Do Men Read Love Stories?
In preparing for an interesting topic for the editorial of one of my favorite newsletters, I entered a simple phrase into Google. ‘Do men read love/romance fiction?’ I found some answers, but I also found romance still isn’t considered serious writing by too many people.
Harlequin isn’t feeling the crunch other businesses are, in fact, their sales keep going up in these slow times. Nightline did a segment on the romance novel publisher Harlequin’s 60th Anniversary, and I decided to take a look.
Edited the link out because it is now dead.
Reading the short excerpt shown below the tube, I got the idea Nightline had little respect for the genre, and less for the authors and readers. If Comedy isn’t a sub-genre, they shouldn’t be laughing. I hope I’m mistaken, but their choice of descriptive words tells me I’m not.
You can watch the entire segment, about Harlequin’s history and how they’re Canadian and how the recession is only making their audience more hungry for bodice-rippers; but since this entire “news” report seems like just an excuse to show celebrities reading from ladies dirty books, I’m not sure why anyone would want to. [Oh, and insert old lady who loves Paul Rudd and romance novels and owns more than two cats joke here.
I’m interested in knowing whether men can enjoy reading love/romantic books openly. I know many read them and men even write them, but there seems to be a cloud of embarrassment hanging over their heads. Male authors hide their genre behind feminine pin names, and male readers deny the book is theirs. They dread being laughed at, maybe? That’s really sad.
Men complain they can’t ‘understand’ why women need to read romance. Being strong and protective, and always winning the woman of your dreams is every man’s dream. Strength isn’t limited to the physical muscles you may or may not have. Bet you didn’t know that. Smarts, values, brains and common sense go a long way in impressing a woman.
After reading a few romantic love stories, you’ll begin to learn how a woman thinks, and how she wants to be treated. I’m not talking about lust, I’m speaking of lifetime relationships – love. Learning the difference between romance and erotica is easy. Most women need romance, and they need a man who knows what romance is. It is gentle, strong, trustworthy, honest, loyal. Her Hero loves her. These are the traits women write into their hero characters over and over, because they are building the kind of man they want to spend the rest of their life with. They are telling you what they want; pay attention if you truly want to understand women.
Picture yourself on the cover of a love/romance; is the Hero you? It could be. And to repeat a fact from the top, romance is still selling big. You could try writing one; men need romance in their lives too.
Thanks for reading,
I’ll see you again next week. In the meantime, fall in love all over again with your SO by reading a romantic story together.
Archive for the ‘life’ Category
This was written a few years ago. I’ve long since used cable, satellite, cable, satellite and cable again, and always High Speed Internet. I look for the specials and switch when they’re too good to pass up. lol
I would love to be able to use DSL or Cable internet service, but being way out here in the boon docks, it isn’t possible. I could easily sign up for satellite internet if I wanted to pay one hundred dollars a month for it. No thank you! I’m cheap and I like it that way! But, that leaves me with dial-up, and everyone knows dial-up is sad. Sad and slow, especially if the phone company haven’t updated the outside wires since 1950. So I must add static noise to sad and slow.
Dial-up isn’t all that bad anymore, though. They’ve added accelerators, boosters, turbos, speedband and all sorts of stuff to make your surfing better, faster, and more enjoyable. And, it works most of the time. Even the cheapest ISP’s include these accelerators for under ten dollars a month.
I don’t want a ‘Home’ page, thank you very much!
I chose one without a ‘Home’ page; that alone makes it a winner for me. It’s neat, clean and fast for less money and no stress. They get me online quickly and that’s all I ask of them. Another ‘must have’ is unlimited hours!
I’ve used services that force a home page on you. I’ve even used the ‘Big One’ a time or two in emergencies. You know, the one that sends out the free cd’s so crafters can make those neat wind chimes? (AOL for those who don’t know.) By the way, I wonder if their subscribers realize they’re actually paying for all those wind chimes?
I don’t mind trying new isp’s, but if I can’t go into Internet Explorer and change the home page to ‘blank], I don’t use the service any longer than necessary to find another one. I don’t like their intrusive way of doing business.
The home page is always so ‘busy’ I can’t find what I’m looking for. I looked for five minutes one time for my account link. The window was full of news, movie stars and sales ads; none of which I’m interested in. It’s so crowded with ‘stuff’ along its borders, it reminds me of my attic. I completely understand needing ads to make money, but I’m paying for the service, it isn’t free!
They usually aren’t user friendly either, at least not to this user. Being forced to do anything causes stress and who needs it? Not me!
I don’t want an intrusive update downloaded every time I log on and off, either, and I don’t want to be ignored when I say no thanks. The ‘Big One’ (AOL) is bad for doing that. Paying thirty dollars a month for services that are certainly no better than ISP’s charging ten dollars or less is incomprehensible to me. Why would anyone waste their hard-earned cash like that? Especially those paying with their Social Security allowance. Not this cheapskate! When I feel the stress begin to build, I minimize their window and open a new, blank IE window.
There are many, many good, cheap ISP’s worth checking out. Support is always good on those I’ve used, and when they’re new businesses you know they try harder. Give them a chance.
