The question I think all of us romance writers dread is this: “When are you going to write something real?“ This question inevitably comes from a person who hasn’t read one of my books; I answer only by smiling and suggesting they read something I’ve written, then ask me again. They never do ask. J

I love writing romance. I love reading romance, even though I’m a very happily married woman. Most romance readers are, in fact. Isn’t that neat? And yet, when let loose in a bookstore, I go to one section immediately. Romance.

For me, romance novels do a lot of things. They make me happy, for one, because their underlying message is that anyone can find true love, and that makes life better. I love those happy endings! Sometimes people criticize romance novels for being predictable, but to me, they’re not predictable—they’re a promise. Yes, the couple will end up happily ever after. They’re better for finding each other. How lovely is that?

Another thing romance novels do is let me escape. I’ve never been to France, for example, but Nancy Robards Thompson’s Angel In Provence made me feel like I lived there. Oh, the places I’ve been! Scotland (thanks, Terri!), and Texas, and Wyoming, and London…I swear, I’d know exactly where to shop in Regency London based on all the romance novels I’ve read.

Romance novels are cathartic. Oh, lordy, the tears I’ve shed over these imaginary people! It feels so good to cry for something that’s not truly happening. Sometimes, it’s easier to cry for a character than for an actual person in our lives…and those scenes unlock something in us and let us release those feelings.

And romance novels let me fall in love. In real life, I love one guy. I chose well, I’m happy to say. He brings me coffee and flowers, thinks I’m pretty, still checks me out. But we’ve been married for 20 years, and while McIrish is many things, he’s not new. I know him better than I know anyone else on earth. Sometimes we say the same things at the same time, even. But a romance novel lets me feel the rush of new love, the magic of a first kiss, the delicious thrill of a first fight. It’s utterly delightful. And the happiness that gives me is absolutely real.

How about you? Why do you love romance novels?

Congratulations, Linda Henderson and Tina SL! You’ve each won a copy of WHEN BEAUTY TAMED THE BEAST by Eloisa James. Please send your snail mail addies to kimscastillo@gmail.com.  Enjoy the book!

More than the love scenes, the kissing scenes, the ball scenes, the wedding scenes, the eating scenes…even more than the bad date scenes…I love me a fight scene. Oh, yeah! If someone asked me, “Higgins, what’s your favorite part of romance novels?” my answer would be instant. “Fighting! Bring it, baby!”

Now, in real life, I don’t like fighting at all. Ask my children how many times a month I bellow “No bickering!” McIrish and I rarely fight (we’re more of the “sulk and stew” variety, although, ah, spirited discussions have been known to take place). As for those shows where people fight all the time? Hate ’em. Real Housewives, Jerry Springer, People’s Court = hell as far as I’m concerned.

But in a romance novel, it’s fair to say that I love, love, LOVE fighting. And so, my list of elements I adore.

1. Snark, not sincerity. Do NOT say what’s truly bothering you. If you’re honest, then the fight’s gonna end, and we don’t want that!
2. Avoid eye contact by crossing arms and glaring at something else. The cat. The sheep. The mantel. The rug. If you look into his/her eyes, you might start to feel a little melt-ish, and we don’t want that. Not now. Uh-uh.
3. Bring up the old wounds. Yes! By all means, don’t let this fight stay focused on this issue. “Oh, this is just like you. Remember the time when—” Yes! This IS the time to dig  up that particular memory corpse. Do it!
4. Make use of innocent bystanders. Really. An audience makes fighting so much more interesting. Let’s poll them, shall we? See whose side they’re on.
5. Throw food. I don’t like any kind of physical violence in fights. Face-slapping used to be a standard in romance novels; I’m not a fan. Food-throwing, however, is in a different class. Messy food. Not bouncing-off food. Pudding works beautifully, for example, whereas Brussel sprouts would not.
6. Refuse to be serious when the other is getting more and more frustrated. “Wow. Your face is really getting red. And that vein in your forehead looks like it’s gonna blow.” This will result in #7…
7. Growling noises. You KNOW when someone growls, things are really heating up.
8. Use the words “You know what your problem is?” at least once during the fight, because those words are gas on a fire, baby. Have those words ever stopped/redirected/ended a fight? No. Never. Those are conflagration words, baby! Speak them!
9. When frustration and irritation cannot be contained another second, grab and kiss. And what a kiss it’ll be! Filled with emotion, passion, anger, etc., which will abruptly soften to something really, really hot…but then,
10. 10. Storm out before resolution can take place.

