Writing Realistic Love Stories

I don't think it is a secret that I write and read romances. There's something about them that I just can't seem to give up, and I've really only tried (to give them up) halfheartedly anyway. Despite having a great love for these stories, I will be the first to admit that they are completely unrealistic, almost always cheesy, and just a little bit vomit-inducing.

I was talking to a friend and he asked, "Why can't a realistic love story be written?"

My immediate answer: It can't. It just can't. Not in a romance novel. Because there is always going to be an element of cheese. Because do guys really say those things that makes your heart melt and kicks up a flock of butterflies in your stomach?


Kisses this awesome have to be scripted and acted out. I'm beginning to think that they don't really happen in real life.

Besides, if realistic love stories were written, you'd have to include all the mundane things. The annoying habits that you have to put up with...

I don't know. The closest thing I've read to a "real" love story is in Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. And even though the love story seems to ring true (if just a little puffed up) the rest of the story isn't, what with the witches and time travel and magic stones. Movies that portray "real" love stories end up like Blue Valentine, which is just depressing.

When I wrote my book, I tried to make it a realistic love story. It just got boring. So I threw in some things that I hope happen to absolutely nobody in real life.

I guess there's a reason we call it fiction; and a reason why the genre is so popular. We have to get our fixes of this overly-passionate, unrealistic love somewhere, because we aren't going to get it in our real lives.

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You can click the link on the right hand of this blog to take you to Lulu.com, where Unrealized Dreams can be purchased. I think the code will work on the ebook version as well, which is a cheaper alternative.

Unrealized Dreams

Chapters 1-4 of my first book, Unrealized Dreams have been made available on my blog. Check the Unrealized Dreams tab for the link.

Over and Over Again

Have you ever looked at something so often that you can't stand to look at it anymore? Some people think that turning over their work to someone after they have invested so much time and effort into something is a cop out or somehow takes away from the integrity of the work.

But I don't see it that way.

If I could take this novel that I've written and give it to someone who would take it and shape and mold it into something better, I'd let them. I'm so done with it. I feel like I've read every passage over 100x. The clever and witty things that I thought were in there have disappeared. Not because I've changed it - but because I've read them so many times they have ceased to be clever and witty.

I would love it if someone would comb through and find the parts that aren't necessary (the parts that make them roll their eyes) and cut them out. There are too many things that now make me roll my eyes, but I refuse to rewrite anything else until I know exactly what I'm just sick of and what actually needs to go. I don't want to put it on the shelf for another year, but then again, if I have to read the whole thing another time, I might just delete it.

That's not the sign of a good piece of work. But then again, I never claimed it was a piece of literary brilliance. So now I'm torn. It is too big an accomplishment to scrap it. Too big of a nuisance to keep working on it. And too big of a disappointment if I just were to give up.

But since you haven't read it 100x, I am adding another excerpt, just for the fun of it:

One day, George burst in the kitchen where the ladies were preparing the evening meal. Myra, worried about his over-excited state, made him sit on a small stool and drink a whole glass of water before he related his news.

He’d just returned from New York, and though he had not told his family, McKay knew through Ashton that George had gone to ask for Miss Stanford’s hand in marriage.

Since she was sure of the news, she continued to knead the dough that would be their evening rolls.

“I’ve just come from New York,” he explained taking another gulp of water from the refilled glass his mother offered him. “There were…rumors going around town through some of the least reputable parts of town.”

“What?” Myra asked, looking nervously at McKay and then back to her son.

She seemed to be worried about whether or not her daughter and her niece should be hearing such goings on, but she did not dismiss them.

“You mean you didn’t go to the Stanford’s?” McKay asked, feeling her own confusion.

George looked at her and blinked, “Oh, well…yes, I did. But…”

“George!” Susanna cried with delight. “She said ‘yes’ didn’t she? And her father gave his permission?”

“Of course, she did,” George stuttered. “But…”

“Oh, darling!” Myra clapped her hands and hugged her son around his neck.

Susanna kissed him on the cheek in congratulations.

During all the commotion, McKay watched her cousin carefully. He was still flustered, and there was more to his story than the proposal. They had all known it was coming. He would have just slipped that information in at the dinner table, not come bounding in the room like a madman.

Just then, Homer supported Ashton into the kitchen and the celebration stopped as they looked at the bruised and bloodied man.

He had obviously been in another fight, and McKay could see the beginnings of some nice bruises on his face.

Homer placed him on a stool next to George, and Ashton winced as he bent his midsection. Broken ribs, McKay identified immediately. She would know them anywhere, having seen them on the ranch.

“What have you done to yourself?” She demanded as she came around the counter, wetting a towel in the water boiling over the fireplace.

