Romance authors are reminded everyday how their genre of
books are viewed by the literary and the non-romance readers. We get no
respect. While this subject has been written about often, I won’t give you
statistics. But I will tell you about an experience I had.
Several years ago as I stood in line at the pharmacy, an
elderly, well-dressed gentleman behind me commented on a book on the shelf.
These books were geared toward health. He couldn’t understand how some of them
made it to published book. Of course, being the curious person I am, I told him
I’m a writer. He said so was he. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: What do you
write?
Him: Books on
engineering.
Now I’m sorry I asked.
Him: What do you
write?
I looked him in the
eyes and said historical romance books.
Here it comes, the put
down on romantic fiction.
Him: Oh, those
aren’t real books.
Me: It is for
millions of people, men, too.
His eyes narrowed, as
if I had spoken blasphemy and he was suspicious of my character.
Him: Men don’t
read romances.
He puffed out his skinny chest and gave me a pointed look of
superiority.
Me: The
statistics don’t lie.
Him: Well, you
should write a book people can use. Non-fiction books people are really
interested in. Romances are silly, and they’re all written by women who have
nothing better to do.
Okay, my Italian
temper started to rise.
Me: That’s not
true. I tutor Italian, Spanish, German, English as a Second Language, and
library sciences at (local college). I’m also a student there. I have three
daughters as well as a home-based movie memorabilia business. I also sew
clothing for my family.
Him: See there,
you have something better to write about.
Is this guy for real?
Me: I prefer reading
and writing historical romances. A lot of research goes into each book.
Although it’s fiction, I research meticulously to make the book as real and as
close to history as possible while creating a love story between the hero and
heroine.
My name was called.
After I paid for my prescription and walked off, the man commented, Spend
some time in a book store. You’ll find so many books that aren’t pure fantasy.
You’ll learn new things. Maybe you will start writing the books people really
want to read.
Of course, I let my
Italian show and what I said next wasn’t a smooth move, but he didn’t know my
name. And he’d definitely never look me up or read my books.
Me: Take your own
advice. Maybe you will find there’s more in a bookstore than how-to books. And
while you’re at it, check out the psychology section. I’m sure there’s a how-to
book there on close-minded, rude people like you!
His features froze. The
two ladies behind him who had heard the entire conversation turned their heads
to hide their amusement. I left the pharmacy feeling like I just slew an enemy
of the romance genre. Then I remembered. If he paid attention when the
pharmacist called me to the window, he does know my name.
That wasn’t the only naysayer I came across and still
continue to find. In Italian we say ciascuno
a ogni tempo—to each his own. And that is what I live by these days, just
so I don’t fly off the handle and strike someone with words of anger and
frustration. Because, somehow, one person in the bunch might find me. With the
internet, my name could be strewn about the world wide web like a casualty of
war.
Book 2, Italian medieval series
Available from The Wild Rose Press
Prima Ranieri seeks retribution for her family's
death and loss of home and land. Her plans go awry when the heir to the
powerful Massaro family returns home. After only one glance, Prima's attraction
to him undermines her furor toward those she blames for her plight.
After a fifteen year absence, Antonio Massaro returns to Palermo Palermo
EXCERPT
Antonio ordered Prima thrown into the dungeon. In
this scene, he goes down to release her from the rack where he had
previously secured her wrists and ankles.
“If you confess, you will find yourself free before nightfall.”
“I have naught to confess.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze.
“You attacked me. By what reason did you greet me with unfriendly intentions?”
“I thought you were a…thief, looking to prey on the innocent women weeping for
their dead.”
“Liar.”
She glared up at him.
“You had no other reason than to seek revenge on the Massaro and the Falcone.
You thought I came, summoned to Palermo
“Was it not I who you bade to confess? Alas, since you have spoken my truth, as
I already did after you captured me, am I free to leave?”
Antonio forced back a grin caused by her saucy remark. “Clever, piccola.” He pulled
open the cuffs at her wrists anyway, ignoring the shock spanning her features.
“They were never locked,” he admitted, watching her shock turn to seething
hatred.
She sat up, rubbing her wrists. He scooped her surcoat from the rushes and sat
down beside her legs on the raised rack. When he took her hand in his, she
snatched it away.
“I mean only to tend your cuts,” he said.
“I shall see to them myself.” Prima tugged her surcoat out of his hand. “The
ankle cuffs?”
Antonio glanced back at her wiggling feet, all the while aware that her eyes
were on the leather tie holding his long hair in place. It was uncommon for a
man of wealth and honor to wear his hair below his jaw; he didn’t care. He
turned then and caught her staring. The ill-lit dungeon did not conceal the warm
flush unfolding up her cheeks.
“It appears we are in a small quandary. The ankle cuffs are locked, and I have
not the key.” He rose to search the dungeon. He picked up an axe and curled his
fingers around the leather wrapped
handle. From the corner of his eye he watched Prima as he raised the old weapon
to his lips and blew the dust free. When he cleaved the table with the sharp
blade, Prima gasped. “This should do, I think,” he said.
“Wh-what are you about?” Her eyes widened as he raised the weapon high
above his head. “What—? Dio!” She clasped her hands behind her neck and pulled
her head between her knees. The chains jerked her ankles and her legs slammed together,
snapping against her ears. He knew of no easier way to rid her of the chains.
One final blow freed her completely. She raised her head, rubbing her ears, and
shook herself of the gypsy bells undoubtedly tinkling within. She touched her
hair, felt her neck, and exhaled loudly.
Astonished, Antonio asked, “Think you I would take your head?”
She boldly met his gaze. “Sì.”