Sigh!

Got anything to add? Any memorable fight scenes to share from romances you love?

My One and Only by Kristan Higgins was named best book of 2011 by Barnes & Noble Romance Reads!

My son was a preemie, born 10 weeks early by emergency C-section in the wee hours of the morning. He weighed one pound, ten ounces and, stretched out, was twelve and a half inches long. His skin was bright red, his legs the thickness of my index finger. We could hold him in the palm of our hands. He was born on December 6—the feast of St. Nicholas, who is, of course, the patron saint of children.

When I got to hold him after eight days, it was tricky. He was still on a nasogastric tube at that point, still had an IV, monitors for oxygen saturation and heart rate. Just taking him out of the incubator was something of balancing act; the natural act of a mother reaching for her baby complicated by the science that was keeping him alive. Every day, I’d check his chart, see if he got any bigger; even a gain of a few grams was a triumph. His hands were heartbreakingly small.

Meanwhile, we had another child, our nearly three-year-old daughter, at home. We tried to make her life as normal as could be. I baked Christmas cookies, because I didn’t want her to miss that tradition (and because martyrdom runs in my family). We got a tree. McIrish and I went to a department store to do all our shopping in one fell swoop; when I became too tired, he pushed me on the cart, and we threw in  items willy-nilly. A mermaid doll. A clock. Candyland. Preemie-sized outfits that were two times too large for our tiny baby.

I couldn’t sleep on Christmas Eve; moved to the couch around 3 a.m. and called the hospital. Mary Ann, the night nurse, told me she had tucked our son into her sweater and was cuddling him right now, and she held the phone to his head so he could hear my voice. I love you, I told him. We all miss you.

In the morning, our daughter opened her gifts, and her brother’s, too. She got a dollhouse from Santa; he got an Elmo doll. She had picked out an Oscar the Grouch small enough to fit in his incubator. My brother gave him a baseball mitt.

I remember sobbing on the phone to my sister, who was celebrating her own baby’s first Christmas. The fact that my son wasn’t home, was so small and so fragile, was almost unbearable. “Next year will be better,” she said, and I prayed she would be right. I prayed that we wouldn’t be remembering the tiny baby who didn’t make it.

When we went to see him later that day, the nurse informed us that the hospital had had a visitor during the night. Santa had left gifts for all the babies in the neonatal unit. A blanket—knit by Mrs. Claus, the nurse said; a piglet beanie baby, and a teddy bear that would remain bigger than our son for three years. She also handed us a Polaroid photo: Santa Claus, standing by our son’s incubator.

Our boy is fine now, as you may know from the occasional Facebook posting or mention here on the JQs. He is completely normal in every way, except in the ways in which he is exceptional. He is extraordinarily kind, wicked funny and alternately extremely lazy or very hard-working. He is also very cute, with smiling brown eyes and thick, curly dark hair. He teases his sister, riles up our pets and is quite a slob. We love him with all our hearts, of course.

Thank you, Saint Nick, for watching over our little guy. And thank you, angels at Yale-New Haven Hospital’s Neonatal Unit. You’ll never be forgotten.

Now, I know all my sister Quills are writing about the holidays the recipes, the shopping, the excitement, the decorations. I’m not. No, it’s not because I’m Grinchy (okay, I’m Grinchy until December 15, at which point I morph into Mrs. Claus).  It’s because I figured they did such a great job talking about Christmas, I’d talk about something that’s near and dear to my heart.

Men.

That’s right, baby! I love men. It helps in my profession. Recently, Dearest Son came upon my photo gallery of James Franco (forty-five photos in all) and said, “Excuse me! Don’t you think Daddy is going to feel bad about this?”

“Nah,” I said. “Daddy’s very proud of me! This is just part of my job.”

It’s true. Falling in love with other men is part of romance writing. Am I right, sister Quills? I need to fall in love with a hero about twice a year, and he has to be different from the other heroes. I can’t use James Franco as the inspiration for every guy I write (alas).

