I know a few people these days who are trying to find The One…they register on a website, find someone who sounds pretty good, then prepare for the all-important first date.

I don’t know about you guys, but I hated first dates. The pressure was tremendous—could this be him, the man I’d eventually marry, the father of my future and adorable children? Was I interesting enough (I never felt I was and in fact would review good stories to tell, all of which seemed to involve medical emergencies for some reason). I’d spend eons on deciding how to look better than my ordinary self, as I never had a lot of confidence on what to wear (Tim Gunn, we met too late, my darling!).

And then, I’d arrive at the restaurant or bar early and hope for the best. The best never came. Two things would happen: I’d take one brief look and immediately know he wasn’t the guy my kids would call Dad…or I’d fall madly in love and start naming said children. Either way, it never worked out…I ended up marrying a guy I met in line. I honestly don’t remember our first date, except that he held the door for me. It made a huge impression, clearly. J

In the interest of those seeking The One, I figured I’d post a few common sense rules for the first date.

1. Be clean and smell nice.
2. Wear clothes that fit.
3. Don’t talk about your ex.
4. Don’t talk about phobias, addictions, gastrointestinal illnesses or why your other relationships have failed.
5. Listen…don’t just wait for a pause so you can tell your stories.
6. Ask questions about work, family, pets, education.
7. Ask about hobbies and interests.
8. Be prepared to offer topics that will generate conversation…
   1. Favorite movies and books
   2. Places you’d like to visit
9. Try not to name the kids just yet.
10. Make a second date unless you really, really can’t bear the thought of another minute in this person’s presence.

Because that’s the thing. Most of us aren’t at our best with all that pressure, all those expectations. Get through the first one is the real priority.  While we all adore the idea of love at first sight, real love takes time to discover.

Any other rules you’d like to include?

There is something very special about a quiet hero. Atticus Finch of To Kill a Mockingbird—perhaps the most beloved character in American literature and film. George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. Sports has given us Lou Gehrig, the pride of the Yankees, and James J. Braddock, better known as Cinderella Man.  In the world of tantrums and steroid use, we have Mariano Rivera’s quiet calm and humility and Mike Lowell’s steadfast ability to come through when his team needs him. (Yes, he plays for the other guys. He’s still great.) In real life, we have Captain Sully, whose skill and calm saved hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives. Wartime brings us the fathers and mothers who have to leave their families, and their spouses who hold things together while they’re gone.

Today, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to tell you about another quiet hero.

My grandfather was born in 1918 in Terre Haute, Indiana. His house didn’t have running water, and his parents didn’t speak English, having emigrated from Hungary a few years before. Poppy translated for them, did the errands that required English. He was an altar boy, studied hard, helped his mom, swam in the Mississippi River with his two brothers. They had no money, but they had each other, their church, a solid work ethic.

When my grandfather was 14, his family moved to Connecticut to a neighborhood full of Hungarian immigrants, including a family of four girls just down the street. Pop took a shine to Helen, asked her to walk him to the train station the day he left for college and kissed her goodbye. She was thirteen years old. They wrote throughout the next four years—Pop never had another girlfriend—and got married the year after he graduated from Notre Dame. He went on to get his master’s in English from Yale, but when his mom needed help at the humble grocery store they owned, he left teaching. He played the stock market, loved sports of all kinds, adored my grandmother, loved children. He had nine children, twenty-eight grandchildren and a couple dozen more great-grandchildren. Whenever a new baby was brought to him for inspection, his eyes would grow wet, and he’d say, very softly, “Well now. Look at that.”

My grandfather was a great man but lived a quiet life. His heroism came not from acts of courage in times of war, but in the everyday kindness he showed to every single person he met. He offered credit at the grocery store knowing full well a lot of those bills would never be paid. Mothers unpacking at home often found extra food in their brown paper bags…an extra half-pound of ground beef or a gallon of ice cream they didn’t order, and when they called the store to let Poppy know, he’d say he must’ve made a mistake, no need to pay the difference. When little kids came into the store to buy candy, their pennies went a lot further than at other stores, and Pop’s attitude on shoplifters was, “He really must’ve needed that.”

He never said an unkind word about anyone, never participated in petty gossip, never complained, never wanted more than he had—a loving wife, healthy children, a roof above his head.

