Doesn’t hurt that Ted’s so proud of all that I’ve accomplished. So are my parents. My friends.
Besides. What else would I do? Write steamy books all day?
Even that can’t be as glamorous or fulfilling as it sounds.
I’m about to find out.
I tuck the computer underneath my arm and head out to the screened in porch off the bedroom. Julia calls it a “sleeping porch”. One of those fancy bed swings, complete with stylish rope supports and a small mountain of Indian block print pillows, hangs on one side of the porch. The other side is occupied by an antique settee and side table.
I notice the bead board ceiling is painted pale blue. The same shade as the sky outside.
The morning is already warm and muggy. I set down my laptop and coffee on the table and reach inside the door for the light switch. Takes me a couple tries, but eventually I find the switch for the ceiling fan. The fan spins to silent life, making the air just bearable. Another degree or two and I’ll be melting.
I sit down and open the laptop. Password, Wi-Fi, close out the approximately two hundred documents I have open. I’m usually pretty organized. But thanks to the packed teaching schedule I’ve had over the past few semesters, I’m still playing catch up.
I check in with Christine via email. Sounds like she’s got everything handled. I tell her to contact me for anything she needs, and then I log out of my email and open the Word document I’ve been working on in secret for a couple months. The first line makes me smile.
(Probably Stupid) Idea for Regency Romance that is a cross between Romeo and Juliet and Game of Thrones. Same amount of hot blondes and boobs, more commentary on family roles and of course more penis.
I scoff, curling my legs underneath me. I wrote this one night a few weeks ago, late, when I was avoiding a departmental email thread about publishing schedules.
When I decided to write my dissertation on Jane Austen, I reread all her books. Then I started reading the mountain of literature inspired by her signature blend of wit, social commentary, and romance. Georgette Heyer led me to Elizabeth Hoyt. Elizabeth Hoyt led me to Sherry Thomas, and Sherry Thomas led me to Tessa Dare. Jo Beverly. Joanna Bourne. Julia Ann Long…
I could go on for days.
Clearly I fell head over heels in love with historical romance. To this day, I love nothing more than curling up on a couch, or by a pool, or on a plane with the latest juicy release from one of my favorite authors.
A release I always buy on my Kindle so no one can see what I’m reading. Romance novels are totally my guilty pleasure. Sometimes I’ll feel guilty for…well, feeling guilty. But it’s an obsession I can’t really share with many people. Least of all my colleagues at the university. I distinctly remember one of my thesis advisors calling romance novels “trashy bodice-rippers that are bad for your head.”
He didn’t need to say they’d be bad for my career. That was just understood. A fact.
I take a sip of coffee. The caffeine is starting to hit me. My heart beats thickly in my chest. I read my outline again. It’s actually kind of good. I’d want to read this book.
I think about the hero.
He comes to me, suddenly, fully formed and glorious. He’s shirtless. Corded forearms, wild hair, piercing hazel eyes that are more green than brown. He’s got a dark past and a soft spot for babies.
My fingers begin to move over the keyboard. They shake a little with excitement.
Fuck it.
I came here to write this thing, and I’m going to do it if it kills me. How hard could writing a romance novel be anyway? I wrote a three-hundred-page academic treatise on Jane Austen, for God’s sake. Writing a love story will be a cake walk after that.* * *An hour later, I highlight the entirety of what I’ve managed to write—323 meager words—and pound on the delete key, erasing it all.
It sucks.
I suck.
I was right. The grass totally isn’t greener.
I can’t nail my hero’s voice. He’s coming off as too douchey. I want him to be confident. Commanding. He is heir to a Dukedom, after all. But how do I do that without making him a total prick?
I’m so frustrated that my throat has started to close in. It’s also getting really hot out here. I’m sweating.
I look up at the sound of an approaching car, grateful for the distraction. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a black Jeep Wrangler pull up to Mr. BILF’s house below. A tall, gorgeous dark skinned woman gets out, dressed casually in slouchy jeans and a t-shirt.
She doesn’t even knock on his door. She just climbs the steps, opens the door and moves inside.