Friday, January 13, 2006

Wherein I Try to Write a Romance Novel-ette

It's actually harder than you'd think to write regularly, especially if you are trying to be funny. I suppose this statement is denied by all those cat-loving housewives who post on a daily basis, but I was hoping to make my own posts more than "today we had meat loaf, and this time I used pimentos...." (Not that I can remember the last time I ate meat loaf of course, or pimentos.) But, since I haven't posted since Tuesday (my Death List of Ire, which even if I say so myself, is a masterpiece of dry wit), it's more than time to...say something...anything...damn, why won't my brain work!

The mind is as empty as a shot glass at closing time...okay, how about....

A Romance Novel, the Cliff's Notes Version
Nineteen year old English maiden Esmeralda is a headstrong beauty, all flashing eyes and will. Her long, flowing, jet-black hair falls in lazy curls down her firm but shapely back. After the Great Fire of London, (1666, for any unschooled readers out there, of which I have none of course!), her family has fallen on hard times, and so despite the pleading of her old mother, she has hired out to a rich family in Boston as a governess.

Scene: A Dark and Swollen Sea Off the West Coast of Ireland
Young Esme is now on her ocean voyage to the new world, but her ship is tossed on wind-swept seas and sinks! She manages to swim to a piece of flotsam; saved for now, she drifts in and out of consciousness, with the screams of her shipmates echoing distantly in her ears and then fading away as she floats further out to sea. But wait! Hours later, as all hope is almost lost, on the horizon, a dark and dismal castle can be just seen past sharp rocky cliffs! As Esme again collapses into sleep, she bleats, "Oh, to be teased with such a sight as I die, I die!" (Too many exclamation points?)

Thirty-five year old Desmond is a son of sons, an Irish prince of a family long lost to ruin and disgrace. He's had a checkered past—he's loved and lost and killed a man with his bare hands over a woman's good name. He's bad news baby, (or so his family and civilized society supposes). An outcast and on the run from the law, he's hiding out in the ruins of a forgotten family holding on a distant western island—Castle Donal 'o Donal—stoically surviving on fish, a dwindling cache of gold doubloons won off a wandering pirate during a particularly heated poker game, and whatever washes up from from the bounty of Mother Sea.

One wet morning, on the grim dawn of an awful storm, Desmond is searching the beach below the cliffs for whatever might have been driven to shore by the hell-sent winds. He spies something dashed upon the kelp-strewn rocks! Warily he's a girl, on her back, her arm flung back prettily, her bodice torn open to reveal a perfect breast, pink nipple stiff in the breeze. A knot wells up in his throat, such perfect beauty, affronted by cruel nature and circumstance! (A knot wells up somewhere somewhat lower as well; it's been some time, if you know what I mean.) He stumbles to the mermaid girl, is she breathing? Oh sweet gods, yes! Desmond attempts to restore this most unexpected treasure's modesty with his rough cloak, but she wakes and screams, what hideous countenance is this? She faints dead away, too exhausted, too drained, to face such trials. Desmond gasps back tears—the years of isolation have turned him into a hideous beast too foul for fair contemplation! Damn her, for ruining his isolation! Damn himself and his cruel nature, too horrid for polite company! And yet! Could such beauty exist in the world? (Yeah, too many exclamation points, I know). He lifts up her limp body, and with a heavy heart, carries her up to his dank castle.

Scene: A Dank Castle
Esmeralda wakes in a huge wooden four-poster bed, her gown is gone, a white singlet with lace cuffs replaces it. Dear god, what has happened! She looks around wildly; she's in a stone room, a fire burns upon the hearth. And then she remembers the storm, the sinking of her ship, and the cries of her fellow passengers as they succumb to the deeps. She's been saved, but how, and by whom?

Desmond enters with a tray. A steaming tankard smells heavenly, and Esme's stomach clenches—how long was she in the water? She grabs the vessel, and drinks deeply—it is beer heated with spices, has anything ever tasted so good? As her head falls back onto voluminous pillows, a thought drifts by just before oblivion, "He's not so bad after all, he's handsome even...if only I had some scissors to tame that mane, I could make something of him...."

Scene: A Babbling Brook
Time hurries on, and with each passing day, Esmeralda finds herself sneaking glances at this brooding Irish chieftain. His blue eyes pierce her to the soul, his strict eyebrows and loose black locks give her a funny feeling in places no nice girl would contemplate. He makes her swoon...oh cruel fate, to lay waste to her modesty with these tempestuous blushes! Her breasts swell in an embarrasing fashion in his presence.

One day, as spring approaches, she leaves the castle to hunt for herbs and mushrooms. Not finding much, she returns early, only to find Desmond bathing in the cold water of the castle spring; his lean form is turned slightly away from her, and water glistens off his muscular flanks and taut but round buttocks. Esme feels it happening again, the blush is starting up from her toes this time, but it soon becomes a wildfire that sweeps up her body—thighs, stomach, breasts, face! A sudden wild tingling suffuses that special place between her legs, she's never felt anything like it! Esme groans out loud and doubles over in agony. But no! He's heard her! She runs for the castle as if the hounds of hell are at her heels.

Desmond spins around, his modesty no where to be seen. He spies Esmeralda fleeing up the castle steps, damn, he's affronted her purity again! What was the fool girl doing outside anyway? He spies her basket, mushrooms and a few flowers of the field scattered in disarray.

Scene: Star-Crossed Lovers
Well, we know what happens next—tortured glances become more meaningful, both our subjects cannot sleep. Another chance encounter of the un-robed variety, this time young Esme is getting a late-night snack, still wearing his somewhat threadbare singlet, and what with the moon, and the candlelight, Desmond is treated to Esme's full form—slender, but full, with long, well-shaped thighs that meet at a tender "v" that leaves him breathless; her pert breasts push out the singlet in two perfect cones tipped with berries. His voice catches in his throat, he gargles out a greeting, and she startles, "Oh, it's you, I didn't see you there!" Desmond offers to walk her back to her room, at the door, she stumbles against him, and then they are in each other's arms.

The Good Bit
His mouth ravages hers, but she is more than match for him. She answers each searching, raging kiss with one as wild. His hands frame her face, and then slide inexorably down...down...her breasts rise up to meet them. He circles each nipple with a single finger, and then with his lips; she pulls the singlet down to offer him better access. With a cry, they fall upon her bed, and he enters her kingdom of heaven with a cry. Soon both their voices are raised up on high, a new day has dawned, and what pleasures it brings!

And more of the same, they get married the old fashioned way, "I marry you, I marry you, I marry you", Baby One is followed by Baby Two, they find a hidden stash of gold in the basement, and all is well. The End.

How's that my pretties? I've only read four romance novels in my time. I want to write them someday so I don't have to work, and I was doing research (I swear). The above is about how they all seem to go: Head-strong but Supple Woman-Type Person (not too old) falls for Dark and Brooding Man-Type Person (at least 15 years older than her) against her will. Things happen, but with more and more stolen glances and self-recrimination ("I want to! I can't! He's just too awful! He's so dreamy!"), and then at the very end, some naughty bits followed immediately by marriage and babies. All, in all, very very generic vanilla stuff, with barely a hint of anything more than missionary, with any indiscretion followed quickly by a return to propriety in the form of marriage and a happy ending (no, not that kind, you gutter-minded perv). My romance novel will have more naughty bits than most, and hopefully a better story as well. I'll keep you...posted. (Get it? Posted? Ha Ha. Sorry.)


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home