Poppy wasn’t demonstrative; he rarely hugged me, would duck if anyone tried to kiss him. When my own father died, Poppy stepped up; a hand on my shoulder once in a while, or a few words of rare praise, “Your dad would be proud.” He kept my books on his nighttable, though I’m pretty sure he never read them. But he looked at the covers all the time, and he always seemed to get such a kick out of seeing my name there in big print.

Only once did he tell me he loved me—just after I gave my grandmother’s eulogy. But in the last days of his life, when speech had left him and he no longer opened his eyes, he held my hand and kissed it repeatedly, and when he finally slipped away this past May, my hand was on his chest, right over his heart.

He was the best man I’ve ever known, probably the best I’ll ever know, and I will always be grateful that my life was blessed with such a gentle, good man as my grandfather.

Who are the quiet heroes you remember in film or in books? Do you have a quiet hero in your life? What has he done that makes him so memorable?

Thanks to everyone who posted today! It’s always so lovely to hear from you!

Chosen randomly by McIrish himself, the winners of a signed copy of ALL I EVER WANTED are…

Cheryl C.

Karen H.

Lori who drove 3 hours

Send me your snail mail addies to k.higgins@snet.net. And thank you once again!

A lot of us JQs just got back from The Romance Writers of America national conference in Orlando. Forget Harry Potter, forget Mickey Mouse, forget the fireworks, forget (just for the moment) the awards. You—our readers, whether you were there or not—were the highlights.

Writing a book is a solitary process. Sure, we have our writer friends, our spouses, our crit partners…but in the end, it’s just the writer and the blinking cursor and the hope that imagination will come through and help us write this book. There’s doubt, and struggle, and endless questioning. But we write for one reason—to tell a story. To tell a story that you’ll love. That’s right, missy. You. I want you to love my books. And when you do…and when you tell me…wow.

To those of you who come to our signings…What an honor you give us! I was at a signing this spring, and one of the attendees came up to me afterward and said, “I drove three hours to see you.” Stunning! If you want a picture with me, heck, sure! The truth is, I’d like a picture with you, too. Another woman started to cry when she told me what The Next Best Thing meant to her…well, of course I started crying too. To Diana in San Francisco, Anne in New Jersey, Maureen in Waterbury, Dee in Virginia…to all the people who’ve put us writers on their calendars…thank you!

To those of you who write to us—getting those emails or cards is such a delight! What a wonderful, wonderful part of our day! I want you to know I’ve saved every single one of the now thousands of fan letters I’ve received, and I’ve responded to each one individually. We love when you tell us where you’re from, what you do, how many kids you have, why you picked up my book …everything! Thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to tell us you liked our books. More often than not, I get choked up reading your emails. I might read them aloud to my husband and kids…not so much to show off (well…maybe just a little), but more to share the wonder that you shared your day with my book. It’s a feeling I really can’t put it into words, but thank you!

To those of you who are also writers—thank you. Thank you for your books, for your efforts, whether you’re published or not, and thank you for your passion and love of writing. When a fellow writer tells me she loves my books, it’s like a compliment from a higher power. You too know the struggle and the time and the insecurity. You’ve been there, done that, and the fact that you appreciate my work is absolutely humbling and wonderful. Thank you!

To those of you readers who have become my friends, who drop me an email to tell me something about the Yankees or my favorite actor or to recommend a book…that’s just so dang great! You and I love the same books. We share the same sense of humor. We may never meet, but we’re friends anyway, aren’t we? And if we do…if we have a chat or maybe even a cuppa joe…listen. You’ve honored me with your friendship, and I’m completely dazzled by the fact that something in my books made you want to get to know me a little bit. Thank you.

And to those of you who spend a little part of your day reading this particular blog—we love having you here. We love your comments, love that you check in with us, love sharing our stories with you. Thank you.

There are so many demands on our lives, so many responsibilities, so many ways to spend time. The fact that you have chosen our books…that you spend money on our books or ask to borrow them from friends or take them out of the library…the knowledge that you’ll spend hours of your life reading our words…it is absolutely magical.

Thank you for that gift. Truly. 

In honor of ALL I EVER WANTED being released this week, and because I’m completely over the moon about winning the RITA for TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE, I’m giving away signed copies of my latest to three people who comment today.

See  you soon. And once more…thanks. Truly.

