Despite the fact that I cannot skate, ski or shoot a rifle, I love the Winter Olympics. Their slogan is above — Swifter, Higher, Stronger. One of the things that seems sure is that there will be upsets; that the odds-on favorites will fail; and the best stories will come from people we’ve never heard of before. Sure, I love Apolo, and I figured Bode, Shaun and Lindsay would do just fine. But it was the stories below that really grabbed me.

Alexandre & Frederic Bilodeau. Alexandre won Canada’s first gold medal in this Olympics as his brother, who has cerebral palsy, went a little nuts in the stands. Alexandre repeatedly referred to his brother as his inspiration, saying that when he gets tired and wants to stop, he thinks of Frederic’s limitations, stops his whining and gets on with it. The 22-year-old skier upset the sullen Canadian ex-pat (and millionaire) Dale Begg-Smith, who ignored reporters and generally acted like a sulky brat while the gold medalist, clearly stunned with his win, tried to take in the fact that he was the first Canadian ever to win a gold medal on his nation’s soil. 

Chris DelBosco. In the wildly exciting ski cross race, Chris DelBosco, a dual citizen of the U.S. and Canada, had the bronze medal in his grasp. With just one jump to go, he took a huge chance…and blew it. He fell. He lost. In an interview afterward, he said simply, “I didn’t want the bronze.” Nope. He put it all on the line, he was skiing for gold, and even though he failed, he gave it everything. Good for you, kid.

Marjan Kalhor. She is twenty-one years old, finished the giant slalom 35 seconds behind the gold medal time. She trains by skiing down grassy hills, and she wore a purple veil underneath her helmet to cover her hair. She is Iran’s first female winter Olympian.

The Night Train. In addition to being my favorite wine (well…not really), the Night Train is now my favorite bobsled team. Perhaps I love chubby, balding Steve Holcomb because he looks more like a kielbasa-eating champion than an Olympic gold medalist. Whatever the reason, I was absolutely elated at their win. Kudos to the good-natured German silver medal team, who called the American team’s driving “super-genius.”

And most of all…Therese Rochette. She drove her daughter to thousands of skating lessons, sat in the chilly rink for countless hours, sacrificed, scrimped and saved. She helped her child choose outfits and hair styles and music for her performances, made sure she ate well and did her homework. She knew with faith unshakeable that at the Vancouver Olympics, the world would see what she had always known — Joannie Rochette was a champion. She was right. Yu-Na Kim may have shown us the best of the sport, but Joannie showed us the best of the human spirit — the strength, grace, commitment and love she learned from her mother.

Swifter. Higher. Stronger.

Well done, Mrs. Rochette.

I have a dear friend who was recently complaining that her husband has never planned a date for them. “Of course he hasn’t,” I answered. “He’s a guy.”
“But he should,” she insisted.
“But he won’t,” I informed her. “He’s a guy. They don’t do that once they’re married.”

It got me to thinking about the many differences between men and women. In the case of my happy marriage, it’s true — I tell McIrish what we’re doing socially, and he’s more than happy to come along. It’s very rare that he takes the initiative and plans a date, and I accept this. (Catherine Kean, enough out of you! We know your husband is the exception to this rule!)

So what else? How else are men and women intrinsically different?

Boo-boos. McIrish is a firefighter, uses power tools all the time, chops wood with an axe (for fun). He gets cut all the time. He figures if a digit is still attached and more or less straight, he’ll be fine. Me? I don’t cut myself that often, as all the sharp edges of my computer have been filed down. The other day, I sliced my finger on the food processor blade and was shrieking for stitches before the blood even appeared.

Bed-making. I can, he can’t. He can build a house, mind you, and fix a car, and rescue a drowning victim, but he cannot make the bed to save his life. I mean, he is really incapable of this, no matter how long he tries.

Potential explosions. I try to avoid potential explosions. For example, we have a wood furnace. The instructions say to open the vent and wait 10 seconds before opening the door. I obey this instruction with religious fervor. My husband…nah. “Oh, they just say that. You don’t really need to.” When I point out the children and I live in the house and should an explosion occur, we’d be scattered for miles, his answer is “Has the furnace exploded? Has it, honey? Huh?”

