By Kelli Collins
So this was fun. This article warning women of those dangerous, dangerous romance novels. You know…those things to which I’ve dedicated my professional life.
Apparently romance novels can ruin your marriage, turn you into a recluse, cause clinical depression, lead to nosebleeds, increase flatulence, prompt rituals in the name of Aphrodite and contribute to tingling in your nether regions. (And let’s not forget the dreaded Fluttering Vajayjays.)
What? You didn’t know?
The article by Kimberly Sayer-Giles points out romance sales exceed those of inspirational, religious and self-help books combined by more than half a billion (though she fails to mention from which year she culled those figures). That Ms. Sayer-Giles is a self-help guru speaks volumes. Gee, lady, how about veiling your attempt to drum up business for yourself by trashing an entire industry? Home-wreckers like myself would really appreciate it, thanks.
Oh, I’m sorry. Not self-help guru. Ms. Sayer-Giles is a “life coach”. Yes, in quotes. Largely because I figure we need “life coaches” like we need “executive phone managers” and “deep-fry specialists” and “nail technicians”. Slap a fancy title on your business card and you’re still making a living telling people their underachieving choices aren’t good enough.
But what am I saying? I’ve completely overlooked the known fact that romance readers believe every syllable we publish. Of COURSE they fully believe every man alive should be a 6’5”, ruggedly handsome, muscular bronze god. Of course they expect every man to plumb the depths of his deepest feelings and invite his studly friends home for a three-way romp to satisfy his woman’s fantasies. Before shifting into a werewolf and scurrying out the back door to howl at the moon. Naturally.
Thank God we have professional self-help mavens to pull us back from our unrealistic expectations and give us a nice punch of reality to the face. I was thisclose to divorcing my husband and posting a personal ad to find my own broodingly sexy vampire life-mate.
Whew. Close call. Thanks, coach.