Kristan

Fiction writers, it seems certain, are blessed (cursed?) with unusually active imaginations. This is a good thing, considering what we do. But sometimes…sometimes it’s a bit of a burden.

Take, for example, what my doctor calls my medical student’s syndrome. “Kristan, you’re such an idiot,” he’ll say fondly as I detail my symptoms. “Sounds like you drank too much coffee to me.” Still, I can’t seem to stop the runaway train of doom. Freckle? I have skin cancer. Headache? Brain tumor. I can already envision the creepy black blob on my MRI. Foot cramp? Clearly I have Lou Gehrig’s disease. He is, after all, my favorite baseball player of all time! How ironic that I (probably) have his disease! No, I’m positive it’s ALS, not just a foot cramp resulting from six hours in those trashy shoes of mine…the four-inch heeled gray suede pumps with the flower on the toe (so cute!). Immediately, I envision myself at Yankee Stadium, giving my version of the Luckiest Man speech…tears start leaking as I picture my poor babies, bidding farewell to their dear mama. What will happen to Digger, my beloved dog? Will he crawl into my casket the way he climbs into the trunk of my car when I’m going to the airport? I should mention this to McIrish, just to make sure our dog isn’t buried alive…

Another time it really sucks to have an imagination is while swimming in the ocean. Peter Benchley, Steven Spielberg—damn you! Sebastian Junger, you’re not off the hook, either, young man. Rogue waves, dorsal fins…oh, wait, I can’t forget Jules Verne, because even if I don’t see a dorsal fin or a 100-foot tower of water, there may well be a giant squid about to grab my leg. Thanks, boys. Thanks for ruining the beach for me forevermore.

As a firefighter’s wife, I’m quite used to picturing McIrish’s death…if he’s twenty minutes late getting home, I’ve already lived through an imaginary visit from his chief and lieutenant bearing the bad news. “Hi, sweetie,” I’ll say when he inevitably comes through the door. “Sorry there’s no dinner, I was writing your eulogy. Feel like cooking?” It’s our norm.

Disaster preparation is another forté of mine, since I have already planned for tidal waves (rare in my landlocked town)…terrorist attacks (sure, the only thing worth attacking in our town is the ice cream stand, but I have a hidey hole prepared for the four of us just in case)…alien invasion (okay, that one’s trickier, since I’m not sure if they’ll be vanquished by a glass of water, like they were in Signs, or if I need to write a computer virus, like they did in Independence Day, but I have both, just in case). Oh, let’s see what else…I have practiced taking the kids down cellar in case of tornado (again…rare in Connecticut, but you never know). I’ve read up on performing an emergency tracheotomy with a sharp knife and a straw (don’t laugh, it’s doable). When the kids were tiny, I used to play a game where I was a grizzly bear and they had to play dead as I pawed and sniffed them. You know. Just in case.

Listen. It’s not just me…my characters do this stuff, too. In fact, Callie from All I Ever Wanted envisions disaster during a certain notable scene in her bathroom. So go ahead—tell me when you’ve imagined a ridiculously impossible scenario but scared yourself silly nonetheless. Let me know I’m not alone!

The day your very first book hits the shelves is utterly and completely thrilling. The whole journey leading up to that moment has been so exciting! The first call from your editor, the first time you see your cover, the first time you hold your book in your hands…your first fan letter. (Alana in Wyoming, I will never forget you!).

But these first books have an additional honor. Romance Writers of America, a writers group consisting of 10,000 members with chapters throughout the world, has deemed the following books the best of the best in debut novels in 2009.

Ladies—congratulations! Well done!

One Scream Away by Kate Brady 
Seven years ago Beth Denison was attacked by a killer named Chevy Bankes. Since then, she’s created a new life for herself and her daughter, one far removed from the night that ended in an awful tragedy. But now Bankes is out of prison, and his chilling phone calls tell Beth he’s coming for her.

Ex-FBI agent Neil Sheridan is driven to investigate a chain of murders that are eerily similar to a disturbing case from his past. When the killer’s trail dead-ends at Beth’s doorstep, Neil finds a beautiful woman with a secret she’ll do anything to keep. Yet even as Beth surrenders to Neil’s protection – and then his embrace – she can’t tell him why Bankes hungers to hear her scream, and why she’ll soon consider doing the unthinkable: face Bankes alone.

