The Washington Post wants a peek inside of my “boudoir” for Valentine’s Day. How — sweet.

 

Photo: Jill Clarkson Design 

If you’d like some advice on how to make your bedroom a little more inviting, please go to http://jillclarksoncoloranddesign.blogspot.com/2007_10_07_archive.html

It’s that time of year again. Valentine’s Day is screeching up on us, and of course, journalists everywhere are looking for a new angle on what’s romantic. Who better to ask than romance authors, huh? Sarah of Smart Bitches Trashy Books received the following from an unnamed author who received it from a reporter at the Washington Post. Let’s just say I don’t think it was sent by either Woodward or Bernstein.

http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/index.php/weblog/oh_for_craps_sake/

Dear Romance Writers,

For a Valentine’s Day story for the Washington Post Home Section, I’m hoping to feature the bedrooms of a couple of local romance writers (who better to create a romantic ambience [sic] than you creative ladies? And if there is a man among you with a romantic bedroom, that would be totally cool).

I’d appreciate it if you could send my query to your Washington area members to explain what I’m seeking:

*A couple of digital pictures of your romantic boudoir, preferably in daylight (even if it was designed to look fab in candlelight).

* You should be in at least one of the photos, since if you’re chosen, you will probably be in the picture. (Feel free to wrap yourself in a feather boa or come-hither pegnoir).

*Your bedroom certainly does not have to be “done” by a professional designer or decorator, but it should look good (if you want to declutter a bit before photographing the space, by all means, have at it).

*The rooms do not have to be frilly/girly/pink, Victorian or any other stereoptyical romance-writer look. They can be Zen, minimialist, historic, Art Deco, Scottish tartan, country, shabby chic, cowgirl funky, whatever. The room just has to telegraph Romance and Love.

*Those of you who want to share your sanctum sanctorum should include a couple of paragraphs about what is romantic about it (extra points given for a heart shaped bed), and perhaps where some of your favorite things came from (great granny, your first great love, Wal-Mart, Sotheby’s),

* I’ll need your real name and your nom de plume, as well as a daytime phone number so I can get in touch with you. Practically speaking, the rooms we choose will probably have to be no further than 50 -75 miles from downtown Washington so we can get a Post photographer there to shoot it.

Ladies, this is your chance to spread a little Romance Writer Valentine cheer to your readers and to ours. I do hope you’ll spread the word. I need the images and little eassays [sic] in hand by Jan. 25 so we can shoot the following week.

Thanks in advance for all your help. I remain,

Breathlessly yours,

_________________

Hmm. Let’s see here. The wit! The style! The broad-brush generalizations! Since the Washington Post is looking for information, who am I to deprive them? We’re outside of their 75-mile radius of Washington, DC, but I am a romance author. Without further ado, here’s my response to the journalist…

Hello,

To say that it’s flattering to be asked for photographs of my boudoir is an understatement. After all, I typically do not attract this type of interest as a fortysomething, married woman. Actually, I misspeak. There’s one man who finds me (and our bedroom,) quite compelling. I’m sure this has something to do with the fact I have paperwork on him.

I’m sure the average person would believe that a romance author’s bedroom is beyond imagination. After all, we need inspiration, don’t we? Where better to find it than at home? Ah, yes: A book to write. A husband to exhaust in the name of “research”. It’s a beautiful thing.

Our story begins much too early on a Monday morning in a suburb of Seattle. Faint gray light filters like smoke into a cluttered room through half-closed blinds. Our flannel-nightgown-clad heroine is curled into the fetal position in a rumpled bed. She shoves a mass of tangled red hair out of her eyes while being besieged by two ill-mannered felines. There is a hole in the bottom of their food bowl invisible to the naked eye, and she must address this immediately, if not sooner. Pulling the flannel sheet over her head does no good; the cats think it is a game. How can beings with no opposable thumbs command the entire household?

Our hero must fling himself into the driver’s seat of his truck in the next thirty seconds if he has any hope whatsoever of making it to the office in a timely manner. He bends over to kiss the heroine. Even if it’s early, even if she’s barely awake, she resists the impulse to drag him back into the bed.

“Have a good day, honey,” she murmurs. One of the cats headbutts him.

