Daryl’s Back Pages
From the perspective and pen of California Newspaper Publishers Association Gold Medal winning journalist and writer Daryl Fisher, join us as Daryl talks positively about family, friends and the interesting people and places that have shaped his life. He does so with a gentle hand and a quirky sense of humor, drawing on the simple, joy-filled experiences of everyday living. He is interested in personal snapshots, not grand panoramas, although he’s not shy about trying to pass along a few insights into the human condition whenever the opportunity presents itself. Fitting into your busy day, lighthearted views of life around 5 minutes each.
Daryl’s Back Pages
Writing a Romance Novel
Join us for another episode of Daryl’s Back Pages, “Writing a Romance Novel”. Podcasts with thought-provoking insights about life in around 5 minutes.
Here’s a preview:
"It says here that a lot of writers are getting rich these days," she said, pointing to the article she was reading. "Do you want to know how they're doing it?"
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Writing a Romance Novel
Many years ago, I was sitting on the couch with my wife watching what turned out to be the final game of the World Series when she suddenly looked up from the newspaper she was reading and said, "Hey, listen to this."
I nodded my head that I was listening, although I wasn't, and while she quoted something from the Scene Section, I silently asked myself why it is that I always manage to get so attached to the team that is losing the World Series?
"Did you hear what I just said?" asked my wife, poking me with her elbow.
"Of course, I heard you," I lied.
"No, you didn't," she said. "Now turn down that stupid ball game for two minutes and listen to this."
"But it's the sixth game of the World Series," I reminded her.
"Big deal," she said without even the least bit of sympathy. “If those games were all that important, they wouldn’t play them all over again the next year, now would they?”
"Okay," I said, reluctantly pushing the mute button on the TV clicker, "but this better be good."
"It says here that a lot of writers are getting rich these days," she said, pointing to the article she was reading. "Do you want to know how they're doing it?"
"No," I said, "I just want to watch this baseball game."
"They're writing romance novels," she informed me, "and people are reading them more than any other kind of book."
"That figures," I said.
"And it says that almost anyone can write a romance novel."
"Really?"
"I guess they all have pretty much the same plot," she explained. "You know, girl meets boy, girl gets boy, girl and boy live happily ever after. You could write something like that, couldn't you?"
"You want me to write a romance novel?" I asked her with surprise.
"I want you to be rich," she explained with a little more specificity.
"But I've never even read a romance novel."
"One of my friends down at work keeps dozens of them in her desk," she said. "Why don't I bring a few of them home with me on Monday for you to look at?"
"Fine," I said, eager to get back to my ball game and sure that she would forget all about the whole thing before the weekend was over.
But two days later, as I sat at my computer thumbing through the chapters of some of the used romance novels my wife had procured for me, I began to understand why the darn things were so popular. They are absolutely full of heart pounding, no holds barred sex! In fact, almost every single page of the book has a paragraph or two which reads something like this: `Wilma moaned as the flickering flames inside her turned into a raging inferno. Sinking to her knees she flung her eager arms around Fred's burly neck, toppling them both to the cold, hard floor. His response was immediate. He clasped her in such a close embrace that she could feel every taut muscle in his pulsating body. Within moments, his masculine possession filled her with joy. He looked for new ways to stoke her passion, bringing her mounting ecstasy, then satisfying her totally. The waves of sensation that accompanied their crest vibrated through both their bodies, leaving them totally out of breath and sweating like pigs." (That last part about the pigs I just added.)
"Mary," I yelled to my wife, "get in here!"
"What is it?" she said with alarm as she hurried to my side.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can write a romance novel."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because they're all about stroking peoples' inner thighs and guys with warm mouths and women with white satin skin."
"You don’t want to even try?" she asked, obviously not quite ready to let all those millions of dollars in book royalties slip through her fingers.
"Okay, okay, I'll try," I said bravely, always willing to go that extra mile for my wife, "but I think I'm going to need you to bring me a cold glass of water every now and then."
"Why?"
To throw in my face," I said, already a little hot and flushed from all of my research.