Search ‘cheap isps’ and save some money; you might even save yourself some stress, and that’s what it’s all about. I’m running a wonderful one I began this month. I was charged only .99 cents for the first month, and that includes the accelerator! I won’t tell you the name though, unless they give me a year’s free service.
We are finally going modern out here in the wilds, cable became available and I grabbed it! TV & internet. Yes! Now, if I can convince my cheapskate husband it’s worth the extra cost month after month, I’ll be in cheapskate heaven.
Maybe they’ve forgotten they used to love me.
The moment the guard handed him the papers, he knew it was time. He felt relief, but at the same time a heavy burden seemed to settle on his shoulders. Being free to go home left him scared to death.
“Well, Johnson, looks like you’ll have Thanksgiving dinner at home this year. Get your junk together and get out of here. We’ll see you again in six months; I’ll just keep your room clean and tidy.” He chuckled at his own wit.
Jim Johnson, a tall, slender, black man, had been in prison half his life. Armed robbery. He knew he was fortunate to be let out at all. He’d been sentenced before the law made it mandatory for a consecutive twenty years to be tacked on for the use of a gun. Yes, he was fortunate, but the time was gone, lost. He tried not to think about it anymore, it was finished; he was going home.
“Thank you, sir, but you won’t be needin’ to worry ’bout that cell, I won’t be back.” They shook hands, and Jim began to gather his few things.
At the outside gate, he caught a ride into town with a Correctional Officer. But still, sitting stiffly and looking straight ahead, he didn’t feel free. The guard offered a small amount of conversation but neither felt the need to speak so soon fell silent. Jim hadn’t had a normal conversation in twenty years, and wondered if he was still able to.
The CO dropped him off in front of the drug store which also housed the bus depot counter. The tarnished, copper bell on the door jingled as he pushed it open and it awoke a memory. He hadn’t heard such a thing in a long time and smiled to himself as he looked up at it.
“Dover please, one-way.”
Carefully counting out the money for the ticket, he took the precious piece of flimsy cardboard from the clerk.
Sitting on the edge of the wooden bench outside the building, he gazed around the busy little town. The sun began to warm him as he breathed deeply of the sweet-smelling, fresh air. Two-hundred miles; that was all that separated him from his folks. That, and twenty years.
Finally, Jim heard the bus gearing down as it approached and pulled up in front of the store. Raising his eyes, he drew a deep breath and stood, waiting for it to stop. He climbed aboard, making his way down the narrow aisle to a vacant seat as close to the back as he could. He hoped no one asked him where he was from or where he was going, he wasn’t ready for talk.
Staring out the window, he watched the landscape rush by. The bus stopped at every nook and hollow on the route to pick up a passenger or two, or to let one off. He was glad of the delays, but his heart beat rapidly with impatient anticipation at the same time. His thoughts were conflicted. He wanted to see the folks, to get back into the business of living with people who cared for him–if they still did. He was scared to find out.
It’s been a long time, maybe they’ve forgotten they used to love me. Aggravated at the tears that suddenly and unexpectedly began to run down his high cheekbones, he quickly swiped them away, his eyes searching to see if anyone noticed. No one did.
Four hours later, the driver called out the name of a town. Dover? Did he say Dover? That’s me. He felt panic tightening his gut, but knew there was no way to delay what must be done. I gotta get off now, can’t sit here no longer. He rose. I gotta go on home and see if I still got one. Lord, help me. God, I’m more scared than I was when they hauled me out of here.
He stepped off the bus and set his bag on the ground, looking around the town he’d grown up in. It hadn’t changed much. They’d painted the store fronts and the sidewalks looked new. Nice.
The few pedestrians didn’t bother to look up to see who got off the bus, and he didn’t recognize anyone–thank god. He’d like a cup of coffee but couldn’t take the time.
Jim shuffled his small bag into his other hand, and began the long walk. The folks lived way out past Murphy slough, about ten miles out and around.
About a half-mile out of town, Jim found the path that led through the woods and he lit out in a trot. Soon, feeling the dread of being too late, he began to run. Surprised to find his feet still knew the trail, he turned them loose while his mind reflected on the past.
Suddenly–impossibly quick, he came upon the slough. It smelled of rotten fish and slimy, green water. The spindly willow branches brushed against the damp ground. Jim felt a sudden urge to crawl underneath the dark curtain of leaves and hide as he did when he was a child. He wanted to stop and think instead of just rushing on.
I sure wish I could’ve let them know I was comin’; surprises aren’t always a good thing.
He continued to walk, fear and excitement roiling together inside of him, leaving him feeling as small as a guilty, wayward child. Emerging from the last stand of pine, he stood behind the thick, wild blackberry bushes and watched the house. The place was in bad repair; twenty years had taken its toll on it too. The once white painted clapboards were colorless, the weather having stripped them bare. He saw tar paper patches on the roof, and some corrugated sheet metal that seemed to be holding the little shack tight to the ground. It was smaller than he remembered.
The yard though, was swept clean of loose dirt and leaves, the same as it had always been. The old tire swing was still attached to the cottonwood, even though he knew the rope was so frayed it would no longer hold a child. The sight was beautiful and he smiled.
