That's right. Even though I claim to be a writer, I hate romance novels.
I don't hate them because they are girly and mushy, though they usually are. Nor because they tend to be formulaic, though they certainly do. Nor because they're the most popular genre, crowding out better and more profound fiction.
No, I hate them for far better and more specific reasons.
I hate them because the heroine is always beautiful, sexy, and pneumatic.
I hate them because the hero is always well-muscled, handsome, and cuts a wide swath in the female population.
I hate them because there's always some weird contrived reason for hero and heroine to meet. And when they meet, in ninety-nine percent of the stories the hero doesn't like the heroine for some reason—usually due to a misunderstanding—though he can't help but admit to himself that she's really beautiful and really sexy and/or really accomplished... but he still doesn't like her.
The heroine, on the other hand, after the fateful encounter brought about by her sudden poverty or by her inheriting a run-down property or getting lost on the moors or having a slight problem with a runaway horse... or by her coming across his lost/strayed/stolen little boy/girl/beloved pet with whom she happens to get on just stunningly... or maybe after needing to be rescued from drowning or being sold at a slave market or having been forced to work in a house of ill repute or having her chutes fail to open while skydiving can't help but be impressed by his manly chest or his rock-hard jaw or his piercing gaze or his tight butt and his big fortune.
Yes, his fortune, for a wealthy hero is almost always a requirement in romance novels.
But she still doesn't like him.
I hate it that the heroine is always feisty or independent or at least spunky, while the hero is domineering, insensitive, in need of taming, or anti-social due to the lack of love from a good woman. Many's the rapacious pirate, evil robber baron, sweaty cowpoke, bare-arsed highlander, ferocious savage or cold-blooded assassin who has had his better nature brought out by a sweet but uncompromising woman... way too many.
And if by some authorial quirk the hero is sensitive, I tend to hate the story even more.
I hate the fact that the heroine often has some weird name that regular girls don't have, although it must be admitted that girls' names are getting more strange by the year. Consider sixth grade in a small school near me where three girls are named Taylor and four Courtney, plus Kerra, Kira, Keira, and Cara—not to mention Elise, Elissa and Isla. Whatever happened to Mary, Joan, Susan? Or even Harriet, Ethyl, Agnes?
I hate heroes named Drake, Duke, Dai, Damian, Jared, Jaan, Judd, Adrian, Abel and Alpo. Heroes! These are the names of kids we would have been picked on in school. (Oh, and I also hate Dougal and Fergus.)
I hate the contrived crises that bring hero and heroine together—the raging blizzards, the hurricanes, the leaky boats and car breakdowns... the predatory lawyers, the imminent serial killers, the onset of dengue fever or contagious leprosy, the plagues of locusts... the need to save a deluded world from a neo-Nazi conspiracy or conquest by space-aliens.
It's always something—they can never merely get used to one another. They can't simply meet at a party and like each other's style.
Well, enough of these lists, because what I really hate about romance novels beyond and above these plot gimmicks is... they always end happily ever after.
Happily... and love is inevitably followed by marriage.
Gawd help me—can't one of them just once end in tragedy or separation? Ever heard of Romeo and Juliet, writer-folks? Tristan and Isolde?? Casablanca???
Gulliver’s Travels????
So there you have it. Perhaps in the future I'll try to explain why I also hate Horror, Suspense, Thrillers, Erotica, Westerns, Mystery, Fantasy, Paranormal, Historical, SciFi and Humor.
And literary. Yeah, because I really hate literary fiction. ~
Highways (full of) Erratic Latent Psychotics
Following seven straight hours of sharing the road with what seemed to be an ever-increasing number of poorly driven 30-ton trucks, I stopped for gas at a truck-stop on the edge of Schleprock, Arkansas. After filling up, I headed into the restaurant to relax over a cup of coffee. And in one of those strange coincidences that seems to happen all too often, I saw an old high-school chum sitting in the professional-driversonly section.
Feigning formality, I slid into the booth across from him and said, "Good morning,
Mr. Royd."
"Well I'll be a horse's... If'n it ain't the Halster! What's it been—five years?"
"About that. How have you been, HM?" (His given name was Herbert Morton Royd but everyone called him HM.)
"Great! Yerself?"
