A while back, I wrote about certain trends I saw in romance novels—the heroine’s hair grows curlier the more she falls in love, for example, or the hero’s ability to dance a tango on a moment’s notice. Fun to read about or watch? Absolutely. True to life? Ah…no. Yet I love them anyway…well, mostly. Classics, we can call them. Or clichés. And I’ve used them too, so don’t think I’m getting all preachy here. Just observing, folks, just observing.

Everyone around me is selfish, mean, and well, pure evil, but I barely notice because I’m a saint. Granted, family members and coworkers, frenemies and old chums can push and prod all the most sensitive buttons, but come on. Show a little spine! Or even better, show some nice qualities in those evil siblings. The “I’ve always cared for her ever since our mother died” excuse just ain’t enough.

Thank goodness I have a wiser-than-his/her-years child advising me on my romantic disasters! I’ve never had a kid advise me on my love life. The kids in my life are good at telling me which Pokémon characters have the most power, sure. How to build a Lego structure in under five minutes using 2293 pieces, check. Why the hot guy I’ve always loved continues to ignore me? No! They have NOTHING! Clearly I must trade in these children for savvier, more observant children. Sorry, kids. I love you, but you’re not holding up your end. Yes, of course I’ll still buy you good presents. Don’t panic.

I’m a totally hot, red-blooded successful, good-hearted guy, but I’ve been celibate for several years now. Men think about sex every six seconds, right? So if you’re all of the above, what are you? A castrati? Seriously…no nooky? None? For how long? Honest? Really? Where have you been living? Prison? A desert island? Because otherwise, mister, I think you may need a trip to the doctor. By the way, you’re welcome for the picture of Mr. Butler there. I know!

Though I am shockingly beautiful, amazingly wealthy and extraordinarily talented, was educated by nuns in the Swiss Alps, speak seven languages and currently have my own Secret Service detail, I’m really just a regular joe. That’s right. She may be an heiress, but she loves swilling Budweiser with the coal miners and goes on to kick their butts at the pool table. This woman can cut loose, folks! She is so down-to-earth! Really, lady? Did finishing school have classes in pool/craps/poker? Did it? Really? Huh?

If I make you an omelette, it’s a sign that I’m one of the good guys. Just once, I’d like to see a guy whip up some Kraft dinner or call out for a pizza. Or burn the omelette! Granted, cooking for someone can definitely be a sign of love. But why omelettes? Why not a ham sandwich or chicken divan? Oops…Uh, Higgins? In your fourth novel, the hero makes heroine an omelette. And he doesn’t burn it. Right. Well, told you it was a cliché.

You can tell I’m oozing with testosterone because I drive a wicked awesome car. And not just drive, baby. This car and I are one. It’s a Porsche—he keeps it in the barn under a tarp, and no mice live in the engine. Listen, missy. He rebuilt the beauty from an old soda can and a fender. It’s taken him years, but it’s perfect now. Which shows how committed he can be to you. (Or something.) Or, he’s filthy rich and drives the cars that make James Bond drool with envy. And he handles that thing, know what I’m saying? Which shows how good he is in bed. (Or something.) By the way, the picture? You’re welcome for that, too.

Okay, fess up! Are there romantic clichés that you could skip for a while? Tired of the cute dog (please, God, not that!), the nosy older relative, the perfect sister? Don’t want to see any more bets made in bars? Sick of…well, you tell me! What’s the difference between a classic and a cliché, or is there really any difference? I’ll pick a commenter and send her an ADVANCE COPY of All I Ever Wanted, available everywhere on August 1.