If you’re a romance writer, then you are probably aware of the drama going on regarding the question how much romance is necessary for a story to be classified a romance novel. I think of it as the Great Controversy.
If you’re a reader, hopefully you haven’t noticed.
SInce I’ve always had more romance than plot in my manuscripts, the Great Controversy is something I hadn’t thought much about. Not because I didn’t care but because I know what happens when you try to quantify the subjective.
Fools run errands and those wild geese you’re chasing bite back.
It’s like trying to eat a spaghetti sandwich. It’s possible, but you’re left with a mess and you’ve lost half of your noodles.
So, this summer, I let the Great Controversy go. I left it to others who are more articulate than I to work out the answers. Then I forgot about it.
Until I went to the airport for my flight to San Antonio for the annual RWA Conference and met the Angry Young Man.
Tall. Shaved head. Sharp tongue. His dark tattoos threatened to slash me, but it was his words that cut.
Romance novels? Pathetic. Formulaic. Pornographic.
I stepped away quickly, not wanting to engage in an argument before boarding a plane.
Yet, despite his derision, his eyes held desperate questions.
Will I ever be loved?
Will I ever love another?
Are Happily Ever Afters real?