Colds. I can tolerate a cold just fine. McIrish is in a perpetual state of disbelief that such a cruel and unfair fate should befall him. I throw a box of tissues at his head and tell him to get over it.

Showers. Me: Shampoo and condition (leaving on for 2 minutes, of course), exfoliate with specialy scrunchy and lovely scented soap, wash face carefully with youthifying magic potion, shave legs (twice, in case I miss a spot), then rinse entire self thoroughly, pat dry and apply scented moisturizing oil, then trot to the medicine cabinet for the application my three facial moisturizers (age defying; skin guardian; eye doctor). McIrish stands in the shower for a  few minutes, turns off the water, then shakes, dog-like. The end.

Falling asleep. For me, it’s a complicated system of sleep button on the clock radio, perfect temperatures, pillow plumping and, hopefully, a story. For McIrish, being horizontal = unconsciousness.

Cooking. Me: recipe, grocery store, planning. Him: “How old do you think this anchovy paste is? Still good? Sniff it and tell me.”

Television: Me: I enjoy watching a show from beginning to end. Him: Clicks to a different channel every 15 seconds until I wrestle the remote away from him.

Popcorn. McIrish and I both love popcorn. I eat it as follows: take one or two kernels, put them in my mouth, chew, swallow. McIrish: Plunge hand into bucket, withdraw fistful of popcorn, shovel into mouth, swallow, repeat.

Men.

So which differences strike you the most? What would you change about typical male or female behavior if you could?

One of my absolute favorite things to write about in my books is, of course, family. Who else will love you, accept you and torture you with quite the same fervor? I love the traditions, the nicknames, the old hot button issues. Honestly, my brother and sister and I could burst into either uncontrollable laughter or a fistfight at any given moment…all it would take is a certain phrase, a name from the past, an eyebrow lifted to say, “Really? You think you’re so hot? And yet you ate a stick of butter when you were three, just because I told you to.”

In The Next Best Thing, Lucy endures and loves her family, just like the rest of us. She works with her mother and two aunts at the family bakery, where she’s put her hopes of being a pastry chef on hold to bake bread. The Black Widows, as the older women are known, were all widowed young, and they don’t quite approve of Lucy wanting to move on and find someone else…after all, they didn’t need to find a second husband.

The Black Widows are partly fictional, partly inspired by my own beloved great-aunts. They were the type to leap up when you walked in the door, tell you how pretty you looked, smack you on the side of the head because you hadn’t visited in so long (even if you’d visited the day before), then feed you till you were just about sick and send you on your way with admonitions to come back soon.  They were wonderful, warm and happy women, and every time I think of them, I smile.

Here’s a little peek at a family scene from The Next Best Thing…it’s a little peek into my own family, too.

     “Ready to go in?” I ask as I stand in the parking lot.
     Standing in the parking lot is a time-honored ritual whenever I go anywhere with the Black Widows. There’s an order, you see, a hierarchy of who gets out first and how. First, tradition dictates that the youngest among us drives. That’s me, and I’m grateful, as Iris and Rose’s method is to point the vehicle in the desired direction and step on the gas. Getting out of the way is the responsibility of other drivers, pedestrians, deer, trees and buildings.
     Upon arriving at our destination, tradition dictates that I hop out of the car and stand in attendance as Iris reapplies her Coral Glow, which was discontinued in 1978 but which she had the foresight to stockpile. She doesn’t need a mirror to put on lipstick, a skill they must’ve taught back when Eisenhower was president, since I’ve never seen a woman under the age of sixty pull this off.
     The next tradition, which we’re living right now, is for Rose to gasp in horror, realizing she’s lost her wallet, then rifle through her vast black purse, her lips moving silent prayer. A moment later, St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, miraculously restores the wallet, placing it right there next to the rubber-banded envelope containing Rose’s medical insurance card, list of medications, several dozen coupons and her burial instructions.
     After this bit of divine intervention, my mother must retie her scarf. She never goes anywhere without a scarf, winter or summer. Today’s choice is beautiful little orange and pink number, and despite the fact that we only left the bakery ten minutes ago, tradition must be honored.
     “Does my neck look crepey to you?” Mom asks as I watch, my arms beginning to ache from holding the tray of apricot brioche I baked in class last night. My students, who range in age from seventeen to eighty-four, had raved about them.
     “Not at all,” I answer. “You’re gorgeous, Mom.”
     “Oh, I am not,” she says fondly. Another tradition — reject compliments. Then her gaze drops down to my faded jeans with the fraying hem, my utterly unremarkable brown wool sweater. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.
     “No. I’m wearing a ball gown, but it’s invisible.” I twirl around, taking care not to spill the goodies. “Do you like it?”

