Page 161 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
I wrote about him; the hero in my book was an exact replica of Henry. He’d been on my mind, but I hadn’t realized it at the time.
If I’d learned anything from writing this book, it was that no matter how you might read characters in the fictional world, real life was always different. It was easy for a writer to spin a story to make the hero or heroine seem smart and intelligent, for them to make the right moves, take the correct steps toward their future, but when it came to real life, it didn’t happen that easily.
People were constantly making mistakes and showing insecurities, even when they didn’t realize it, and being so imperfect that it actually made them perfect . . . because they were human.
Those were the kind of characters I wanted to write; they were the ones I wanted to portray. The characters who made mistakes, who were flawed, who acted stupid, because in reality, there was not one person on this planet who hadn’t made an error along the journey we called life.
Were these flawed and apprehensive characters annoying to read in books sometimes? Yes, I’d seen plenty of reviews that claimed the heroine was irritating, indecisive, and naïve, but that’s what made them relatable to the average woman.
The average woman was a size twelve to fourteen. She was tough but scared. She was an inspiration, but she was also a menace. I didn’t want to write the typical heroine in a romance novel that I used to read. Blonde hair, fair skin, ravishing looks with a heavy, heaving bosom that drove every man sword in the village to pant like a dog.
I wanted to make her like me: a curious, loveable, but wide-eyed girl with the inspiration to lose her virginity. I wanted to share my experiences, make people laugh, and talk about this crazy, all-consuming thing called love.
Reading my words over again, I sighed with satisfaction. Meghan was so oblivious to her best friend’s advances, just like I had been. This scene made it so clear: all the best friend had wanted was one night with her, but Meghan had been too blinded to see that.
It was a turning point for the readers—a frustrating moment for them—one that caused angst and for the reader to feel for the boy who only wanted to catch the girl.
Just go out with the best friend.
That’s what I would have shouted. It had been so obvious.
It was so blatantly and completely obvious to an outsider, but in that moment, being that naïve girl, you had no clue that the man of your dreams was sitting right under your nose.
If only life was that easy.
I pressed save at the top of the screen and shut my computer. Looking through the notes I made, I checked off another scene in the timeline of my life. Only a few more to go and I’d have this book finished.
Checking the time, I realized I needed to get ready, or else I’d be late. I pulled the printed first few pages of my book from my printer, put them in my folder, and then inserted the folder in my purse. I tore off to the closet to find a cute outfit for tonight.
I had some new friends to meet.
* * *
Iwas nervous, really nervous. I straightened my skirt and stared at the little shop front of a bookstore in SoHo. Last Saturday, I looked up some local writing clubs and found SoHo Romance Writers. Fortunately, they met on Wednesdays, which was today. Henry had thought it would be a great opportunity for me meet other authors and pick their brains, so he’d encouraged me to email them. Within an hour I received a reply saying they met on Wednesday around five thirty.
That’s how I found myself standing outside their meeting place, trying to calm my nerves. I made sure to wear a cute fifties-style dress and red cardigan to match my glasses. My Mary Janes were full of foot sweat, and just to match, my upper lip was perspiring as well. I wasn’t nervous to meet them; I was more nervous of the requirements for a newbie to join. They’d asked me to bring the first few pages of my current work in progress for everyone to critique as “initiation.”
I wasn’t aware of writing clubs hazing newbies; I wasn’t sure if this was a normal practice or not. Henry encouraged me to go, despite my reservations about people pawing through my work. He said I had to get used to people judging my words at some point, so why not by some people who could offer guidance and constructive criticism? I hated when he was logical.
The only thing propelling me forward through this meeting was the date I had planned with Henry after. Seeing him right after was what caused the vomiting reflux to slightly appear.
To make matters worse, Delaney called me this morning and asked how the bachelorette plans were coming along. I lied and said everything was looking great, when in fact, I’d planned nothing, absolutely nothing. Despite the detailed list she gave me, I still felt helpless in planning, so Henry kindly agreed to help by taking me to an adult store where we could find some penis paraphernalia. I’d stuffed some of Delaney’s ideas in my purse for reference before I left the apartment, so I didn’t get the cheap penis items she found so distasteful.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and walked through the doors of the little bookstore. It was quaint, kind of reminded me of The Shop Around the Corner fromYou’ve Got Mail,but instead of children’s books, it was full of romance novels—all kinds of romance novels. There were westerns, period pieces, contemporary, new adult, romantic comedy, paranormal, sports romance, and of course . . . the millionaires and billionaires. This was my kind of place.
Feeling a little excited now, I walked to the back of the shop, where there were a handful of women sitting around a table, drinking coffee, and gabbing away. They were all older than me . . . like way older. Youngest member must have been at least ten years my senior. Not quite what I was expecting, but still a nice treat to be able to meet some other authors.
“Um, hello. Are you part of the SoHo Romance Writer’s club?” I asked, instantly feeling shy again.
A heavyset woman with a nest of white hair stood from her chair and held out her hand. “That would be us. You must be Rosie. I’m Sally. We spoke through email.”
“Hi, Sally.” I shook her hand, which was quite clammy, and then looked around the table. With a small wave, I said, “Hi, everyone. Thanks for having me.”
“Please, take a seat,” a woman to Sally’s right said. “I’m Myrtle, the vice president of the group. To my right is Betty, our secretary. On Sally’s right is Sue and then Wendy.”
Sue and Wendy both waved at me and said hello. Sue was wearing a paisley scarf over a mauve turtleneck and big pearl earrings. Wendy was sporting a fleece wolf-patterned jacket and a bolo tie. She looked very out of place.
“Nice to meet you all.”
