The Romance Confession

 

It's my turn. 

I took a deep breath, exhaled and then got up from my seat. 

I cleared my throat, kept my eyes on the far wall and said in a loud voice. 

"Hi, I'm Ren Thompson and I have a problem writing romance."

The rest of my imaginary group greets me in the same, monotonous tone.

"Hi Ren."

I nod and sit back down.

There, I said it. 
I love to read historical, sci/fi, contemporary, any kind of romance but for me to write it? I'm having a bit of trouble. I don't know what it is but I'm having the hardest time trying to put the internal motion picture that I'm seeing down on paper. You know what I mean. When writing, you have the whole thing playing out in your mind, right down to who is starring in it. I just can't get it out there the way I want to. And don't even get me started about erotica. That's like trying to compete in a triathlon a few minutes after pigging out at a buffet. It ain't happening.

Fabio had it going on back in the day...

I belong to a writers group, where about 80% of them are published. 
The main theme is romance and erotica. I do admit to being a bit intimidated because of it. I mean, the stuff they write is hot enough to singe off your eyebrows but I know its because of the talent that has been nurtured there. I post my feeble offerings and get my feedback. A couple of times I've had to lick my wounds, other times I go back to the drawing board and start again. I know its done with the thought and care that I develop as a writer.

One of my writer friends told me that I tend to freeze up when it comes to the romantic interaction between the characters. I thought I was writing a great build-up to "It" but nope. It didn't flow true. At first, I was a little upset but I had to step back and take a good long look at the way I write. 
And she's quite correct in her assessment.

Romance and I are having issues.

I like dark fiction. I like the horror, the twist, the sinister vibe, the intensity, the whole "OMG" aspect of it. The thought of creating that kind of reaction is almost like a thrill for me. I haven't quite figured out how to go deeper without coming across like a psychopath but I know its there...lurking just beneath the surface.

 

I would rather describe the crunch of bones snapping than the plump fullness of a trembling breast. The taint of sour desperation is more appealing to write than the warm, spicy scent of manly flesh. Ripping off a bodice reads better coming from someone else other than me. I realize this now and in a way that sucks. Its something that I have to work on. 

My mother told me, more than once, that I have a warped imagination. I take that as a compliment, lol. Being called "deliciously sick" gives me the warm fuzzies as well. Am I crazy?

My friend suggested that maybe romance wasn't my genre to write, that I'm supposed to hone my skills on the dark side. How can this be? I thought about the little bit of "romance" that I've written on here and it does tend to have a heavier flavor to it. 

Its not all about happily ever after, at least not in the traditional sense.


She said: "Look at Stephen King. He's awesome at writing the macabre."
I retorted with: "He's Stephen King. He's SUPPOSED to write the macabre."
She said: "You're Ren Thompson. Maybe you're SUPPOSED to write the macabre, too."
I couldn't get my foot out of my mouth after that one.

One of my favorites

Now that I think about it, maybe I'm just stressing too much. I'm going to forgive myself since I'm still in a learning curve with this whole romance writing thing. I don't like the idea of not giving it the old college try. I believe in the Romance genre even though not many people do. Regardless of their perception, its a welcome relief from the day to day grind (no pun intended) of daily life. 
I want to be able to create that illusion for readers. 
I know I'm going to continue to keep getting my teeth kicked in over at my critique group but that's okay. 

Its all about becoming a better at the craft.

Gobsmacked - A Blogger Award

I've been doing this blogging thing for a few months and have come across some really great writers in the process. I've been bouncing from site to site, enjoying their offerings and hoping that they would like mine.

This, however, has come as a total surprise to me. 

Thank you, Rebecca, for giving me this "The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award"  If you haven't been over to her blog, you need to mosey on over right now and check her out. She's crazy cool and her writing is brilliant. Visit Rebecca here.