 From The Next Best Thing by Kristan Higgins, HQN Books, copyright 2010

 Any traditions in your family that just have to be honored? Any habits that drive you nuts? I’ll send a signed copy of The Next Best Thing to a responder. Hope you’ll enjoy the new book!

Kristan

www.kristanhiggins.com
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As an author, I find it’s always hard to leave a book behind…we authors love our characters, and it can be really tough to end things. I feel like I’m going through a break-up or something. I remember the characters’ happy times, their difficult times, the fruition of my hero and heroine doing that which they thought could not be done, and voila! Happily Ever After is achieved! Oh, sigh!

But then I have to leave them, these people I created. They did it, they overcame those obstacles and grew and changed for the better, and the book ended. And I’m supposed to move on. But it’s hard. I feel like a lovesick teenager, like Bella in New Moon, just boohooing in her chair unable to let go. I can hear the smarter part of me saying, “Kristan. It’s over. Enough already.” The other part says, “I know, but it was so…and they just…and I can’t…”

The characters stick with me! They haunt me, if you will. I wonder how they’re doing. I know this makes me sound like a crazy person, but they feel so real to me! How does Malone pop the question, for example? I mean, I know he loves Maggie — I made him, so I know everything — but since I never wrote that scene, I wonder. Does Grace’s sister ever find real love? Does Callahan ever reconcile with his brother? Can I really just leave the Black Widows behind forever? They were so much fun!

I read something about Margaret Mitchell, author of my favorite book of all time, Gone with the Wind. People often asked her what happened to Scarlett and Rhett after the end of the book, and her reply was something like, “That book ended for me on the last page.”

I don’t believe that. I mean, sure, she was Margaret Mitchell, so she’s in a different class, but I find I can’t just let my characters be. I think about them…how they’ll do after I leave them, what their life will look like. Quite a few readers ask if I’ll write sequels to my books…so far, I don’t have one planned. Doesn’t mean I don’t picture my people in some alternate world, doing stuff without me behind the controls, as it were.

I think that’s the sign of any great story…when you just can’t let the characters go. Will Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy have kids?  Does the entire Soprano family get mown down, or do they just have a nice meal together? Will Marge ever wise up and divorce Homer?

Eventually, of course, I resign myself to the fact that Lucy and Ethan or Ian and Callie or Maggie and Malone are not officially real, and I will live to love again. It’s bittersweet, and I’m always grateful to the characters who kept me company in such a vivid way.

Who are some characters whose lives you just can’t stop imagining? If you’re an author, have you ever written scenes for characters, even though you know you’re not going to write a sequel? Or, maybe a more interesting question, who’s a real person from your life you just couldn’t let go? Who was Edward to your Bella?

Thea! Email me at k.higgins@snet.net and I’ll send out your copy of THE NEXT BEST THING.

Thanks to everyone for the laughs!

Everyone has a sense of humor. Right? We all laugh at something. And we all think that our sense of humor is really the sense of humor. I often point this out to McIrish. He’s the type who laughs at the Three Stooges, I’m sorry to tell you. “That’s really kind of…dumb, honey,” I might say. He doesn’t care. He feels sorry for me because I’m missing Great American Humor.

I myself love snarkiness, of course…but I also love that sort of goofball, zany humor The Hangover, for example, made me laugh so hard I was in pain. I never miss an episode of 30 Rock or Modern Family. I own the complete set of Arrested Development. But the times I always laugh the hardest are when my mother falls down.

