Lori Borrill on Writing Romance

        I did it.  I sold a book.  I accomplished what all authors dream of from the moment we decide to take our writing seriously.  I weathered all those rejections, the nasty contest results, the months and months of waiting on submissions, and came out the other end a real live published author.

        So, how does it feel?

        Terrifying.

        Writing anything takes guts.  Even a letter to the editor involves sticking your neck out and telling a large audience what you think of something.  Writing hot, sexy romance filled with tons of explicit love scenes?  That takes balls the size of Australia.

        I really hadn't thought about it back when I was writing stories in the quiet of my home office.  I'd surrounded myself with a group of great writers who do what I do and aren't shy about calling a duck a duck, if you get my drift.  We'd pass chapters back and forth telling each other, "This is hot!" and then look for ways to make it even hotter, because we were having fun exploring our wild side, letting our hair down and going for broke. 

        And then a Blaze editor calls and says she loves it.  I'm going to be a published author.  I hit the big time and all this stuff I wrote is going to be in the stores.  I run around telling everyone, and why not?  It's big news!!

        Then that first acquaintance walks up.  Maybe she's a coworker, a little league parent or someone from my kid's school.  I'm friendly with her, had always considered her very nice.  But until today, I never noticed how really puritan she looked.  Kinda prudish.  In fact, now that I'm paying attention, she's only a couple knee-highs short of looking exactly like my old Sunday school teacher.  I hadn't told her about my book, but word got around and now she's approaching me, pleasantly smiling, asking when it's coming out because she can't wait to read it.  My eyes dart to the little silver cross around her neck and my voice takes on that shaky Mary Tyler Moore tone.  "Ohhhh, geeeee.  That's nice, but please don't feel obligated on my account.  It's not for everyone, you know, he he he...aheh...ahem."

        But she insists.  Because that's the way she is.  She's sweet, she's nice.  She does favors for people, volunteers for Meals on Wheels and finds homes for stray puppies.  And because she's so sweet, she wants to read all 247 pages of my book, including the part where the hero engages in self-gratification while he talks dirty on the internet to the heroine.  Except in the book I don't word it that subtly.

        Then my seventy-year-old aunt calls wanting to know exactly when the book will come out because she's planning to buy a copy for all the ladies in her quilting group.  They're all asking about it, especially Myrtle, who loves reading romance and would even read that Nora Roberts woman if it weren't for the love scenes.

        And now I'm beginning to wonder why I didn't take a shot at children's books instead.

        Now, I don't want to give you the wrong impression.  I'm not the least bit ashamed of what I write.  I love romance.  I love hot romance.  It's the reason I write it.  But I have to admit, I write it for an intended target audience, an audience that doesn't include Myrtle or prudish Sunday school teachers. 

        Of course, don't get too worried about me.  Though I'm admitting some fright, I'm capable of going from Ohm'gosh! to F.U. pretty quickly under the right circumstances.  But it does drill home how much it takes to be a writer.  Not only do you have to master the craft, find your voice, capture a publisher's interest, produce against deadlines and grow a skin thick as asphalt, underneath it all, you need a tremendous amount of courage.  I think it's why as writers, we mentally cling to those readers who take the time to tell us they like our stories. 

        For me, feedback is barely beginning to trickle in, and so far the comments have been interesting.  The reviewers were kind, which is a big relief.  But some of those advance copies I sent out have produced colorful results, particularly the ones that went out to friends and family who were sort of "owed" a copy even though they'd never read a romance in their lives.

        One friend said simply, "Wow."  That's it.  Just, "Wow."  Which, of course, leaves you wondering did she mean, "Wow, this really sucks?" or "Wow, I'm amazed this stuff is so good?" or "Wow, I'll never be able to look you in the eye again?"

        I didn't ask.

        Then there's this one:  "Great book!  How cool that you set it in San Francisco!" 

        Okay, so here's some advice.  If you want an author to know you're reaching deep down in the bottom of the kind words well, grasping through the empty wasteland in the hope of scrounging up some semblance of a compliment, tell them you loved the setting.

        I had one friend who gave it to her sixteen-year-old daughter to read first, and I immediately stopped complaining that Harlequin makes me throw a condom in every love scene.  I guess they are smarter than me when it comes to some things.

        But all in all, it's been pretty positive, and I realize this experience I'm going through is that rite of passage that transforms me from a rookie into a battle-scarred veteran.  I suppose if we want to jump with glee while holding that glossy book in our hands, we have to take the risks that go with it, so here I am, ready to suck it up and enjoy the thrill from those readers who love my work and wince over the ones that don't. 

        And as far as the terror is concerned, well, that's the stuff that keeps our hearts beating, right?

 

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