The rules for this are as follows:

1. Thank and link back to the person who nominated you.

2. Give 7 random facts about yourself.

3. Nominate 15 deserving blog buddies and contact them to congratulate them.

Here are my 7 random facts:

1. One of the pillows that I sleep with is named Brad Pitt. Yes, I am seriously obsessed.

2. If I don't have flavored creamer for my tea, I get seriously cheesed.

3. I like to get to the theatre early to watch the movie trailers.

4. October is my favorite month, even though I was born in August.

5. My dream vacation would be to hike through Japan.

6. I felt bad for Paris Hilton when she went to jail a few years ago. I sent her a card to the JAIL and I got an autographed picture in return. Yes, I got dogged out for that :)

7. I hate sleeping. I feel like I'm going to miss something.

My 15:

Tess Kincaid @ Life at Willow Manor

Chapter Forty

ThomG

Jae Rose

Susan Mayes @ Scribble and Scatters

Grandma's Goulash

Dear Hearts

ClaudiaC @ On a Limb

Sheilagh Lee @ Fear Not The Darkness

Paula @ When Words Escape Me

Kristen Howe @ Kristen's Book Jungle

Judith Leger

Altonian @ Scandic Sequences

Gautami Tripathy @ rooted

Draven Ames @ Another Slightly Scary Story

Caster's Cave - 3WW

“I don’t like this.” Aidan hissed for the umpteenth time. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Hell, you think I do?” I bit out. “Can it, will you?”

“Quiet!” Max whispered. “Listen!”

As if synchronized, we collectively held our breath and waited...

It whispered through the inky darkness of the tunnel, the vicious heat of something that was just beyond us.

We were warned about it…the Omen of Caster’s Cave.

I never believed the lore until now. 

I swallowed, willing the saliva to drown me right here and now.

Aidan whimpered and pressed closer, knocking me into Max who shoved the butt of his rifle into my gut. I stifled a grunt, wishing now more than ever that I'd brought my special night-vision goggles. 

Whoever it was…better yet, whatever it was…snorted then sent a blast of hot air at us. The fetid stench rolled through the darkness, seizing me by the throat. I gagged, tears leaking from my eyes. I couldn’t speak, nearly paralyzed by the rancid odor and my own fear. 

I struggled to breathe, to react but then instinct suddenly saved me.

I hit the ground just as Aidan screamed and fired, his shots erratic.

The tunnel lit up, the luminous flash of each report, the bark of the rifle deafening me with its intensity. With each spark, I tried to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that he was shooting at.

I tried to scream, call for someone, anything. 

In the chaos, I lost my weapon and was rewarded with the moist thump of something hot and sticky landing on me. I knew it was Max. I panicked and frantically pushed him off and tried to crawl away, the tangle of his limbs and my own trembling hampering me.  I couldn’t see, didn’t know if I was going in the right direction, nothing. 

The darkness hid me yet thoughtfully pushed the sizzling bile into my throat. The shakes were so intense, I vomited. My belly emptied and I was left with the dry heaves. 

I reached out and felt the cool, dampness of the tunnel wall.

From behind me, Aidan’s high-pitched shrieks pierced through the numbness in my head. The snap of bones and gurgling wheezes found a place in my mind’s eye. I pressed my fingers to my mouth to stifle my own screams.

I curled up, praying that it wouldn’t see me. 

I didn't want to die, not here, not like this. 

Suddenly, there was a brush of icy cold, tantalizing fresh air. I dragged in deep lungfuls, hoping that it didn't hear me. I wanted to jump up and run away. 

Before I could move, jagged fingers of light crawled along the dirt floor, slithering their way past me. I lay still, watching them as they went up the walls, illuminating my poor hiding place.

I tried to control my breathing but shuddered instead with hot, fresh tears. 

Was this to be my fate?

I peeked over my shoulder…

© copyright 2011 by Ren Thompson June 1, 2011

3 Word Wednesday: Luminous, Erratic, and Omen

His friend, Donald - Magpie Tales #65

“I wonder what he was thinking.” Annabelle mused as she slowly walked around the marble sculpture. “I mean, he looks so…so…”

“Bored?” Harry supplied. He flipped through the brochure and sighed. “Can we go now? We’ve been in here forever.”

“Oh, shut up.” She flapped a hand at him. “We’ve got another area to cover and besides, you owe me.”

“Yeah, like you’ll ever let me forget it, too.” He grumbled.

Annabelle laughed at his pouting face. She linked her arms through his and kissed him on the cheek.

“Stop sulking. You know you like going to museums.”

Harry rolled his eyes and let his girlfriend drag him from the room.

He watched them go, perplexed as usual by the strange behaviors that transpired between men and women. Over the years the change in clothes, especially with the ladies, never failed to shock him. Exposing so much skin! Or even worse, wearing breeches! The men were dressed nicely enough, though he could never understand the fascination with the breeches hanging low to the knees. And the language!

If he could shake his head he would.

