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| Riiiiiiiiiight. |
Er, no, I haven't written, nor will I ever write something called "Freesia Fantasy." AND I'll be darned if I write a single scene where a guy with Mary Lou Retton hair and a billowy man-blouse ever drags his intended beloved out into a field that matches her gown in order to flex his traps and caress her in the most neck-twistingly uncomfortable position imaginable. It's just tacky. HOWEVER - romance novel genre, prepare thyself: Heather Adair has decided to dominate the living daylights out of you.
In the least bodice-ripper context imaginable.
Because I just don't see myself dressing my heroine up in anything that could be construed as having a bodice that could be ripped in the first place. Commonplace. Pedestrian. Average. And I don't know the first thing about petticoats.
The historical romance marketplace is pretty well saturated. I'll leave the Scottish lords and the woefully willful mail-order brides to the writers who get excited about kilts and corsets and silk stockings and raven-maned stallion dudes. I've read those. The Scottish lord isn't looking for love, but damn if he didn't stumble across a brunette with a fiery spirit who just happened to have lost her mare in his fancy Scottish swamp. He promptly falls in love with her. Pardon - he becomes promptly consumed with blazing lust and an irrational desire to POSSESS her. And her fiery spirit. And her roguish, unconventional desire NOT to marry the old, rich guy who lives in the next manor over and is the sworn enemy of Scottish lord.
I'll let him pull her hairpins out with his teeth, I just don't see myself writing Kilt Lit.
Which is not to say that we're not left with plenty of story lines to mine in my quest to become a multimillionaire by writing the sort of cotton candy, beach fluff you can tear through in 134 minutes flat while working on your tan. It's a goldmine. And I'm itching to pan for gold.
Check these stats: the Amazon Kindle store has, as of this moment, 930,959 titles available for wireless delivery. 17,464 of those titles are literary fiction. 15,311 of those are sci-fi, 35,768 are mysteries or thrillers, and 46,765 are ROMANCE. Fabio is KILLING the other genres in terms of selection. Which, I can only assume, mirrors demand on one level or another, or they wouldn't be publishing the heck out of them.
Cue Heather Adair's entrance.
The key to my success here lies in the fact that I don't approach this genre with the same sense of trepidation I approach serious, literary fiction. My novel-in-progress (er, the one that's been in progress for YEARS now) is slightly more serious fiction. It's my Jeffrey Lent tribute piece. My multi-generational family saga that dares not to progress chronologically. My heart and soul are tied up in that novel. Which makes every step I take toward its ultimate publishing culmination something like life or death. STRESS.
A fluffy little romance piece meant to help me learn the ropes of the publishing industry (and wipe the floor with the competition) is motivating, rather than flipping intimidating.
So that's where I'll make my entrance. The not-so-scary genre. Where pulses quicken with that first meeting of lips, and predictable characters burn longingly for the lightest brush of their lover's fingers on their cheek.
Seriously.
Mark my words - give me a few weeks to crank out a draft and I'll be sending query letters all over God's Green Publishing Earth. Countdown starts...NOW.
YAYYYYYYYYYYYY!
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