Red Shoes

I bought a pair of high heeled shoes the other day – tomato red and spiky. They're really great shoes. Very sexy.

If this were a romance novel, my husband would take one look at me in those shoes, throw me over his shoulder, and search out the nearest flat surface.

Sigh.

The reality is that my husband is great at rocking my world, but it doesn't have anything to do with sexy shoes. At least not so far. And frankly, if things like slutty shoes were important to him, he should have married someone else, someone who wouldn't have waited this long to get around to buying some.

So, I've been trying to imagine how he'll react when he gets a look at these amazing shoes. He may go all Neanderthal, but I kind of doubt it. I can't help but think he's more likely to get very, very tense, the same kind of tense that men get when their wives ask them if these pants make me look fat, only probably a little worse, because he will have no prior experience to guide him. Face it, the right answer is "no" or even "NO!" And any man who has ever had even a little time to think about it knows that, or at least he'll know it the second time he's asked.
 
But here's a situation my husband's unlikely to have anticipated, and where he has no prior experience to guide him. A little marital landmine. It almost makes me feel a bit sorry for him.

In fact, I bought the shoes for an event that won't take place for another month, so it's quite possible that my husband's first glimpse of them will be on the Visa bill. I have to think that right off the bat he'll have the wrong reaction, even though that first glimpse will probably set his heart to racing.

When he does see the shoes, on me, he will probably appreciate that my legs look great. But it's not like this is the first time he's ever seen me. We've been together for twenty odd years. He's seen me looking great before. He's also seen me cleaning the garage. He's seen me puttering around the kitchen in sweats. He's seen me with some seriously scary bed head. He's seen me with the stomach flu.

He has seen me delivering a baby.

Obviously I'm lucky that there's more to our mutual attraction than the visual. I heard from one man (for the record – someone else's husband, not mine) that seeing a baby get delivered looks a lot like seeing a deer get gutted. Can one pair of red shoes really counteract a visual like that?

And of course my husband knows me. He knows I don't often wear impractical shoes. He'll probably be wondering how the heck I'll be able to stand in them all night long. He may worry that I'm going to sprain an ankle or dislocate a hip, and it won't only be because he knows he'll be the one who has to lug the groceries in from the car while I'm recuperating. It will also be because, you know, he loves me.

To compound the problem, he'll probably have to let me into his office to change out of my sneakers before the event, because the heels on these shoes are so high and spiky that I couldn't possibly wear them to drive the car, much less to walk across a parking lot of any size.

And it won't help matters that I didn't buy them to go on a hot date. I bought the shoes to match an outfit I'm wearing to an event where we'll be playing host and hostess, standing around making small talk, drinking wine from plastic cups and listening to speeches. By the end of the night my feet will be aching, and I'll be dying to get home, take off the shoes and hurl them into the back of the closet.

It'll be totally worth it though. They're really great shoes. Just ask my husband.
 

More on Writing Love Scenes

I just read an old romance novel, something my friend Gail found in a box in her garage. It was terribly dated, which is another way of saying that it was terrible. But it was also terribly interesting, because of the glimpses it gave into life only a few decades ago.

The hero was mean and rude, and was always complaining. He also had anger-management and control issues. I'm no psychologist, but this guy had some serious, diagnosable problems. I think he was supposed to seem sexy, powerful, masterful, and attractively remote. Yeah, right.

The heroine described herself as "liberated," because she attended college, and had friends who had chosen to sleep with their boyfriends. She had not, of course. Much was made of her innocence. Then she quit college to get married without the slightest hesitation.

In the course of the story, the hero treated the heroine very badly. She reacted by apologizing, and trying to learn to be better at accepting and loving him. Eventually, an improbable set of circumstances led them to get married, despite the fact that neither of them wanted to. And then, on their wedding night, they finally consummated the relationship, in a scene that takes place entirely on a blank line.

I was incredulous. The only sex in the book was implied. The ideals for male and female behavior have clearly changed in three decades. But so, apparently, has the appetite for sex scenes in romance novels. The characters were on the bed. They kissed. Then he parted her robe. Then there was a blank line. And then it was morning. They woke up happy. They kissed a little. Then there was a blank line. Then they ate a late breakfast.

I was so envious. It would be so easy to write a sex scene if the only thing I had to do was press the Enter key twice. It almost made me wish I were back in that decade. Not really.

On Writing Love Scenes

Well, the writing is going well, which is a good thing. I've hit my stride with the novel I'm working on, and I've been steadily producing. But it means that sooner, rather than later, I'm going to have to write a sex scene. (Actually, we romance authors prefer to call them 'love scenes.') And that is terrifying.

My friend Shelly gave me a book called The Joy of Writing Sex. It's a wonderful read.  The author interviewed a whole lot of authors of literary fiction to find out their approaches to writing sex scenes. One of the questions she asked was how they dealt with the thought of critics while they wrote, particularly critics that they know, such as their grandmothers, or parents, or lovers.

One author responded that he didn't produce most of his best work until after his parents died.  Another said she asked her parents not to read one of her books. She said that her father agreed, but her mother didn't.  But her mother did agree never to speak of it.  Another said that his mother was devoutly religious, and offended by explicit sex scenes, but very supportive of him.  She read his books, but when it looked like a sex scene was approaching, she just skipped ahead. 

Another author said that you can't think about the reader when you write the scenes.  You just have to write the scenes, and worry about the repercussions later.  He was an English professor who wrote a book with a particularly graphic love scene.  One day a student approached him to tell him how much she loved the book.  His first horrified thought was, "Oh my God!  She read that scene!"

My parents have sometimes been compared to Ward and June Cleaver, wonderful parents, but not people you'd easily imagine sitting down with for a frank talk about sex.  But my mother cleared the air right away.  She's excited that I'm writing a book, and she's very supportive.  She told me, "I know your book will have to have sex scenes, so go ahead and write them.  But just make sure that when the book is done, if you took those scenes out, you would still have a good story."   And you know, it really does help not to have to worry about my parents.  Now I only have to worry about the rest of the world.

It Takes Me Back

Yesterday I heard the old Chicago song "Colour My World."  It took me back to the summer after 7th grade.  I was 12 years old, and I had my first slow dance with a boy.

I remember that he was cute, and he was nice, and his name was Patrick (probably.)  I don't remember him talking to me at all before our dance, or even much after it.  We hardly touched at all, dancing an arms length away from each other.  My hands were on his shoulders.  He had a death grip on my waist.  It was the most romantic moment of my life up til then.  And given the sweetness of the memory, I guess it still ranks way up there.

A Romantic Story or Cow, Marriage, Priorities

I heard a good story recently. My friend was telling me about her son Paul, a struggling farmer. When he was young and just starting out, he was seriously dating a girl. After some time, things had proceeded to the point where she was hoping for a ring at Christmas. Instead, Paul spent his money on a tractor. His girlfriend dumped him. She later married and had children, and is living happily ever after as far as anyone knows. Paul, meanwhile, had a good decade of regretting what he'd done. In all that time he dated only sporadically, and had no serious prospects. And it looks as if he learned something from that long ago mistake.

Recently, a wonderful young woman showed up in his life. In short order they became inseparable, and decided to get married. They're scrimping and saving for the wedding, which is coming up in a couple of months. Then a close relative of hers passed away unexpectedly. She was really rocked by the death. She wanted to go to the funeral, but the plane ticket was exorbitant, and they're scrimping and saving for their wedding. But Paul realized how important it was for her to go to the funeral. Without even telling her, he sold one of his cows. Then he told her to go ahead and get her ticket, because they had the money for it.

Looks like he got his priorities straight now.