"Pretty good."
"Whatcha doin' in Schleprock, Hal?"
"I'm on my way to Texas to work for a couple of weeks. So, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, I been a stud trucker fer about four years now. Say—If you're headin' fer
Texas ya musta seen that nasty ol' accident north a' town."
"I couldn't see too much except fire trucks and ambulances around a semi. Know what happened?"
"There was talk on the CB he was pushin' five."
"Pushing five?"
"Five days, Hal."
"Five days isn't such a long trip."
"Nah! That's trucker lingo fer five days drivin' without sleep."
"You're kidding, HM! I hardly make it through a tank of gas without stopping for a nap."
"Only a fool tries to push five. Acourse there's some what does it regular, but they's nuts. Three er four's about the limit fer most."
"You drive that long without sleep?"
"Sure, all the time when I'm doin' coasters."
"Coasters?"
"Goin' coast to coast."
"Why during coasters?"
"Well, if I leave on Monday an' don't git no tickets, I can make it to Shakytown, sleep six hours, hook up to a new trailer and make it back to the Dew Drop fer last call on Friday night."
"Isn't that dangerous? Don't you worry about falling asleep?"
"No, not really. But ya gotta take percautions a' course."
"Precautions? Like lots of coffee and loud music?"
"Yep. All kinds a' stuff like that."
"Isn't working that long against some kind of labor law?"
"Nope. Less‘ n you start leavin’ tire tracks over the tops a' VW's er somethin' like that, nobody gives a dang."
"So all those trucks are driven by guys who haven't slept for days?"
"Not them teamsters, they got it easy. But the rest of us get mileage."
"Mileage?"
"You know, Hal, paid by the mile."
"So the further and faster you drive the more you make?"
"Zactly."
"What happens if you only drive eight hours a day?"
"You'd best be goin' about ninety!"
"Ninety!?"
"Ain't quite that bad, but it's gettin' worse. I ain't had a raise fer two years."
"Sounds like the trucking industry, since deregulation, is imitating monopolistic competition, and your short-run economic profit is being reduced by the influx of new firms, causing your average total cost to rise to the point of tangency with your demand curve."
"Huh?"
"Every year more people start trucking, so the extra competition keeps wages down."
"Where'd you learn that fancy talk?"
"In college."
"Oh yeah? I gravitated from college, too."
"Really? Where did you go?"
"Triple C."
"Cuyahoga Community College?"
"No, the Cautious, Courteous and Courageous School of Professional Drivers."
"Impressive! Must have been tough."
"Sure was. Took the best part a' two weeks an dang near three-hunert dollars."
"I mean all the studying and cramming to get certified."
"Oh sure. Radar Detectors 110 an' Advanced Map Reading 130 were rough, but Weigh Station Bypasses 200 was a killer—a whole hour a' rememberin' and figurin'.
Give me a headache fer two days."
"But don't you need special certification?"
"Heck no, but ya gotta have a chauffeur's license."
"I'll bet that was hard to get."
"Sure was. I had to mesmerize a whole pamphlet before takin' the test."
"Just a written test, no driving test?"
"What fer? When yer doin' eighty downhill in a forty-ton monster everybody gits the hell outa yer way—ya don't even need to switch lanes. Why just the other day some ol' lady had the gall to do sixty-four in the fast lane, but after a couple minutes a' tailin' her about three inches from her bumper she pulled over an let me by."
"I see what you mean."
"Er, you don't have no Christmas Trees on ya ya'd wanna sell, do ya?"
"Christmas trees?"
"How 'bout some White Cross? Black Beauties? No? Well, at least I got plenty a' No-doze."
"Oh! Amphetamines?"
"Willy Nelson ain't gonna be doin' no drivin', an' neither is Juan Valdez ner his mule."
"But don't you have to take drug tests?"
"No way! It's unconsciontutable. Besides, you never see no cops er pollutetricians er teachers havin' ta take 'em, so how they gonna make truckers take 'em?"
"I suppose."
"Well, it was good ta see ya, Hal, but I gotta hit the road if I'm gonna make it back to Ohio fer my Saturday bowlin' fer beer league. You take care now." "You too, HM...
"Er, excuse me, Miss, may I have my check? And do you know of any motels nearby?"
