How to Write a Kiss

Dear Romance Writers of the World: Please stop with the "mating tongues." Please. Stop. Yeeeurgh.

Kisses are really hard to write. What is so enjoyable in life easily translates to the page as... well, a) strange and b) gross. I mean, they put their mouths together, and then stuff happens. Suddenly the writer is seven years old again.

Many writers resort to the technique of using verbs that are supposed to be evocative. He plundered her mouth, he plunged into her mouth. "He slanted his mouth over hers" is the most unaccountably overused sentence in romance. I swear, some old-school writer like Rosemary Rogers or something used that one in 1981, and spawned a plague in which that sentence takes over the entire genre. It must be stopped. It makes no sense, it is neither sexy nor romantic, nor is it even a good piece of description. It is merely oddly geometric and takes me right out of the scene every time.

Kisses in romance follow a predictable pattern. Someone grabs someone else and hungrily devours them (another yeeeurgh), tongues happen, then some groping and feverish blood and maybe the guy cops a feel. A reader can always tell when the writer has had to write one too many kisses under deadline.

Here is how Loretta Chase writes a kiss:

He teased her first, his tongue playing over her lips, then he stole inside, and the world spun as the taste of him swirled inside her, strangely cool and sweet and infinitely immoral.*

That is how it's done.

Here is how Judith Ivory writes a kiss:

Softer than petals. Though a lot better than petals. Warm and round and animate enough to move under the press of his lips. No, this wasn't kisssing. This was brushing his lower lip against hers. Running the tip of his tongue along the edges between her lips. He'd only have a little more then stop...**

In my own novel, I had my hero take his sweet time kissing the heroine. He started slow, very slow, tentative almost, and let it all build up until she was practically crazy. He teased her and he let her take charge. There was no plunging, devouring, or mating whatsoever. What there was was kissing.

Georgette Heyer had a different tactic. In Venetia, the hero (a rake, of course) sees the heroine walking through the countryside, dismounts from his horse, grabs her, and kisses her. That's all the description we get: "He kissed her." No elaboration on where their arms and legs were, what it felt like, or what anyone was thinking. I found myself curious: Did she struggle? Did she push her hands up between them and try to push them apart? Did he grab her by the shoulders, around the waist, or did he hold her head? Why didn't she just turn her head? It engaged me and frustrated me at the same time. It worked, in its way.

Still, I love a good kiss in my romance novel. The good writers make the magic.

*Mr. Impossible.

**The Indiscretion.

The Chick Lit debate

Apparently there is some debate where women writers are looking down their noses at chick lit. And chick lit writers are snarking back.

Here's the deal.

I have no idea if chick lit is idiocy or not. I have no idea if the writers are any good. I also have no idea if the average literary book I pick up will be idiocy or not, either. The writing in these could also be bad.

I read both. I read other things, too.

I'm a chick, and I read whatever the hell I want, whenever I feel like it, and I don't give a crap what anyone thinks.

Get it?

Summer Blogging

OK, I know I haven't been around much lately. The whole blogosphere is pretty quiet, and even Miss Snark is taking a few days off. These are the days when I appreciate having a small readership - fewer people to disappoint. Kinda like the days I appreciate being an A-cup, 'cos I can go braless and no one will notice.

I wish I could say I've been doing amazing, glamorous things. Here's what I've really been doing:

My ass has expanded startlingly - as in, my pants suddenly feel like sausage casings - so I've had to do a series of emergency hard-core gym visits. After four days in a row, my ass is still the same size and I'm impatient. Can I look like Keira Knightley already? Jeez.

I'm still writing, but describing writing, while fascinating to the describer, is on a par with watching paint dry for the reader.

That reminds me, I keep meaning to paint. Maybe next weekend.

Work has kicked me in the ass, but it seems to be slowing down a little now, thank God.

The guy and I made the mistake of renting the first DVD of the new Battlestar Galactica series. "Ha ha, let's give it ten minutes and see how bad it is," we said foolishly. Seven DVD's later, we're stuck in the middle of Season Two and the video store doesn't have any more of them. Hello!! Commander Adama just launched hostile marines on a fellow battleship to prevent the execution of two of his men. We're dying here!! Holy crap, is it ever good. Evil, but good.

There was a barbecue in there somewhere. No - two.

I've been reading. I followed Venetia with Sebastian Junger's A Death in Belmont - talk about a change of pace. That book haunted me for days. It's - sort of - about the Boston Strangler, but it isn't sensational True Crime. It's more of a meditation, an examination of murder and what it does, the ripples it has through society, from the creation of victims (of all kinds) to the creation of more murderers. There are only three small black and white pictures in the book, none of them of crime scenes or victims. This isn't a gory recreation. It's much more painful, and fascinating. I loved it - but I found it really sad.

There's been some beer, but not copious amounts. Still, could be related to the aforesaid expanding ass.

That's about it, really. My braless time. After Labor Day, I guess I'll gear up and put the bra back on again. Not like anyone will notice.