And so, I trawl the internet for faces to love. I am very hard to please. I don’t like pretty boys, which rules out Jake Gyllenhall, Edward the Vampire and everyone under the age of 30. I don’t like male perfection. Being that I am forty-something myself, I tend to be drawn to older men, but my heroes are generally in their 30s. I like a face that’s been lived in for a while, or a face with a defining feature that just rocks my world. I’m sorry, but there it is.

A few of the faces that have, ah, inspired me. Consider this my Christmas gift to you.

Robert Downey, Jr. I believe if you are female, you have at least a small soft spot for RDJ. He’s bad, he’s reformed, he’s got those eyes…sigh!

Daniel Craig. Battered Bond, Bruised Bond, Bloody, Brooding Bond! Oh, yes, yes! (Sorry). Then you clean him up and put him in a pair of glasses, and you have Brainy Bond. I’ll stop now.

Clive Owen. Hello. No words can convey my love of Clive Owen. Ladies, you owe it to yourselves to put Greenfingers in your Netflix queue asap and watch it when you’re alone. You can thank me later.

Gerard-I-Love-You Butler. He’s not handsome. He’s incredibly hot instead. We’ll take it.

Dylan Meow McDermott. Purr. I love this guy! He’s not perfect! That’s okay! I watch American Horror Story every week for my, um, inspiration. Am I terrified? Sure. Is it worth it? Yes.

Liam Neeson. First time I saw him in a movie 20 some odd years ago, I was in love. My agent and he live in the same neighborhood. I have put her on stalking patrol.

Denzel. I have seen every movie you’ve ever been in, Denzel. Surely that entitles me to dinner or something, doesn’t it?

I’m looking for a new face to fall for. What constitutes male beauty for you? Who are some of the faces that, while perhaps not perfect, make you a little weak in the knees? Give me some help, people! I’m ready to fall in love again.

One of the shows I watch from time to time as part of my Trash TV diet is Millionaire Matchmaker. (I know, I know.) One of the things that strikes me is how bad people can be at making a first impression. Bad conversationalists, badly dressed, bad makeup, too much drinking. It’s astonishing to me that these people, who pay a lot of money to meet that special someone, are so TERRIBLE at interacting with a potential mate. This is, of course, what makes the show so much fun.

I often say to McIrish, my sainted husband, “I would be great on this show,” at which point he sighs in a martyrish way and doesn’t contradict me. See, I’m a romance writer. I think about relationships all day long! And so, I feel that I have a few pearls of wisdom to offer men and women who are out there looking for love.

DRESS CODE

Yes: Neat, clean, gender-appropriate clothing that fits both the occasion and your body.

No: The white dress that fit you twenty pounds ago and those shoes that sent you to the ER with a broken ankle. And save the stripper outfits for later! Say you are, to use a word I believe I invented, boobalicious. Congratulations! Boobies are great. But less is more, especially on Date One with a Potential Spouse. (Men may disagree, but I’m sticking with this). Do you want your future husband to tell your kids, “One look at Mommy’s ta-tas, and I was a goner.” No. You don’t.

CONVERSATION

Yes: Generic questions that everyone can answer. For example: What kind of books do you like to read? Do you have any siblings? Where did you grow up? Have you been to the movies lately? Do you like animals?

No: How many children do you want? Can we start naming them now? What’s your favorite position? If you could do any celebrity, who would it be? Do you think I should get a nose job so I can look more like Brad Pitt? No. We’re not going there. Not on the first date, oh, no.

Very Important Note: Listen to answers, then ask more questions related to said answers! You don’t want to interrogate this person with rapid-fire inquiries that makes it seem like you’re checking off a list. Neither do you want to respond with the vacuous stare accompanied by the bobble-head nod. You want to have a conversation! “Oh, you read thrillers? Who are some of your favorite authors?” or “You like baseball? Me, too! Don’t you think Jeter has the best butt in the game?” Wasn’t the Cardinals’ victory this year just the best Cinderella story?” But Kristan, you might say, what if I don’t know anything about the topic? S’okay. Be honest. “I can’t say I’ve ever watched an entire game. What is that you like about the sport?”