He looked at her and grinned sheepishly, but then slumped back in the chair closing his eyes. Susanna screamed, thinking he had passed out, and Myra escorted her out of the room before coming back with a sewing kit. The cut above his eye would need stitches.

“Really, Ashton,” McKay said as she surveyed him. He definitely had two broken ribs. The cut above his eye was bleeding; he was bruised from head to midsection.

“I hope the other guy looks worse than you do,” she pushed on a dark bruise and he grimaced.

“I wouldn’t know. They kicked me out before I had a good look,” groaning again from the pressure McKay applied elsewhere.

“Are you going to explain to me what happened?” She took the needle that Myra had placed in the boiling water, stitching after Myra had cleaned the wound.

“No.”

“George?”

“Um…” George looked to his friend, but relented. “As I said, there were some rumors going on about McKay in some of the less reputable places in town. We know it was Lowell, spreading them around to some of the gi…er, some of his associates,” he corrected.

It was McKay’s turn to wince.

“Anyway,” George continued. “We had just stopped in… and overheard an argument. Ashton went to check it out and there was Lowell, still looking mighty green from that punch, McKay,” he added with a proud nod towards his cousin. “Talking about his latest… anyway, the man that Lowell was talking to was not pleased with the information Lowell was providing. A brawl started out immediately, and Ashton got in the middle of it somehow.”

“And how in the hell did you get in the middle of it?” McKay demanded. “They weren’t talking to you.”

“McKay!” Myra scolded.

She ignored her aunt.

“Of course they weren’t, but they were talking about you,” George defended his friend. “Besides, the blonde chap was talking about how you were his in a real jealous manner. I’ve never even seen the man; I doubt very much you’ve had a fellow calling on you the likes such as him.”

“Blonde fellow?” McKay repeated. Could it be? “Did you catch his name?”

George only shook his head.

Ashton sat quietly while she finished stitching and bandaging him up. She had removed his shirt by this time, bandaging his ribs. He watched her carefully, and McKay felt almost self-conscious with the way he was gazing at her through slits in his eyes. One was almost completely swollen. Her thoughts turned to the night when she had gone to check on his stitches. He had asked her to kiss away his fever. She wondered if he would ask her to kiss away his bruised ribs. Obviously, ribs took weeks to heal. And yet, she wouldn’t mind trying. She pushed the traitorous thoughts from her head. He had promised not to kiss her, and had kept that promise.

Though, it seemed the longer they went without the kissing, the more tension there was between them.

Only the night before, they had run into each other walking down to get a midnight glass of water. McKay had been overly modest in her dress, careful not to be caught indecently again, but he had walked around in nothing but his under drawers. The muscles in his sculpted chest had been defined in the moonlight as he had handed her the freshly filled glass. She had recently cut his hair for him, but his evening shadow had given him the look of a hard working cowboy. McKay couldn’t believe that he had been raised in the city as a businessman.

She had wanted to touch him, so badly. And when he had leaned in to flick a small mosquito from her neck, she thought he would kiss her and she held her breath in anticipation. But he did not. She had been disappointed, and reminded of his promise.

Only, he had said that she could use him anytime she wanted to. But she could not do that to him. It wasn’t fair. How could she use him for her own physical gratification, and then turn around and leave him?

In her distracted state, McKay bumped a particularly tender bruise and Ashton caught her arm and pulled her away from him.

“Are you done sticking me like a pin cushion?” He asked in his rough voice. She had not heard him sound so harsh for sometime. Since the Lowells he had been nothing but overly gentle and cautious.

“Yes, I suppose,” she answered testily. “Why don’t you take better care of yourself, so I don’t have to stitch you up every danged day? Who’s going to take care of you when I’m gone?”

He glared at her, and she glared back .Something was definitely off between them. Yesterday they had been friends. Today, they were bitter ex-lovers.

Finished product

A couple of years ago I started writing a book.

It was the product of reading several books that I just knew I could do better. The whole, "If this can be published - surely I can be published," really inspired me to write. I mean, have you read some of those - especially cheesy LDS fiction - books out there? And of course, I should probably thank Stats for being my inspiration as well. I'm certain out of the 510 pages, about 60% of my book was written while I was supposed to be doing stats, was doing stats or was sitting in class for stats. It certainly brings out my creative juices!

Anyway, after two years I've finished my book. It is a fairly huge accomplishment. I can't help but feel a little puffy about it. So I sent a few copies out for friends/editors to read and I printed out a copy for myself to begin the red-lining. I left out the 250+ pages sitting out and Roberta started reading it.

