Alina Adam's Friday Night Guest-Blog!

Once again, I am not Kyra. I am Alina Adams , author of The Figure Skating Mystery series and today's jolly, guest-blogger. This week, I shall regale you with the tale of how I failed to become a historical romance writer.

I did sincerely try to become one. My first two published novels were a pair
of Regency Romances, "The Fictitious Marquis" and "Thieves at Heart" (a side
story: when I was trying to come up with a title for the latter, I was brainstorming with a friend, explaining that I was looking for a title that would reflect the glitter of stolen jewelry and the romance of con artists, both key themes in the book . She suggested, "The Shiny Thieves." Wonder why we didn't go with that…)

But, anyway, after the Regencies (did I mention that I closed the AVON Regency line? Yup, after it had been around for decades, all it took was two books from me and the whole thing folded), my editor suggested I try a longer historical.

So I tried.

I tried, and I tried, and I tried. I published two contemporary romances,"Annie's Wild Ride" (AVON '98) and "When a Man Loves a Woman" (DELL '00), but the historical thing just wasn't happening.

I suspect I know why. It is because, deep down, I sincerely, nay religiously, believe that nothing romantic could possibly have happened prior to the invention of indoor plumbing.

Think about it. Think of all the historicals out there where the hero and heroine are trapped in a barn/cave during a storm for days, and eventually their passion erupts.

Think about what that medieval barn or damp, Irish cave smells like. Think about what the hero and heroine smell like. And now think about them spending days in there. Between the passions, where do they, uhm, take care of their other natural compulsions?

Think about the archetypal, white heroine getting kidnapped by (noble, I'm sure they were noble) Indians and taken along on their migration. Think of her in her hoop skirt, her petticoats, her girdle and her pantaloons. Think of her getting her period while in that outfit in the middle of nowhere. I know, I know, you're not supposed to be thinking of that. And yet I do.

I also think communicable diseases. I loved "Moulin Rouge," but every time the doomed Satine kissed her poor, aspiring writer lover or the rich Duke who wanted her for himself, all I could think was, "The girl has consumption!!! That's tuberculosis. This isn't romantic, this is contagious!!!"

So. To summarize. Me. Historical romances. Failure.

Reasons obvious.


Kyra Davis
http://www.kyradavis.com/
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