Some of the people that came to see him were actually quite nice. They whispered about him, pointed and even tried to take a picture. He wanted to warn them against that but the young lady sentry would come along and ask them not to do so.  Sometimes it may be a young man…

He stopped forming attachments to the sentries that were posted at the door. They changed often, too often for him to study their habits. There was one, however, who had been there for a very long time.

Donald had been his name…

He remembered the first time Donald came to see him. 

It was nighttime, the museum closed. Normally he would just content himself with remembered conversations he had overheard during the day but tonight, it was different. The sentry came into the room, walked right up to him and stared him in the eye.

At first he was affronted.

How dare this young man stare at him so deliberately? Granted, he knew his only purpose was for that but he felt provoked nonetheless. It was almost as if he were expected to say something.

He waited as Donald stood there.

After a long moment, Donald nodded and said that he would do. He admitted to being confused at the time. But gradually he found that Donald needed a friend, someone to just listen to him. His purpose was finally clear and he felt useful again.

Initially, the conversations revolved around studies and some silly girl named Beth who wanted to get married. Donald was hesitant. She kept pressuring him.

He listened to this for a few months until, eventually, Donald told him that Beth married his best friend, Albert and that the newlyweds moved to Nova Scotia soon afterward. Donald was relieved.

A couple of years passed by and then he was told about the new wife from Ohio named Lucy. They met during a concerto by a man named Who. He was happy for his friend.

He looked forward to these visits from Donald. As soon as the lights went out, he grew eager to see his friend, wondering what news he would have. It became his lifeline, his reason for happiness.

Over time, the conversations varied from Donald’s daughter’s first steps, to the arrival of twin boys, and to the passing of his mother, Gwendolyn. Donald’s children grew up and then his father, Milton, died when the twins graduated from college. Soon, there were several weddings, a divorce and then grandchildren. Donald had even brought one of his granddaughters in for a visit.

He didn’t know what the child had found so offensive about him as she cried the entire time. Donald had taken her away and the next time she was mentioned was when she had shaved her head and joined a musical group called the Screaming Eels or something like that. Donald had been quite horrified but made sure that his granddaughter had his undivided attention whenever she came to town.

His friend explained about mortgages, told him about a used car that finally died and how his wife had tripped over the youngest grandson’s skateboard, throwing out her new hip. Donald took a second job to pay down that medical expense. Then he and Lucy went to Las Vegas as soon as she got better.

He relished it all, thankful for every night that Donald spent with him.

Time marched on.

He saw the physical changes in Donald as well. The once dark brown hair became threaded with silver. The paunch grew in Donald’s midsection and his steps grew slower. The hands were thicker and not as quick.

Lucy passed away.

He wanted to comfort his friend but could only sit in silence as Donald broke down in tears. After that, his friend seemed to change.

Sometimes, Donald would stare into space.

Donald wore glasses now and started to nap during the night, his glasses perched on top of his thinning hair.

He was a little frustrated by this but could not fault his friend. Donald was a good man and deserved rest.

He just missed the chats.

Then it happened.

Donald was retiring. His granddaughter, she of the Screaming Eels, wanted him to come and live with her family down in Arizona. Donald was happy. He wanted to get away from the Canadian winters, said his old bones couldn’t stand it anymore.

He wanted to say to his friend how much it meant for him to share in his life. He wanted to say how he wished he wouldn’t go but knew that Donald had no idea of the thoughts that plagued him.

Then the last night arrived.

Donald came to stand before him and there were tears in those faded brown eyes. When Donald spoke, he felt the wealth of emotion behind the words of his friend.

“Thank you, my friend. Thank you for listening.”

He wanted to reply to him, to say something but he couldn’t.

He was absolutely shocked, however, when Donald raised a camera to take his picture. The flash blinded him but not the memory of seeing his friend, over the years, chase unruly youngsters who had tried to do the same exact thing.

When he vision cleared he saw his friend smile at him for one last time.

Then Donald was gone...

“Please don’t take pictures, thank you.”

The brisk voice of the sentry snapped him out of his memories.

He found himself looking at a young man that vaguely resembled Donald. The sentry had marched off, mumbling to himself.

The young man shrugged and snapped another picture anyway before moving to another exhibit. The sentry saw this and hurried back over, raising his voice.  They started bickering,  and then the young man darted around the sentry who began to give chase.

He smiled as he watched them, remembering...

© copyright 2011 by Ren Thompson May 9, 2011
Magpie Tales