I know. This makes me sound like a bad person, and while that could definitely be true, let me just say first and foremost that I love my mother. I even live next door to her (by choice and everything). And she taught me to laugh at myself — or better yet, at her. Plus, she doesn’t get that hurt…so far, anyway. She’s still pretty young for a mother and grandmother. So we laugh. We laugh and laugh and laugh

Take, for example, the time she was getting into the passenger side of my car. It was snowy and slick out, and all of a sudden, she was gone. “Mom?” I said. “Mom, where’d you go?”

“I’m here,” she said. “Help!”

I walked around to her side of the car, and there was her little head was sticking out from underneath the car — she’d slipped on the ice and— whoosh!  — just slid right under the car. “Give me a hand, idiot,” she said crossly. “Don’t just stand there laughing.” And I wasn’t just standing there, I assure you. I was clutching the roof of the car, wheezing, waving off Good Samaritans who would’ve spoiled the moment by fishing my mother out. She still gives me a dark look when I bring up this happy event.

Another time, Mom broke her foot. The woman has an incredibly high pain tolerance, so it was about a week before I finally dragged her off to the hospital for an x-ray. Sure enough, it was broken, so she had a cast put on, and the lovely young nurse brought out the crutches. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” I said, immediately excited. Sure enough, Mom couldn’t quite figure out how to use the crutches. We are not hand-eye coordinated in my family.

“It’s simple, Mrs. Higgins,” the sweet, naive nurse said. “Just lean here, move the crutches this way…” 

“She’s going down!” I shouted. Sure enough, Mom was tipping, tipping, gone! She scrabbled to get up from the floor (me laughing so hard I thought I was going to pop a blood vessel) fell again, then loudly declared that she was putting me up for adoption.

Last winter, I drove Mom home after we went to the movies. The snow was icy, so Mom tried to stomp through. This resulted in her falling yet again. “Here we go!” I announced. She was laughing too hard to stand, so she…yes…crawled to the back steps of her house, as I staggered along next to her like a drunken shepherd, wheezing helpfully as tears of laughter coursed down my merry cheeks. “I hate you,” dear old Mom said, but she was wheezing too. 

Ah, dear Mother! She’s such a good sport.

I guess pain and laughter go to together pretty well (at least, I think they do). There’s a scene in my upcoming book THE NEXT BEST THING that combines these two…a makeover scene, there’s your hint. In my own humble opinion, it’s a good example of very inappropriate laughter.

Tell me your own story about getting silly when maybe serious was a better choice! I’ll pick a responder and send out an advance copy of THE NEXT BEST THING as a reward for ’fessing up. And listen. If you ever see my mom lying on the ground, give her some help! God knows I’ll be laughing too hard to be of any use whatsoever. And here’s to you, Mom!

Ah, family. That’s what this time of year is all about, right?

Family is huge part of my books. Like me, my heroines place a lot of value on family. And like the families in my books, my own family is riddled with inside jokes, ancient wounds and habits so ingrained not even a back hoe could change them. So, in honor of the holidays, here are a few little glimpses into my family life.

When my in-laws visit, McIrish hides. He heartily denies this, but it’s true, and besides, I’m blogging and he’s not. But when his parents visit, he just fades away. I find him hours later, leaning against the furnace, chatting with one of his brothers. Or he takes out the garbage, which makes him remember that his truck’s oil needs a’changing, and apparently it can’t wait another minute. During this time, this hour or so of absence, I get the inside skinny on his large family back in Ireland — who had the new baby, who’s taking a trip, who’s sick, who’s getting married. Later, when I update him on these events, he’s always a little irritated that I know more than he does.

