We may never go back to plain, old romance fiction. Historical fiction with several dashes of romance seems far more rewarding to write, read back and edit; rewarding, in the sense that the stories of real folks are told in times that actually occurred, with struggles, joys and outcomes which many of that time period experienced. Certainly it is less mental 'work' not having to come up with so many details just out of thin air, but there is far more research involved than pure fiction.
The writing goes slower, however but not so incrementally that the flow is lost; the Editor comes home and listens to the latest chapter as he takes off his boots and stretches his back. Suggestions are made and plot flaws corrected, mostly before dinner. The next chapter is laid out over post-dinner coffee with much living room pacing and idea tossing. This goes on until we've reasonably hashed it out; if the series of events does not make sense, we cut, paste and poke at it until it does. At ten we watch the nightly news, maybe catch half of Charlie Rose before we succumb to the elongated hand of sleep. With work and young children, we have early mornings in this house.
It is a good existence, and our writing is satisfying to the mind. More and more of our near acquaintances find other things to do at night besides six hours of television. Some of the fans of the book overseas have emailed with phrases like 'it must be nice to write books for a living' and similar things. This idea correlated with the average perception of Americans abroad, from what I’ve been able to gather. Apparently, we are all grossly overweight and merely plunk down in front of a Satellite dish-enhanced TV all day or push papers around for a living.
That amuses me, I must say. While obesity is a problem for some, and perhaps not everyone works hard, there are many who do. My housework I do myself, no maids or laundry service. I have several business duties, accounting and secretarial; spare time is taken up with teaching the children home skills and taking them to the park or on walks, not to mention writing, errands and tendency to run laps around my living room while the kids are napping. These activities have kept me far removed from the obese category and really I am quite happy with being busy. I pity greatly anyone merely sits all day; I've never seen a soap opera (no time nor inclination). If I do have a moment, I sit down with a good book and read a little of it before duty calls again.
My man works with his hands for a living and comes home tired and dusty. I am never bored, he is never lazy; though our existence is a humble one, we enjoy it fully. I adore writing with him, for the brain encased in his noble brow is not a dull one, nor does it rest easily. The children provide work and play both as well as moment of brevity that only they can produce. In such an environment, it is no wonder that the books we write reflect pleasant, interesting lives with but few tragedies. The plots are empty of love triangles, empty lives replete with drug use and murderous sociopaths, but instead indwelled with soul mates, family and sprinkled with enough turmoil, trouble and toil to avoid the 'mary-sue' category by a wide margin. (Write what you know...)
If such is how the history of my life and that of my family is, then I am well satisfied; perhaps it would make a good book, to some researching fiction writer, many years from now.
Meredith
