Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

I’ve been neglecting my blog rounds something shocking, lately, so I didn’t get to read this most excellent week-old Romancing the Blog entry about character identification and HEA requirements by Rosario until last night.

Sometimes during lunch, I google “romance” or “romantic” in Google:News and see what comes up. Today, the day after Valentine’s Day, I figured I’d find a few articles from the news feeds about proposals, gettin’ some on Valentine’s Day, or what the card stores do with all the leftover heart-shaped boxes of candy.

But no: it’s a cornucopia of the romantic efforts of the vaguely creepy.

First, we have a story about a new website that enables you to track down and flirt online with hot people in neighboring cars when you’re stuck in traffic. Because picking your nose isn’t enough of an activity, Ben Phillips has decided the new and best way to hook up with hot people is to… mark your car with a decal so other people can look you up online. Imagine the poetry that can come of this:

“Your headlights are perfect
and your bumper is, too.
I’ve got your decal number
so how ‘bout a screw?”

Then there’s high school junior Paul Kim, who spent his hard-earned money delivering roses to every female student in his graduating class. Nice gesture, but he underestimated by 100 students. I hope the boy gets at least a date out of it, though.

And finally, which is a more romantic film? Titanic or Brokeback Mountain? And while I’m asking the internet doofy questions, ¿Quién ES más macho, Fernando Lamas, o Ricardo Montalban?

Updated to add:

Wild nights! Wild nights! 
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury! 

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart. 

Rowing in Eden! 
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

- Emily Dickinson

Let’s all be shameless saps today. What’s your favorite love poem? Post it in the comments.

Smart Bitch Publishing is now opening its doors - ha, just kidding. Or are we? We forget!

SBP is currently seeking query letters for our new imprint: Why Heroines with Amnesia (WHA?)! We’re hoping you can provide us with an outstanding amnesia storyline, replete with things we can’t quite remember clearly. We’re giving you a wide playgound for creativity, because there were rules but since we hit our heads on Fabio’s man-titty, we haven’t been able to recall what they were. Or what our names are, but we can still remember the basics of potty training. And bitching. We’re good at that, too.

Anyway!

WORD LIMIT: 450 words

FORMAT: Give us the proposed title and length

And then, the summary of your amnesia story! We want to know your characters, their conflict, your theme - and the only requirement is that the heroine (or the hero) MUST suffer from amnesia!

Forget the last part of the standard query about your publishing experience and the part where you kiss up. We know we’re awesome, and we know you are, too.

DUE DATE: Send your entries to both Sarah and Candy by Friday, February 17, 2006.

We want your query synopsis, before we forget why we asked. Entries will be posted for Bitchery voting, and winner will receive a gift certificate for Amazon.com, and a fine piece of literature, only I can’t remember which one.

Pesky amnesia.

Ah, it’s like fish in a barrel: the Native American romance novel cover. The fringe! The headbands! The majestic beadwork. The big bulge in the front of the buckskin trousers!

But what about the poor horsies, forced against their will to participate in this tawdry drivel?

Sarah: The magic in question is how the shirtless comanche is holding onto the stupid woman while she grabs his knee. Poor horse is going to fall the hell over with all that side weight, because the poor thing already has to lug those man titties around on his back.

Candy: Wow, this looks like a figure skating routine, only with a horse. Strapping ice skates onto a horse: talk about cruel and unusual.

Not that it’s any crueller or more unusual than having to bear these two preening asshats on its back.

And is this just a problem with my monitor, but does the man have no discernible nipples?

Sarah: “Stupid woman,” thought Has-Big-Mullet-But-No-Shirt. “Not only is she running around in her nightgown during a brushfire, but she doesn’t realize that horse is going to stomp her head like a melon. Oh well. Maybe me and my man-titties will fit in her shirt.”

Candy: Does it seem to you that BOTH of them are gazing at the horse with unbecoming longing? The girl seems to be gazing wistfully at the horse’s hocks, while the dude seems to be ignoring the girl’s fairly impressive rack in favor of her equine companion. The secret of the book is out: Wind is the name of the horse, and the book is centered around the unholy love triangle between the blonde chippy, an Apache stallion and the horse they both love just a leeeeetle too much for anyone’s comfort.

Sarah: I bet it burns, honey, that “midnight fire.” No one told these two about the romance taboo about buttsecks on horseback.

Candy: That is the BEST expression on her face. Anticipatory, yet blank. Kind of like cousin Bleh in Drawn Together. She knows that he’s promised to remember the KY next time, but she also knows he’ll keep “forgetting.” I mean, c’mon, look at the smug expression on his face. You just KNOW he’s the kind of asshole who’ll slip it up the backdoor and claim it was an “accident.”

The weird disembodied hand clutching at her boob also threw me off for a bit until I realized it was supposed to be hers.

Sarah: And when there’s no horse? Because he done ran off in fear of further trick riding injuries from dangling women off his bridle? Your handsome Apache can yank your arms off and ride you like a stick horse across the prairie.

Candy: All RIGHT! Talk about backdoor love on the range! (Where the deer and the antelope play...proctologist.)

Looking at the supremely awkward angle of her legs, I’m not sure HOW she’s staying upright. Unless she’s being propped up by SOMETHING.

I think there’s definitely a stick horse here, Sarah. Only it’s not the one you think. I think the stick horse is already being ridden, cunningly hidden ‘twixt the folds of the skirt.