As a group, we are incapable of ordering in restaurants. I am extremely blessed in that I live close to New Haven, where pizza was invented. My aunts and uncles and siblings and cousins all like to get together a few times a year and visit Modern Apizza on State Street, where allegedly Jesus goes for pizza, because that’s how good it is. When the waitress comes, there’s a flurry of contradiction — “I didn’t say I wanted eggplant! But if you want eggplant, that’s fine with me. But get what you want. I’m fine. I’ll eat anything.” The proper response to this is, “Well, I don’t care. I also like everything. Get what you want.”  The waitress sighs loudly. Inevitably, when the pizzas come,  someone’s disappointed. “We didn’t order eggplant on anything? Oh. Well. I happen to love eggplant, but…”

My family is loud. What I love — and what I’m guilty of myself — is how everyone thinks everyone else is loud. My own dear mother still shouts into the phone, especially when talking to her brother in California, as if my uncle needs her to yell so he can hear across the miles. My darling aunt from Massachusetts can be heard from, well, Massachusetts. My uncles laugh so loudly that people jump and cower.

The people in my family regress when together. Suddenly, my ultra-mature and very brilliant daughter is showing just how far her eyes can cross. My son is eating under the table, like some poor feral raccoon. My sister does her medley of strange faces and animal noises (very well, I might add). I myself demonstrate my great talent of dangling a spoon from the end of my nose. Genius.

By the end of the holidays, I’m longing for solitude…until one of my relatives calls, that is, and says, “Hey, we’re getting together…you in?” To which I instantly reply, “Absolutely!”

Any odd family traditions or traits in your gang? Are you longing for your relatives to go home, or are you the type who can’t get enough family time?

I was talking via e-mail to a reader the other day, and she mused that it must be nice to be a successful writer, since I didn’t have to waste my time doing housework and stuff. “I still do all my own housework,” I regretfully informed her. “Really?” she typed back. “Oh.”

I know. Where is that staff I ordered from Amazon? But her question got me to thinking about some of the misperceptions some people might have about those of us who make our livings at the keyboard. As you may know by now, I like lists, so here’s my list.

1. We don’t do housework. Excuse me? I couldn’t hear you. I was scrubbing the bathroom on my hands and knees. Sure, I might be a writer, but I was Hungarian-American first, and we Hunkies clean our bathroom floors on our hands and knees. And then we do it again, in case we missed a spot.
2. Our nails are perfect. Well, at conferences and book signings they are, sure! Because we just paid for a full set. Once we get home, we’ll trim them right down, because it’s wicked hard to type with long nails. Don’t worry about the nail polish. I’ll just let that chip away.
3. We sit at the keyboard, and the creativity just pours forth. Umm…well, once in a while, that’s true. Mostly, though, there’s a lot of sitting and staring…a little typing. Some mumbling. More staring. A few more lines of typing. Some deleting. More staring.
4. We have really cool clothes, because we’re all creative and stuff. I have some cool clothes. But that’s not because I’m a writer. It’s because I have a thirteen-year-old daughter who dresses me when I have to go out in public. For the most part, I yearn for the days of my school uniform, when every day, I knew exactly what I’d wear. I sort of have a uniform now, I guess. Jeans and a solid-colored turtleneck sweater for winter; for summer, jeans and a solid-colored t-shirt, sometimes with a Yankees logo on it when I’m feeling wild.
5. We finish a book and then take a month or two to travel and see the world. Sigh. That sounds so good. I plan on doing this someday. I may have to come back for another life, but I’m going to do that. Someday. Not in the foreseeable future, but someday, dang it!
6. Our book is being made into a movie starring Drew Barrymore/Sandra Bullock/Joseph Gordon-Levitt /all of the above. This is, I admit, my most Lotto-ish of dreams. Do I think my books would make great movies? I sure do! Do I think that will happen? I really want to think that, yes! But the odds are pretty low just the same. I still hope, though.
7. People recognize us on the street. Nah. Once I asked the great Susan Mallery if she was ever recognized outside of romance writing conferences, and she said, “Oh, God, no.” This is a woman who’s written more than 100 books. At that moment, the waiter came over and said, “Excuse me, are you Miss Mallery? Our chef is your biggest fan.” So yes, it does happen…if you’re Nora Roberts or Susan Mallery. Personally, nope. Which is totally fine, because I’d probably be wearing jeans and a solid-colored t-shirt, and my hair would be all funny.
8. Our husbands are over-sexed hotties. I’m gonna leave that one alone, actually. No comment.
9. Our offices overlook the ocean and are filled with flowers sent to us by our editors. Hm. My office is in the basement. My editor, lovely though she is, hasn’t sent me flowers (but Keyren, just in case you’re reading, I’m completely open to this). Truthfully, I love my little basement office, hidden away from the rest of the house. It’s cozy. Lots of photos and drawings. Digger loves it down there. I keep a bowl of chocolates next to my chair. No ocean views, but still pretty cute.
10. We’re really lucky. Now that one, my friends, is really true. Lucky because we do something we love, no matter how hard it can be, and because nice people like you read our books and our blogs. Thank you. Thank you so much!