I admit, I started sucking my thumb again just reading the back cover copy on this one. Mommy! Can I sleep with you tonight? I have to say, I think that’s an excellent sign!  

***

He Calls Her Doc by Mary Brady
In her debut novel, Mary Brady takes you to a small valley in the wilds of Montana…helps you root for a pair of wounded doctors who cannot seem to heal themselves…lets you unfold the story of how, with passion, love and forgiveness—these two physicians heal each other and make a home for one very deserving little girl.

Okay, Mary. You got me. Montana. Special needs kid. Doctors. This book sounds like it delivers everything the super-romance brand promises. The heroine returns to her hometown to serve as local doctor, and I loved some of the issues this brought up.

***

The Gladiator by Carla Capshaw
Set in ancient Rome, Caros Viriathos is an ex-gladiator who has everything except inner peace. When he buys Christian slave girl, Pelonia, on a whim, he never expects her or her faith to turn his life upside down and win his heart.

This book certainly floods the characters with conflict. After all, this is back in the day when Christians were fed to the lions! Slave and master, different backgrounds, different faiths, completely different times…this book seems to have hit a homer.

***

Angel Vindicated by Viola Estrella
Abby Angel doesn’t always enjoy being a law enforcement Angel for Angels, Inc., but she excels at it. Deporting unruly demons back to Hell is her specialty. Her personal life, on the other hand, could use a little work. The virtuous and pristine genes seem to be missing in this particular Angel, getting Abby in more trouble than she likes to admit. To date, her biggest vice has been Siméon Keller, a half demon/half human, who effortlessly managed to seduce Abby five years ago. She’s avoided him ever since but can’t seem to knock the bad reputation the blunder has branded on her. Now, the threat of a demon rebellion has Angels, Inc. overwhelmed, and Abby must trust Siméon to help her find the fiends threatening to destroy Earth’s only salvation. Staying out of Siméon’s bed is the least of her worries as she fights for the lives of Angels and the human race as we know it.

Angels and demons are the “it” girls of today—and what a wicked cool premise this book has! Love the clash between the hero and heroine, love the glorious melodrama of the plot!

***

The Better Part of Darkness by Kelly Gay
Charlie Madigan is a divorced mother of one, and a kick-ass cop trained to take down the toughest human and off-world criminals. She’s recently returned from the dead after a brutal attack, an unexplained revival that has left her plagued by nightmares and random outbursts of strength that make doing her job for Atlanta P.D.’s Integration Task Force even harder. Since the Revelation, the criminal element in Underground Atlanta has grown, leaving Charlie and her partner Hank to keep the chaos to a dull roar. But now an insidious new danger is descending on her city with terrifying speed, threatening innocent lives: a deadly, off-world narcotic known as ash. Charlie is determined to uncover the source of ash before it targets another victim. But can she protect those she loves from a force more powerful than heaven and hell combined?

This book sounded cool even without the “returned from the dead” part. “Off-world criminals”? Methinks Kelly Gay’s tapped into the motherlode of creativity here and set up readers for their newest addiction, as the book is the first in a series. Write faster, Kelly! Write faster!

*** 

Stolen Fury by Elisabeth Naughton
To unearth a centuries-old secret, an archaeologist must team up with the rakish thief who’s stolen both an ancient relic and her heart…Oh, is he handsome. And charming. And sexy as all get out. Dr. Lisa Maxwell isn’t the type to go home with a guy she barely knows. But, hey, this is Italy and the red-blooded Rafe Sullivan seems much more enticing than cataloging a bunch of dusty artifacts.

Oh, so cool! An archeologist and a thief and an ancient relic. Makes me think Indiana Jones meets The Mummy meets Roman Holiday. Setting, plot, multifaceted characters…can’t miss with this one.

***

Nothing Like You by Lauren Strasnick
“You think he’s yours but he’s not, I thought. You think he’s yours but really he’s mine.”
When Holly loses her virginity to Paul, a guy she barely knows, she assumes their encounter is a one-night stand. After all, Paul is too popular to even be speaking to Holly, and he happens to have a long-term girlfriend, Saskia. But ever since Holly’s mom died six months ago, Holly has been numb to the world, and she’s getting desperate to feel something, anything—so when Paul keeps pursuing her, Holly relents. Paul’s kisses are a welcome diversion, and it’s nice to feel like the kind of girl that a guy like Paul would choose.