Finally Liking Heyer

After listening to everyone and their dog rave about Georgette Heyer's books, I tried reading them. First, I tried The Grand Sophy, which was - okay. Then, I tried Sylvester, which was - okay. Finally, this week I tried Venetia.


Lo, my library copy does not look like this. This is the cover for the reissue coming out in November, and like it or not (that dude is a little creepy), it's an improvement on my 1980's-era strange-smelling falling-apart library tome featuring a red-haired lady in blue batting her eyes at a stiff-necked overdressed man on a horse, while a spaniel looks on. Once again, I'm getting eccentric looks on my commuter train - and my copy is large print, no less, which makes me officially, at thirty-two years old, reading an old lady book.

My point, though, is that I like this book. I really like this book. Finally!

The characters are all terrific. Venetia herself is a country-bred innocent who at least has a good crop of brain cells. The hero is a classic Rake With A Past who has - wait for it - wit and a sense of humor. No, he is not constantly drowning in bleak self-pity, though he does get good and drunk a few times. The rest of the time, he's actually fun to read about, and would be fun to be around, so you can see why all the ladies would love him.

The secondary characters are just as good. Nosy neighbors, crusty younger brothers, selfish older brothers, brain-dead dopes, pushy bitches, stuffed shirts - put them all in a book and shake vigorously. Like Austen, not much really happens in this book, except that people have conversations, come and go to each other's houses, go for walks, talk some more, and fall in and out of attraction. But, like Austen, it really seems like there's a lot going on.

My old-lady book is due back at the library next week. Come November, I'll likely buy the reissue and add it to my shelf. I'll miss the large print, though. Dang, it sure is easy to read.

Vices

Look, I'm pretty smart. I do well at my job and I read books and I finished a novel with another one in the works. I can do Soduku puzzles, I can name Roman emperors, I taught myself html. Yep, intelligent.

I have one vice, though. I love Glamour magazine.




I've read it for years. Oh, I've tried every excuse in the book: "It's relaxing", "I just like to turn off my brain every once in a while", "I get ideas from it", "it's interesting to observe consumer media aimed at women" (okay, I didn't try that one very long), and the final, spineless "the pictures are nice." Finally I decided "Screw it. I read it because I like it, and I don't know why."

It's silly. You are constantly bombarded with pictures of emaciated models, and told "How To Love Your Body!" They match a picture of a $900 dress with "High Fashion - On A Budget!" They tell you to wear "the new preppy" one month, "sailor chic" (complete with blue-and-white horizontal stripes!) the next, followed by "cowboy cool" and nine other inane ideas to make up the rest of the year. The dating advice is improbable, male columnist "Jake" is patently unreal, they're constantly selling you stuff right in their article copy, and they feature swooning interviews with Jessica Simpson.

But, I dunno. They do tell you how to wear the right bathing suit, what lipstick you need based on your skin colour, and that you should never wear mom-jeans. They tell you how to blow-dry your hair to make it look like Jennifer Garner's and how not to get streaks in your fake tan. They have advice on what birth control to use and whether or not to wear black nail polish. (Only if you're Keira Knightley, is the answer.)

It's sort of like a big sister, only a big sister who is a bit whacked and tries to make you wear "sailor chic" when she wouldn't be caught dead in it herself. A big sister who patiently answers your menstrual questions, then tells you you're too fat and that you should wax your armpits, and don't bug her anymore 'cos she's going out and if you tell Mom you're dead.

I'm a sucker for it. It's fun to read. I buy it every month, but I will not get a subscription.

Nope. I'm too smart for that.

Bombed

Harlequin has cancelled the Bombshell line.



Besides the fact that the guy who designed the logo and many of the covers is a personal friend of mine, I never had much to do with these books. I tried two - AKA Goddess by Evelyn Vaughn and another one I couldn't finish - and they really weren't for me, though Goddess was pretty good. I know that writers had a hell of a time trying to sell into this line, because it was so hard to figure out what they wanted, and that a rejected Bombshell MS was pretty much impossible to sell anywhere else.

So I'll just give my two cents as a consumer. As a reader, I was always a little baffled, not sure if this was supposed to be a line about cops, spies, futuristic warriors, or supernatural beings. It had all of them at one time or another. A line about crime-fighting, OK. A line about vampires and other creatures, OK. A futuristic line, OK. Maybe I'm narrow, but I sort of needed to know which it was because, flat out, I'd be down for futuristic and cops, but vampires interest me not at all. And going to the racks and sorting through all the blurbs to figure it out... well, I had other books to buy.

So, there you go. The average low-IQ consumer and her narrow-minded view. But - and this is big - I would have tried it again, and even again, if they had let it go a little longer. They're probably under the gun to make a line turn a profit in a certain amount of time, which is something I see daily in the TV biz, and is a shame all around. In TV, you sometimes need to let something run to build up an audience. Bombshell was kinda like that; it needed a bit more time to gather steam. But time is something no big conglomorate has enough of these days.

Still, you have to admit, the logo kicked ass.