Happy holidays, everyone!

Kristan

I read all sorts of romance novels…suspense, historical, paranormal, contemporary. In addition to the happy ending I know I’ll get from a romance, there are a few other things I want out of a story. Good structure, of course. Great dialogue. Multi-dimensional characters. But aside from those obvious choices, here’s a list of things I just can’t do without.

Laughs. Even if the book is a romantic suspense, even if Scarlett is not going to end up with Rhett, even if I’m going to dampen the pages with my tears later on, I want a couple laughs. If I’m reading a book that doesn’t make me at least chuckle once in a while, it’s fair to say I’m snowbound in a mountain cabin. Make me smile, on the other hand, and I’m yours.

Animals. Yes, yes, you all know I’m a dog lover. But how a person views animals is so revealing. Sherry Thomas’s Private Arrangements is about an estranged couple who hasn’t seen each other for ten years. Way back when they were still in love, he gave her a puppy. That dog is very old now. I can’t tell you how poignant it was when the hero sees that dog again after their long separation. Blerk!

Someone being told off. That’s always so much fun! Finally, the nasty frenemy gets blown out of the water, or the evil mother hears just how much damage she’s done. It shows wonderful character growth, doesn’t it? Because being told off implies that person had it coming for some time, and our hero or heroine has finally grown up enough to say what needs to be said.

Food. In a perfect world, I’d have a butler to procure me whatever the heroine was so enjoying (and I’m working on it, believe me). If you’re a writer who can make a reader hungry — even a well fed reader like myself — you’re a really good writer.

A scene where the hero and heroine look fabulous. Call it the Cinderella Syndrome, but we all love seeing our couple looking great. We may not ever go to a ball, but we can pretend, right? The dress fits, the shoes don’t hurt, and the hero is staring at you with hot and hungry eyes. Mm-mm!

A scene where the hero and heroine look like idiots. Even better. Let them screw up, let them be less than perfect, let them babble, let them ruin an important event. Let them be imperfect. Bridget Jones making that speech at the Darcys’ anniversary party… “No! No! NO! It’s just that…it’s such a terrible pity. For Britain. To lose such top people…top person, really.” Nothing is less interesting than two perfect people who are perfectly happy in their perfect world. Just typing that sentence makes me sleepy.

Him defending her. “Can’t you see that, how wonderful, how special she is?” That’s from one of the most unapologetically romantic movies I’ve ever seen…A Walk in the Clouds starring Keanu Reeves. He’s telling her disapproving father that the heroine deserves better treatment from her family. I believe he gets kicked off the vineyard for that speech. Sigh!

Her defending him. Our own Jaunty Quill Kate Smith did this quite nicely in When Seducing a Duke. The hero is a man everyone loves to hate, and the heroine finally has had enough. You go, sister! I did it myself, a bit more, er, physically, when Chastity punches a guy who insults Trevor. That was really fun to write. 

A person you love to hate. The nasty coworker. The sneaky pseudo-friend. The guy who keeps getting in the way of Our Hero. The ex who breaks a true and loving heart and doesn’t even care. What I love too is when these characters get at least a glimmer of redemption.

A job I’d like to have. I read to escape, as do we all. Chef. Airline pilot. Navy Seal. Horse trainer. Vampire slayer. I’m never going to have those jobs, but how cool to get a little look into what that would be like! Personal shopper. Jewelry designer. Wizard. Surgeon. Yep. I need to have a few more lives. In the meantime, I really like reading about a person with a cool profession.

