Tuesday, April 05, 2011

My Dearest Charles:

That's right, folks. Today's the day.

My Gigolo: The Care and Feeding of a Male Prostitute is now for sale in print.

*does a very quiet happy dance, as everyone else is asleep*

Hey, I tried to go to bed hours ago. I really did. My mind kept wanting to puke out a blog post and link it on all the social networking sites I'm on (yeah, all two of 'em). What can I say? Sometimes that blasted hamster at the wheel just won't stop running.

So, how do I plan to celebrate, you ask? Lovely question. I thought briefly of going out for a nice draft beer (or two). Haven't had one for like two years. Heck, I haven't even had a bottle of beer since moving here.

But then I remembered I have to work tomorrow (today?), so that's pretty much out. Unless I wanna be a complete lush and have a beer before going to work. Not a good plan, considering I'll probably link this on Facebook, and my boss friended me there. Heh.

So, while lying in bed and trying to shut my brain up enough to catch at least a few winks before heading over to Books-a-Million (and maybe Hastings) tomorrow to offer to sign any copies they may have gotten in (totally crossing my fingers to see my book on the shelf somewhere), I started thinking yet again at how odd it is that someone like me wrote and sold a romance novel.

Why? Well, because I don't have a romantic bone in my body.

Anyone who's read more than five posts from this blog knows I'm not exactly blessed with feminine graces. I'm more likely to talk about football and wrestling than... good God, what do girls even talk about?? And seriously, shouldn't I want to celebrate with champagne instead of beer?

Yeah.

So how on earth did I manage to fake enough romance to sell a novel? Heh, pun kinda intended there.

Well, it's like this: I didn't. That's right. This isn't your regular romance novel. I even got a comment from an editor that a particular line wasn't something they'd ever read in a romance novel before.

My characters joke about Hitler and football and Tae Bo aerobics. The heroine is really, really, really bad at dancing and minigolf and, ya know, emoting. The hero has a bit of an impulse control problem. Not terribly good fodder for hearts and flowers and sun-drenched hours.

And yet, they somehow manage to melt a few hearts here and there. Not sure how it happened. Maybe the Muse took over the controls during those scenes, because it sure wasn't me. I'm more likely to subscribe to the The Ugly Truth ideology of male/female interaction than the Harlequin one.

Mind you, I'm not knocking Harlequin. I've read more of their books than I'm really comfortable talking about. Research! It was all research! Learning the craft. Checking out the competition. Especially all the Regency romances.

But when it comes to my own personal life? Yeah. Not romantic. I'd rather have Chiefs tickets than roses and chocolates, and I'd a million times rather go see the latest horror flick than take a windy walk. Although I might submit to such indignity if it's raining. I do love the rain.

So how does the BBQ-eatin, beer-drinkin, WWE-watchin me crank out something that somehow made more than one reader puddle up if not outright sob into a pink lace hanky?

The magic of writing. That's my only explanation. I can do things when I write of which I'm otherwise completely incapable. It's my escape, my salvation, and in the case of writer's block, my curse.

That particular avenue of freedom has been hard to find this past year, and I've butted my head against a lot of mental walls trying to plow open the literary door in my mind. Some days are more successful than others. Of late, I've had more of the good kind, for which I am infinitely grateful.

And as for the bad days? The days when the words simply will not come?

Well, I think from now on, I'll just pick up my book and thumb through the pages. I'll remind myself that I am capable of pretending to be a romantic, of bringing two emotionally retarded people together despite themselves, of sticking it out through the bad until it magically turns into the good.

The proof is right here. In print. And that, my lovelies, is magic.

5 Comments:

At 6:02 AM, Anonymous Katie said...

Firstly: contrats on the official launch of your book! It's awesome.

Secondly: one of the first things I ever read on the internet was the blog of a fantasy author I didn't read (I don't know why...). She was explaining that she never expected to be a fantasy author because she'd set out to be a romance writer. Your post made me think of that, except in reverse.

I also think the best sort of person to write a romance I'd be interested in reading is actually a person who doesn't consider themselves romantic. Because the romantics will possibly have an innate tendency to write the traditional story. Surely the non-romantic will write something different entirely.

Have a fantastic day with your book. :D

 
At 12:50 PM, Blogger GutterBall said...

Aw, thank you, Katie! I hope I don't disappoint. I hope you like pirates and ninjas and zombies, oh my?

 
At 2:26 PM, Blogger Sherri said...

Congrats Molly!! As for your question...maybe one of your zombies took over your body :)

 
At 8:56 AM, Blogger Kethry Moondragon said...

OMG! Gratz GB! You have worked so hard to get where you are! I give you major props for never giving up. Makes you want to send a copy to every company that sent you those rejection letters doesn't it? I always believed you would make it. ^_^

 
At 1:56 PM, Blogger GutterBall said...

Actually, I've been extremely lucky in the rejection business. I've been rejected, of course (every writer has), but not nearly as often as you'd think.

This book, particularly, was picked up by the first publisher I sent it to. Mind you, I'd sent it to four agents before submitting directly to an editor, and none offered to pick me up, but hey. That's still pretty darn good odds.

Honestly, you kinda have to look at those rejections as the cost of doing this kind of business. You can't please everyone all the time, right? *gnaws fingers to bone*

Word verification: scanca. If spelled with a K, it's the instant coffee for women of questionable morals and hygiene. Heheh.

 

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