I blame Beth. She came up with SBD AND this week she wrote about what she likes in romance. Being a confirmed follower, I'm tagging along behind. Problem is, because it's all about emotion for me, it's not gonna sound like fun analysis of the books. Tough.

A Personal Testimonial, or, Saga of A Neurotic.

When I was young, I never read romance. Those thangs were for undereducated women who needed a life but read books instead. My god, after all the money my parents had put into my education, I better not call myself undereducated. Did I actually say this kind of crap aloud? Naw, I'm not a snob. This was definitely sub-conscious crap.  

I discovered romance on a bus. Actually, I found one someone had discarded. No doubt I picked it up with two fingers like it was used kleenex. I read it in less than an hour. I devoured that category romance but of course I read it for intellectual curiousity. And since I had recently had a short story published in a literary journal, I knew I could do anything. Heck, of course I can write that, I thought. Why not? I read the thing again for "research".

I bought another one. Ripped off the cover immediately and read it in less than an hour but I was still not reading it for pleasure. Even when Cathy H read them aloud in the best fruity French accent in the world, I thought I was enjoying the delicious mockery and not the plot.

Go forward quite a bit. I'd just moved to a new town in a new state. I didn't know anyone** and I'd left behind my mommy. Granted I was in my thirties, but leaving her was hard because she had dementia and was dying. (My father had died a couple of years earlier so my siblings and I were her only visitors.)  I also had nasty agoraphobia which meant leaving my maze was only possible under the influence of some strong drugs. Not seeing her was not an option. I didn't see her nearly often enough, but every couple of months, I'd load myself with drugs, get on a train for a seven hour ride and go.

On the very first trip down, even as I passed the first few train stops, I knew had to decrease the drugs because only one of us should be drooling, and mom had dibs on it. How the heck could I survive Amtrak and spending time with her outside my maze? In the first couple of hours I tried books on tape. I tried relaxation tapes. I tried hyperventilating. None of them seemed to help.

 I'd brought along a few books that I'd gotten for "research." I'd gone back into the idea that I might make easy money churning out romances. (I could write those things. Sheesh, anyone can, right?) With trembling hands I pulled out my books -- and I'm not kidding about those hands. My seat mate inched far, far away from me. Okay, maybe it was the plastic bag I used for the hyperventilation or the under-my-breath cursing I did from Hartford to Stamford. Or the sweating. Or the lurching to the bathroom to puke. Or . . .

ANYWAY...

Barbara Metzger and Edith Layton [and PG Wodehouse, but he doesn't count for SBD] saved my miserable self. The only thing I could do on that trip,and all the ones after it, was read romances. The stories and the books themselves were my talisman (talismen? talismans?). I kept one in my pocket at all times. Those books had some powerful juju that yanked me back from the edge of the pit.  They represented sweetness and light and (along with a moderate dose of drugs)  managed to vanquish the heebie-jeebies. They were also really good reads and beautifully written, but even I'd manged to figure that out by then.

Here's something else I learned on those trips***: Creating anything that provides escapism is a big important job.

______

* I'd just met L, who's better than any book at Sanity Checks.

*** Of course I knew this. But hadn't actually felt it and that's apparently the only way I actually truly understand anything. Sad for an intellectual wannabe, huh.