When I was in college, I once found a book about romance novels in my adviser’s office. The book listed every major romance publisher and included, in great detail, what they looked for in a book. They all had very specific formulas:

Plucky/strong-willed/self-sufficient heroine meets wealthy/heart-broken/arrogant stranger, conflict ensues, conflict is resolved, couple is married. The listings even spelled out how much lovin’ each publishing company looked for — and they ran the gamut from chaste smooching to make-a-girl-blush action.

So I sat there and flipped through this book and thought, “I could do this.” And I thought I actually might give it try. It wouldn’t take all that much effort, what with the formula spelled out right there in black and white, and it would be a nice source of extra income if I could get it published. I even had my pen name picked out.

I’m not sure why I never gave it a go. It still seems like not a half-bad idea. Except that I laugh at the titles and the book covers next to the check-out line every time I go to the grocery store. I don’t know if I’d be able to take my own story seriously, which I’m guessing would make it difficult to write a solid, convincing romance novel.

Maybe the better title for this post would’ve been “The Books I Didn’t Write.” Or “The Books I Haven’t Yet Written.” Doesn’t that make your heart skip a beat?