Are there elements in a book you really love? What are some you could do without? If you’re a writer, what’s your favorite thing to write about in your books?

There are some tried and true elements in a romance (shocking!). Not clichés, necessarily, but classics. A happily ever after, for example. The idea that The One makes Hero/Heroine a better person. Classic plot lines and traditions. When done well, we can’t get enough of it. But when not…ruh-roh.

Below are some trends I’ve noticed over the years, in books and movies. Now, before you think I’m being catty, let me first admit that I’ve used some of these myself, so it’s all in good fun.

Gracious! What a beautiful secret cabin you have here in the mountains, Hero Mine! What a fascinating and heretofore unrevealed character nugget this is! So many heroes were smart with real estate and just happen to have a very tastefully decorated getaway in the mountains/on the ocean/near a pristine and very remote lake. This is, of course where he smuggles heroine so he can cook for her/shag her silly.  I can deal with a cabin. But if it was indeed his Man Paradise, it would have two things and two things only: a LaZBoy recliner and a 60 inch high-def TV with the special NFL bundle. I promise (mostly) to put a 60 inch high-def TV in my hero’s, okay?

Oh, my heavens! You dance with predatory, masculine grace that has me oh-so-aroused, despite the fact that I quite hate you! Where did these guys learn how to dance like that, huh? I have yet to see Gerard Butler down at Ye Village Dance Hall in my town. And yet, there he is in The Ugly Truth, dancing in such a way that my eyeballs were on fire, and I just sat there thinking, “But when? But how? Was he raised on a pasa doblé ranch in Brazil?”  Furthermore, Katherine Heigl claims she is a terrible dancer, then begins gyrating and pulsating and throbbing…I had to dunk my head into my super-large silo of root beer just to cool off. Dancing like that doesn’t happen in real life. No, tragically more realistic was the tango scene in Along Came Polly. Ben Stiller gets points for realism, if not for smokin’ sex appeal. (Note Heigl’s hair…it’s curling. I told you.)

Why, Miss Carlisle! You have golden and/or chestnut highlights in your previously considered dull-as-dishwater brown hair! Why? Why can’t Miss Carlisle just have plain old brown hair and still be attractive to Sir Ruttingly? Why does she need highlights to make it pretty? For that matter, why do I? I’m a brunette…Why do I spend forty extra bucks six times a year to get highlights?  Clearly, it’s a conspiracy. This is another version of “Why, Miss Carlisle! Behind those glasses, your eyes are sapphires snapping with blue flame!” or…perhaps…the next thing on my list.

Frooooowww! Miss Carlisle! That red dress and those Jimmy Choos slut you right up! I quite and suddenly ravenous for you! Sure, sure, we all have dreams of prom/wedding/fabulous ball during which we’re scooped up by a Greek billionaire (Andreas, I’m still waiting!) There was Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality. Princess Mia in Princess Diaries. Cinderella in Cinderella. Just once, I’d like to see the heroine in a hideous dress that makes her look worse than the yoga pants and college sweatshirt did. (Note to self: do this in future book). Granted, my heroines have required special underwear…Dr. Rey, thank you!…but still. Let’s have him be stunned with her beauty without the dress, ’kay?

When I Faint — and I Shall —  I Shall Be Caught By Hero. I fainted once. I was gardening, I was on a roll, smiting weeds with my mighty sword, I forgot to eat breakfast, didn’t stop for lunch, stood up suddenly, next thing I knew was facedown in the dirt, a rake atop my eye (the gardening tool rake, not the Duke of Badboy, heir to his grandfather’s considerable fortune)  Recently, I saw Only You. The heroine faints. Robert Downey, Jr. catches her. Love that movie! Love Robert Downey Jr.! Love Italy! Love red dresses! Why oh why was I eating dirt with a rake on my eye instead of in RDJ’s arms, huh? Not fair! Not! Fair!

What are your favorite or least favorite clichés in romance writing or movies? Do spill. I’ll pick one responder and send her something fun…probably chocolates, because we all need chocolate. So come on! What clichés work, which don’t, and what’s the difference?