Even the back cover copy on this book made my heart ache for the heroine. Such a poignant plot, such real-life issues. Gorgeously written, too.

***

The Last Will of Moira Leahy by Therese Walsh
Moira Leahy struggled growing up in her prodigious twin’s shadow; Maeve was always more talented, more daring, more fun. Inthe autumn of the girls’ sixteenth year, a secret love tempted Moira, allowing her to have her own taste of adventure, but it also damaged the intimate, intuitive relationship she’d always shared with her sister. Though Moira’s adolescent struggles came to a tragic end nearly a decade ago, her brief flirtation with independence will haunt her sister for years to come. 

I have to say, the title alone grabbed me. Then I read the first paragraph. My goodness! My bet is that RWA won’t be the only organization scrambling to honor this book. The writing is haunting, evocative and eerily beautiful.

What I love about the finalists this year is that they run the gamut—from straight romance to literary fiction. All have romantic elements, and all promise to be a fantastic read. Kudos to the members of RWA for nominating such a variety of wonderful stories, and once again, congratulations to the authors! Even if you don’t win…well, you already have.

ksmsk22! Send me your snail mail addy at k.higgins@snet.net and I will be very happy to ship out a copy of ALL I EVER WANTED. Hope you like it, and thanks to everyone for your great comments today. I had a blast reading them. Have a great day!

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.

Well, I’m a day late, but I figured what the heck.

I think the ultimate test of being a man is fatherhood. This is not to say that men who don’t have kids are wimpy or anything…not at all. But fathers…fathers have to be strong, patient, gentle, firm, consistent and kind. They have to lead by example. They have to teach, protect, shelter, comfort, encourage and lay down the law. And they have to do it every day, rain or shine, tired or rested, sick or healthy. Every day for the rest of their lives.

In honor of Father’s Day, I’d like to tell you about the fathers in my life, okay? It’s sappy, but in the best ways, I hope.

My husband. Ah, McIrish. You guys have heard about him, of course, and he loves when I tease him on this blog. But here’s something you don’t know. Screaming children don’t bother him a bit. He can calm any baby, no matter how colicky. Despite a neck injury he sustained at a fire, he still gives piggy-back rides, lifeguards at pool parties, builds forts in the woods. When our son was born ten weeks early and I was too sick to see him, McIrish stood by our little guy in the neonatal unit, talked to him, told him he was doing great, tickled his feet and called him “buddy.” He adores our daughter and always seems a little stunned that so lovely a creature as she is somehow his little girl. There’s a saying…the best thing a man can do for his children is love their mother. McIrish lives this every day.

My grandfather,  Jules Kristan. Poppy, as he was called, was simply the best man I ever met. He recently died at the age of 92. Married for 67 years to his childhood sweetheart, father of 9, grandfather of 28, great-grandfather to 26 and counting, Poppy was kind, intelligent, even-tempered, loving, even if the words “I love you” were difficult for him to say. Every time he saw a new grandchild or great-grandchild, he’d get tears in his eyes. Never in all my life did I hear him say anything unkind about anyone. Never. Not even once!

My neighbor, Hank Robinson. Hank will do anything for anyone. He stepped in as a grandfather for my own kids, taught my son to make paper airplanes, hugs my daughter. He’s one of the few men I know who can state his feelings: “I’m so proud of you,” he’ll say to me, my kids, his kids, his grandchildren. “I love you.” Hank has no trouble with affection—he is a cuddly bear of a man, and my kids adore him. And so do I.

My grandfather, Kyle Higgins. Pop-pop was the type of grandfather who’d toss you into the air, squirt you with the hose, sneak you extra desserts, take you for rides in his convertible and let you steer (eep!). He married my grandmother and adopted my father when my dad was 10 years old and never once used the word “stepson.” He thought we three Higlets were perfect. He died when I was eighteen; just before, I went to visit him in the hospital, and even though he couldn’t speak at the time, he called the nurse over and wrote something down. “My granddaughter.” He was so proud of us, loved us so completely, thought we were the best things ever. Everyone should have a grandfather like that.