There’s Daddy on the porch. Just sittin’ there, not even rockin’… Jim choked and tried to swallow the knot that’d suddenly come into his throat and watched, drinking in the sight. He desperately wanted to fill himself up with all the lost years and spit them out.
A movement at the corner of the house caught his eye. He turned his head slightly and there she was. “Mama”, he thought as he took a few steps forward She must still have a garden as she was carrying a small basket. She looked so small. She was wearing a dark dress that reached to her ankles; her style hadn’t changed a bit. Jim’s eyes sparkled with tears, blurring his view. A red bandanna was tied around her head, with wisps of gray hair peeking out here and there. Mama, you and Daddy grew old too fast. I’m so sorry.
Jim dropped to his knees, giving thanks to God for allowing him to come home and see his folks again. When he rose the tears were flowing, but he wasn’t ashamed this time, nor aggravated. Raising both arms as if he would gather them close, he laughed joyfully.
Leaving the bag where it stood, he began to run across the small field separating the woods from the yard. His laughter carried to them and both looked up, shading their eyes with their hands, to see who it was coming at such a gallop.
“Jimmy?” they each whispered, as the garden basket slipped to the ground unnoticed, and they both shouted in one voice, “It’s Jimmy! He’s come home!”
I like cheap, the cheaper the better. But not junk. I use yard sales and thrift shops a lot.
As young parents with little money, we learned to make-do, to get along with what we had. I have completely furnished a two-bedroom house for fifty dollars, and it looked good. My husband painted and re-glued while I cleaned and polished. Authentic old furniture magically appeared as antiques to friends and family. They eyed it greedily and we glowed.
Our house was always filled with a passel of kids, so nicks and scrapes were common to our furniture. I didn’t stress over them because I knew furniture was replaceable. And cheap. Another bonus is that old furniture was better made than the new, lower-end stuff. I’ve owned both and believe me, low-priced new furniture is pure junk! You’re wasting your money.
As the children grew older and our finances improved, we bought new stuff and it was nice, but we didn’t enjoy it as much. Is that strange? Not to me. Kids can’t romp and play on new furniture. They can’t bring a snack into the living room and enjoy family conversation or games when Mother is worried about stains and scratches. The fun is taken right out of the day when a child is banished to the kitchen. Kids are more important than ‘stuff’ and they give hugs. Mine have good memories of their childhood and I’m glad to say I helped.
Now that we are retired grandparents on Social Security, we’re back to the thrift shops. This time for yard toys. Slides, swings, rocking horses and tricycles – even a Little Tyke playhouse was added to the backyard for five dollars. These are good, top-of-the-line toys that other kids have outgrown. The cost is minimal. The memories the kids will have of visiting their Grandparents will be priceless.
I don’t see the sense of spending hundreds of dollars for toys that will be outgrown or forgotten too soon. I would rather spend as little as possible and do without the stress if something breaks. Wouldn’t you? Of course you would.
If the kids are old enough, they can help clean the new toys, maybe paint a trike for a younger brother or sister – apply some decals. They will develop pride and self-esteem through their artistry, they really will. Do you see those runs in the paint? Dab their length with a bright candy color, or gold. Bring them out to be noticed. They’re supposed to be there!
And, in my opinion, anything that aids brothers and sisters to get along and like each other is a huge bonus and stress-reliever for everyone.
He watched her as she approached the stage. He was so proud of her, his daughter, his first born. Today was her birthday, she was fourteen years old and tonight she was graduating from the eight grade. She was growing up so fast. The cliche, ‘it seems like only yesterday’, fit the way he was feeling tonight.
She was fourth in the procession, girls in white caps and gowns and the boys in green. Their faces were solemn as they marched, though some were having trouble holding that expression as they spotted their families sitting in the audience.
As the program continued, he watched her and thought of how much she looked like her mother.
The graduation ceremony was held outside on the lawn. Folding chairs were set up in rows for family and friends. Flash bulbs were flashing constantly as the awards were given to the students for outstanding and special activities during the years. Small children, who couldn’t be expected to sit quietly, were running and playing with each other on the perimeters, all dressed in their Sunday best.
The Color Guard was announced and the audience stood as they paraded up the aisle proudly supporting the colors of the red, white and blue. When they reached the front, the National Anthem was sung by a student named Kari. Her voice was beautiful; full, strong and she sang with confidence. The Pledge of Allegiance was then recited by everyone, proudly and loud, with no hesitation at the point of ‘under God’.
When at last her name was called, he watched her stand and walk with her head held high to receive her diploma. He noticed her nervousness in the tightening of the muscles. He saw it, but to others she appeared calm. She was wearing her first pair of heels and she really hadn’t practiced walking in them, but she seemed fine. He held his breath as she slightly wobbled, trying to get through the closely packed row of seated youngsters, with no room to move their legs and feet. They should have left more room, he thought, concerned, as he watched her.
Suddenly it was over. The girls were crying, the boys were laughing, but they were each aware their childhood was ending. In four years they would all be on their own, either going off to college, or entering the working world. Not wanting to think on that just yet, he stood as she walked toward him and they smiled, then grinned, then laughed aloud.
He was so proud of her.