5 Things You Don't Know About Me

1. In Grade 7 Gifted Class, five of us were assigned to reorganize the storeroom. We gave most of the items we found there (beakers, bunsen burners) names and personalities and drew comic book stories about them. Eventually, we got so wrapped up in it we refused to go out for recess and we got in trouble.
2. I spent all of high school in the mistaken belief that going to class actually mattered. The only class I ever skipped was in my final year when I got caught in a freak thunderstorm on the way back from lunch and twisted my ankle sprinting for the school. I was so soaked and in pain that I gave up and went home to dry off. (I made the class AFTER that, though.)
3. I get heartily motion sick. It's an affliction.
4. About twice a year, I get told by a complete stranger that I resemble singer Sarah McLachlan. She is way, way better-looking than me so I take it as a compliment.
5. I look like this:

Yes, that's a totem pole in the background. My boyfriend's aunt made it as an artistic craft. Yes, she gets mercilessly teased about its phallic shape. I can't cut it out of the picture, though, so you'll just have to deal.

Now, go out and enjoy your summer.

Driving Myself Crazy

I think I overloaded a bit on the post-conference reports. In my curiosity to know exactly what goes on at these things - and why folks spend the money - I may have mistakenly taken in too much advice.

So: You're supposed to write what you want, but you're supposed to write to the market. Everyone is looking for fresh voices, yet everyone's looking for erotica. Chick lit is not, in fact, dead, only renamed. Historicals are not dead, yet Harlequin Historicals may in fact be dead. Harlequin is canning the Bombshell line, except when it isn't. Everyone is looking for books to sell to a Wal-mart audience, yet everyone is looking for erotica, which Wal-mart doesn't sell. You need to write really well to get published, and you need to network to get published. Query letters don't matter, because you can't get an agent if you don't know someone. You should write really well, unless you're not writing erotica, in which case just fold up your MS and put it away.

I think I would have gone nuts if I went to that thing. It was bad enough reading the fallout on the net.

In the meantime my mother had some problems with the pages I sent her so I have to look at them yet again. In order to finish my (possibly dead) historical, try to get a (possibly impossible) agent, and sell to a publisher (who is really looking for erotica.)

Have I warned the kids lately not to be a writer?

And yet, I can't quit. Why not? What the hell drives writers, me included, to keep going? I can't think about doing anything else.

I really should take up needlework.

I hear the needlework people are nice.

Beware the Nerd!

I am SUCH a dork.

I went to the bookstore on my lunch hour today to treat myself and ended up, in all places, the Young Adult section. I never browse there. (It was a mess - kids today!) But today I found this:




Look at this book!!

Is this not the cutest book you've ever seen??? Look at that cute drawing! Those pretty ladies and their dresses! The magical rings! The parasol!

And the plot sounds so sweet and inventive, and it has awesome old-fashioned font, and it's over 400 pages so it's a good long read. And this book even smells good. I had to have it.

My only regret is that I'm not twelve because it would be even better if I was twelve. When I was twelve I had braces and a pair of knickers (in the American sense - you know, they buttoned snugly just below the knee) that I wore with argyle knee socks for an entire school year. I had no friends and my dad left and I got my period in gym and I would have LOVED this book. I would have dived into it and not surfaced for days.

Ah, well, I'll just have to dive in as a dorky adult, instead of a dorky kid.

Off to summer reading.

Prologues, Once and for All

As a beginning writer, I am heartily sick of the following vein of advice:

• Never write a prologue.
• If you must write a prologue, burn it immediately before it can taint your other innocent manuscripts.
• Never submit a prologue to anyone under any circumstances or they will spit on you.
• Never admit to anyone, even your closest friends, that you wrote a prologue.
• People don't read prologues. Even though they've spent money on a book they're supposedly intending to read, they skip the first part of that story because it contains the word "Prologue".
• Hang your head in shame if you've written a prologue, because it means you are a clumsy, crappy writer.

I reread my romance classics regularly. Here is the skinny:




Lord of Scoundrels has a prologue. Frequently cited as the Number One Romance of all time.

Laura Kinsale's Flowers from the Storm has a prologue. Number two on the same list.

Kinsale's For My Lady's Heart also has a prologue - many like this one better than Flowers.

Randomly picked from my TBR pile, mega-bestseller Connie Brockway's My Seduction has a prologue.

That list took me exactly thirty seconds to compile. Do I need to go on? A prologue is simply an item in the writer's toolbox, to be used if needed for the story and passed over if not. In the hands of a master, a prologue is a delicious teaser, an appetizer, a promise of more.

Maybe everyone is just worried about the bad prologues - the amateur ones that recite 2,000 years of history or gobs of dull backstory. But crappy writing can happen anywhere in a book. Crappy writing does not just happen in prologues.

Okay?

On another note, I'm rereading Scoundrels on my commuter train every morning, and that glorious, wicked, cheesy cover (look at that thing!) is getting stares. Not just sidelong glances, but outright, horrified stares. I'm the Bad Girl of the Commuter Train. If I were Loretta Chase, I'd have that cover up on my wall.