girl.
Just go out with the best friend!!!
That’s what I would shout. It was so obvious.
It was so blatantly and completely obvious to an outsider, but being in that moment, being that na?ve girl, you had no clue that the man of your dreams was sitting right under your nose.
If only life was that easy.
I pressed save at the top of the screen and then shut my computer. Looking through the notes I made, I checked off another scene in the timeline of my life. Only a few more to go and I was going to be finished with this book.
Checking the time, I realized I needed to get ready, or else I was going to be late. I pulled the printed first few pages of my book from my printer, put them in my folder, and then inserted the folder in my purse. I tore off to the closet to find a cute outfit for tonight.
I had some new friends to meet.
***
I was nervous, really nervous. I straightened out my skirt and stared up at the little shop front of a bookstore in SoHo. Last Saturday, I looked up some local writing clubs and found SoHo Romance Writers. To my fortunate luck, they met on Wednesdays, which was today. Henry thought it would be a great opportunity for me meet some other authors and pick their brains, so he encouraged me to email them. Within an hour I got a reply back saying they met on Wednesday around five thirty.
That’s how I found myself standing outside their meeting place, trying to calm my nerves. I made sure to wear a cute fifties-style dress and red cardigan to match my glasses. My Mary Jane’s were full of foot sweat, and just to match, my upper lip started to perspire as well. I wasn’t nervous to meet them; I was more nervous of the requirements for a newbie to join. They asked me to bring the first few pages of my current work in progress for everyone to critique as “initiation.”
I wasn’t aware of writing clubs hazing newbies; I wasn’t sure if this was a normal practice or not. Henry encouraged me to go, despite my reservations about people pawing through my work. He said I had to get used to people judging my words at some point, so why not by some people who could offer guidance and constructive criticism. I hated when he was logical.
The only thing propelling me forward through this meeting was the date I had planned with Henry after. Seeing him right after was what caused the vomiting reflux to slightly appear.
To make matters worse, Delaney called me this morning and asked how the bachelorette plans were coming along. I lied and said everything was looking great, when in fact, I’d planned nothing, absolutely nothing. Despite the detailed list she gave me, I still felt helpless in planning, so Henry kindly agreed to help by taking me to an adult store where we could find some penis paraphernalia. I stuffed some of Delaney’s ideas in my purse for reference before I left the apartment, so I didn’t get the cheap penis items she found so distasteful.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and walked through the doors of the little bookstore. It was quaint, kind of reminded me of The Shop Around the Corner from You’ve Got Mail, but instead of children’s books, it was full of romance novels, all kinds of romance novels. There were westerns, period pieces, contemporary, new adult, romantic comedy, paranormal, sports romance, and of course . . . the millionaires and billionaires. This was my kind of place.