The first comment I heard from her about the book was through Becca who had overheard Roberta telling a friend on the phone that she was reading a book that "the little girl that lives with me" wrote, and that she was enjoying it. She finished it in a couple of days - yesterday, reading for 6 hours or so. And the consensus: She loved it. She had a lot of really good things to say about it, couldn't put it down, etc.

I am very pleased. We both know that there is some work to be done. Some rewriting to do and some congruency fixes. But according to Roberta, it is publishing-worthy. And, maybe even career-worthy. Which, I must say, I would love! And there are more books in the works, so I guess we will see. I will keep you updated as I edit, and start sending this piece of work to publisher.

One good review, and I've totally let it go to my head.

An excerpt:

He didn’t have to peek at his cards again because he knew exactly what he’d find. He’d mastered his poker face some time ago, but the knowledge that he was about to win a rather large sum of money made him want to smile. And it wasn’t because he actually needed the money; it was more the fact that the men he was playing with all needed a lesson in humility.

He looked at the blonde, scruffy man sitting across from him – not closely, he didn’t want to be caught staring – but enough to read the look of desperation on his face. This man needed to win. What was supposed to be a blank slate instead showed exactly what it shouldn’t – he was in deep. Of course, the man wasn’t going to win. Ashton had this in the bag, and for a second, he felt a little guilty. He really didn’t need to win. The casino they were sitting in was owned by his very wealthy grandfather, which would mean that he’d inherit the wealth eventually. He was the only grandson and his grandfather had promised him that he would get part of his inheritance as soon as he married. The death of his parents had already left him set in the financial department, anyway; though many wouldn’t know it considering his current state of homelessness.

This self-chosen placelessness was what found him in his grandfather’s casino in California. Here in California, men were throwing money and gold down as if it was as worthless as feed corn, and now that he was here, he was enjoying being a part of it.

“Call,” the blonde said as they went around the table again.

“Fold.”

“Fold.”

Ashton hid his smile behind a cough and laid his cards face-up on the table. He heard a few muffled grunts of approval and awe. He tried to ignore the cursing on the other side of the table and the threats. He didn’t think that the threats were something he should be worried about. He’d be leaving the casino as soon as possible, and probably the state. His grandfather was notorious for being notified of Ashton’s presence and he didn’t necessarily want to be found, which meant never staying in one area for too long.

“You cheated,” the blonde man accused him, rising from his chair.

“I don’t think so, friend,” Ashton said, gathering his chips carefully. He walked over to the counter to cash in, leaving the man in the hands of the other players who were trying to hold him back and calm him down. Yes, Ashton would leave the area tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to have some angry cowboy wanting his head over a game that he had won fair and square.

“Ashton Hurst?” The man behind the counter asked, before Ashton could say anything.

He nodded in assent and leaned against the counter, knowing what to expect.

“I have a message for you, sir.” The man slid the missive over to Ashton. Then the clerk took the pile of chips and began counting, giving Ashton a moment to read his letter.

The Old Toad had found him, at last then. Ashton looked at the time-worn letter that looked as though it had traveled all over the country, maybe just one step behind him. The crisp writing was familiar enough, though he had managed to avoid it for three years, and he already had a decent idea of what the letter would be commanding him to do. It was exactly why he had wanted to take off. Later that night, he ran his calloused fingers through his hair, and set the letter and his hat on the slab of wood that served for a nightstand next to his dirty bed. It would be heaven to just curl up and fall to sleep. No matter how dirty the bed was, he was worse off. He hadn’t seen even a body of water since last week’s cattle run. He unbuckled the belt that held his gun, and carefully hung it on the bed post. If his grandfather had any idea of what he had been doing for the last few years… he smiled as he imagined the old man’s usually green features turn into the burgundy that was commonplace during a full blown tantrum.

Ashton walked to the wash basin that held the tepid water that he knew would give him instant relief, and began wiping down his face and neck. The dirt and grime that clung to his body after everyday had become so familiar, that he almost felt naked without it. He looked back at the letter sitting on his nightstand. He hadn’t read it, yet. After cashing in his chips, he decided to use the money to go and see a man about a horse, literally. He wished that he had stopped at the bathing house, too. And now, he dreaded opening the wretched letter. Still, a morbid curiosity was dying to read it – he cursed his curiosity and then sighed. He supposed that now he had it, he might as well read it. In a few long strides, he was back in front of the nightstand with ancient letter in hand. It had probably been written months ago. The news might be so old that it wouldn’t matter, he reasoned, as he tore open the seal. Ashton scanned to the bottom of the letter, it was not signed. The Old Toad –as Ashton referred him, others knew him as Martin Hurst, proprietor, businessman, and influential personality in New York – did not need to make his mark. The seal on the back of the letter was enough, as were the words.