Another Very Important Note: Avoid one-word answers. If I ask, “Do you like animals?” and your answer is “Yes” and that’s it, I suspect you have emotional problems. Likewise, I don’t want you to prove to me that you love animals more than animals have ever been loved. “Yes! Yes, I love dogs, oh, my Lord of the Rings, there goes the cutest Yorkie, let’s chase it and see if we can lick it!” This makes you a nut-job, even in my dog-loving perspective. The best answer gives some but not all information: “I do like animals. I have a cute little mutt named Willow.” The fact Willow expressed her anal glands on the vet’s shoes… I’m gonna keep that to myself for a while.

MODERATION:

Yes: “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay and the fettuccini.”

No: “I want a double vodka martini, straight-up, the 40-piece Lava Fire buffalo wings, a side of baby back ribs, extra fries and a triple dipper combo for starters.”

Down, big fella. Sure, sure, we all love people who love food. In moderation. You are not Attila the Hun, after all. Order food that’s not a challenge to fit into your mouth. That’s what private time is for.

CHEMISTRY

No: “Oh, my dear Lord in heaven, I don’t even have to TALK to this person, I just KNOW he’s THE ONE!!! Quick! Get me a book on baby names.”

Yes: “I find this person quite physically attractive! Yay! Now I shall engage in conversation to see if the personality matches what my pheromones are telling me.”

The big kablammy is great. All it means, however, is that you find this person physically attractive. But kablammies can be sneaky, too. Sometimes, you have to wait for the kablammy. Give this person a chance. He or she might grow on you.

What do you think, gang? Any other tried and true advice of the first date? Leave a comment, and I’ll give away a copy of TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE, in which Grace has more than her fair share of doozies.

In honor of the late Andy Rooney, who seemed like a true curmudgeon but whose segments I always enjoyed on 60 Minutes, I thought I’d indulge in a little Rooney-ism and ask certain eternal questions that plague us all. The first:

Why is that everyone thinks they’re a good driver?

Yesterday, we visited my in-laws in New Jersey, and my husband drove like a maniac, causing me to clutch, clench, stomp on the imaginary brake ten or twenty times and yes, squeal like a little piglet as he flirted with Death. The second we leave Connecticut (home of the most polite drivers in the world, thank you so much), he becomes a different man. Glued to the bumper of the car in front of us. Zipping in and out of traffic. Crossing 10 lanes to get to the EZ-Pass with the shortest line. Yet he thinks he’s James Bond behind the wheel. If only! And here’s the other thing. He got lost. Twice. On a trip we’ve made oh, 120 times or so.

Why is it that everyone thinks they have an excellent sense of humor?

One of my friends from childhood had absolutely no sense of humor. If we were watching a funny movie, I might laugh. This happens at funny movies. Not to her, though. She’d announce, “That’s funny,” in the same tone that she might say, “This milk has turned.” She was all serious, all the time. Her IQ was probably in the genius range.When others in our group got silly, laughing so hard we cried, she might crack an smile. Was she a lovely person? Yes! Good sense of humor? Not that I could see. One day, her boyfriend said something along those lines. “I’m funny, right? she asked me later.

“Oh, um…sure!” I lied. Because what else would you say?

Why is that everyone thinks they’re good cooks?

Now, for the record, I don’t think this. But most people do. My mom, for example, thinks she’s a great cook. For Thanksgiving, she made a broccoli dish…it was supposed to be a broccoli casserole topped with crushed Ritz crackers or something. However, despite the fact that she makes approximately 75 trips to the market the week of Thanksgiving, Mom forgot the Ritz crackers. She then overcooked the broccoli till it was the color and texture of sludge, topped it with cheddar (pre-shredded and frozen for an indeterminate number of years) and, in place of Ritz crackers, used crushed, stale Cheese Nips circa 1995. My brother and I stared at the dish, horrified and fascinated. “Only Mom could make broccoli bad for you,” he said, and we laughed so hard we wheezed. “What?” Mom asked. “I got the recipe from Bon Appetit.”

So in the spirit of old curmudgeons everywhere, how would you finish this line? Why is that everyone thinks they’re…

UNTIL THERE WAS YOU is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller! Kristan sends big thanks to all the readers who bought the book!

Barbara Elness, come on down! You’ve won a signed copy of MY ONE AND ONLY! Send your snail mail addy to k.higgins@snet.net. Thanks to everyone who left a comment and all your lovely warm wishes today!

xox

Kristan