My father, Ed Higgins. My dad died when I was 23, but his life was full nonetheless. Dad taught me to believe in myself, told me I could do anything I wanted—President, astronaut, and yes, writer. He was handsome, confident and a big softy. Once, when I was little, my mom demanded that he give me a spanking (well deserved, I assure you). Instead, Dad took me into another room, clapped his hands and told me to whimper. Mom bought it. My father bought me a horse for my 11th birthday, came to all my recitals and plays during high school, sent me to a wonderful college and would pop in on me unexpectedly and take me out for a fabulous dinner, maybe buy me some clothes or something cool for my dorm room.

More than anything, my father taught me that I was enough. No matter what, I could always count on myself…I was smart enough, brave enough, good enough. And, in his eyes, anyway, much more than enough. To him, my brother, sister and I were simply the best.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day, Poppy and Pop-pop, Hank and McIrish.

To the dads who walk the walk of a good man—let me just say this. Those heroes we romance authors write—they should look awfully familiar.

Hello? Hello? Can everyone hear me? Great…because I’m going to talk about sex. Whoo-hoo! Hello, Monday morning!

I must state up front that this blog probably carries a PG-13 rating. It may get almost as steamy as the “making out with my own hand” blog from a few weeks ago. Prepare yourselves accordingly…cold compresses, smelling salts, Irish coffee, adult toys, whatever you need.

Now granted, the romance genre envelops hugely different ways of writing love scenes. I’m on the cleaner side…some of my sister Quills are quite steamy (you know who you are). My characters have sex, sure. I honestly don’t think it adds to my particular style to detail every move. During a recent panel discussion, Kathryn Smith described my love scenes as “emotionally sexy,” which I found quite flattering. I, in turn, called hers “hot and raunchy,” which she vowed to have tattooed somewhere on her person. (Kate? We’re still waiting.)

But here’s the thing. Here are two things, actually. First, I’ve been married a nice long time. McIrish and I are quite happy. This is code, of course. You know what for, and if you don’t, well, ask around. I announced it during an acceptance speech a couple of years ago (didn’t expect to win, was very flustered and happy and — clearly — not referring to note cards).

Second, I was raised Catholic, went to Catholic school, then Catholic college. Intimate relations were not discussed. May have been had, but certainly not discussed! So writing a love scene…it goes against certain grains.

Now don’t get me wrong. I certainly love a good love scene, whether they’re rated PG or NC-17. But they’re not that important to me as a reader. I don’t pore over those pages (well…not anymore. Back when I was high school, I could tell you the page numbers of the “good parts.”) These days, though, a love scene doesn’t make or break the story. Not when I’m living the dream, know what I’m saying?

So when it comes to writing a love scene, I’m always a bit torn over how much, ah, information to include. I want it to be, in Kate’s words, emotionally sexy. This is a very important moment in a romance novel, after all! This is when the hero and heroine really commit to each other (most times, anyway). This means something, and it usually means something really, really good. So you want to show certain things, certain emotions, certain, er, reactions. Sensory details, you hear what I’m saying. As a writer, you have to feel the touch, you have to hear the sounds, you have to taste ah, other stuff. You have to name body parts.

Once upon a time, I did try to write a detailed love scene. It was a deflowering. (Even “deflowering” was hard for me to write just now, so you know where this is going.) There I was, typing away, describing just how Tab A fit into Slot B and the noises the owner of Slot B and Tab A were making, and I had to use words like “nipple” and “hardness” and the inevitable happened. I got the giggles. Oh, my God! It was church-laughing…uncontrollable, unstoppable, unending gales of laughter.

And then, to see these words, typed by my own fingers, there on the screen in front of me! Ack! I had to turn my head away, feeling that I was somehow defiling my kiddies, who were napping. Yes, Mommy’s writing dirty scenes. Well, not dirty…but okay, yes, dirty. Sex is happening on Mommy’s computer! Mommy’s typing “moist.” Bad enough that my grandparents were still alive…I was typing (at the time) in the playroom.

The end result was such a sloppy, hilarious mess, so completely un-horny, so inadvertently horrifying, that I vowed never to try again. And hence, I do the before and after, and I refer to the during, but I don’t show it. For now, it’s working out pretty well, for me and, judging from the letters I get, for my readers, too. So, in other words, I hope it was good for you, too. J

What’s your take on love scenes, folks? Ever read a love scene that was inadvertently horrible, as mine was? Do you prefer that the bedroom door be closed for a love scene, or do you like them — as Terri Brisbin would say — juicy?  If you’re a writer, what’s your take on creating a real doozy?