I love trashy novels. I suppose they're not really trashy...but that's what I call them. The kinds of romance novels that transport me to another time, another place, and let me be someone else for a while. A woman of means, a woman who wears corsets and jewels, and who is rescued by some dashing cad who turns out to be her prince charming.
They're not very filling, don't last very long, but they're so fun to read...exactly like cotton candy.
Today I've been to regency England as an heiress, the rugged coast of Maine at the turn of the century, and in between packed box number 100. Somehow getting to escape for a while made it easier to finish packing up the dining room and think about tackling the kitchen tomorrow.
I've often toyed with the idea of writing a romance novel, and have gone so far as to begin one. But now that it's begun, I'm not quite sure where to go with it. I guess my tendency to begin projects (like king-sized quilts with hand stitching and clothes patterns that are cut out but never sewn together) and not finish them goes beyond just sewing. Go figure.
Okay, so to be totoally honest, the sewing projects have more to do with losing interest and finding something more exciting to make. The unfinished novel has to do with being scared of failure. Writing nonfiction is one thing, but writing a novel scares the pants off me for some reason.
You can't fail if you don't try!
(And my husband is terrified of failure and change -- that's why he's been at his horrible job for over nine years.)
Posted by: capello | July 21, 2006 at 08:15 AM