“Go back to sleep, okay? I’ll see you later.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” and he hurries out of the room, barely avoiding the dirty laundry basket, two or three stacks of books, and a feline who thinks that any human walking away from him wants to play. His brother continues tormenting our heroine. He’s now attempting to pull the sheet off. The non-standard-issue sheet.

Romance authors everywhere subscribe to a strict code, and our heroine is in violation. If this gets out, it’ll not only cost her her career, it will earn the scorn of other romance authors. There is nothing on this earth quite as unnerving as receiving a poison pen letter from someone who has an expanded vocabulary and the talent to use it. Plus, the erotica authors get involved in the chastising, and she does not want to have anything to do with the business end of a cat o’ nine tails, thank you very much.

First of all, her attire: Our author should either be naked, or clothed in the most costly and impractical lingerie known to man. She’s wearing chin-to-ankles flannel. And socks! How on earth can she be expected to write brain-melting sex scenes in something so — virginal?

The sheets. They’re flannel, too. There will be hell to pay. The standard-issue satin sheets are carefully folded and reside in the linen closet after the hero sustained a fairly embarrassing and difficult-to-explain “sports injury” the first night they attempted to sleep on them.

The forty-five decorative pillows for their bed? The neck bolster? The tiny lavender-filled pillow? These two don’t even have a headboard, let alone sleep in the recommended four-poster. Oh, the humanity. No candles artfully scattered on every flat surface? No trail of rose petals to the bed? No wall-sized diagram of every position in the Kama Sutra, either? When the association hears about this, our author will be lucky if they’ll let her BUY a romance novel, let alone write one!

Speaking of romance novels, there are books stacked everywhere in our author’s room. If she’s reading all those books, when on earth does she have time for — other activities? She’d have to be one hell of a multitasker. It’s not just romance novels, either. Is it possible that one human being can own so many sex manuals? Really. Aren’t they all the same? Insert Tab A into Slot B? How hard is this?

She digresses.

The phone rings. It’s another author friend who’s having trouble with a plot point. Our author doesn’t even attempt to effect the breathy, sexy tones romance readers everywhere would expect, either. After all, Caller ID is our friend.

“Listen,” the other author gasps. “I’m stuck. Sebastian and Chloe have been in a carriage accident. Is she ruined if he’s found mortally injured while half-naked?” The other author has also fulfilled a well-known Romance Author Rule: One must write at least one book in which the hero is named “Sebastian”.

“Well, you’ll have no book if he’s dead. Can’t kill off the hero,” our author assures her while snuggling further into the flannel sheets and down blanket. It’s non-regulation, but at least it’s warm.

“He’s only mostly dead. Plus, both his shirt and his breeches were artfully torn in the accident.”

“How “artfully torn” were they?”

“Let’s just say that his throbbing rod of love is in evidence.” Our author hears a wail in the distance; the other author shouts, “Jeffy, stop it! The dog does not want to wear Mommy’s negligee!” “Jeffy,” of course, is short for “Jefferson”. All romance authors must have improbably-named children, too.

Our author takes a deep breath. The following will ruin HER, but it’s time to abandon the facade. There must be someone else who will understand, and this friend — well, she was talking recently about writing a romance involving real people. This is just not DONE! Even contemporaries feature the rich and the rich, don’t they? How would real people know anything about romance, anyway?

“Daphne?” the friend asks, voice trembling. “I didn’t really call because I need plot help. I need to talk.” She breathes a heavy sigh. “I can’t do this anymore. My husband says he’s tired of living in Regency England. He likes all the sex, but he opened the last La Perla bill, and he wants to know why I can’t wear old cotton t-shirts to bed like other guys’ wives. I can’t keep up the decorating, either.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “We’re not even using the satin sheets anymore. Phil fell out of bed and — how many times can he show up at the doctor’s office with a groin pull when he doesn’t even play professional football?”

Daphne closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “Jessica, it’s okay. We stopped doing that stuff a long time ago. Things are better. I can still write, and well, we’re getting more sleep.” She glanced uneasily towards the laptop on the card table in the corner of her bedroom. “I brought the computer into our bedroom.”

“NO! No! You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!”

“I did,” Daphne said grimly.

“Then what makes us different from those OTHER writers? You know! The ones that make fun of us?”

“Jessica,” she murmured. “There is no difference.”

So, Madam Reporter, I hope you’ve enjoyed your journey into the boudoir of a romance author.

Photos? You first.

With love,

Strategerie