“I now must rain curses down upon your heads, for I not only put aside the perfectly decent book I was reading to dive right in to your delightfully wicked tome, I stayed up way past my bedtime because I couldn’t bear to put it down until I had finished. It’s everything I love about your site, all in one convenient, portable package.”
— Billie Bloebaum, Powell's, Portland Airport
Outtakes, Excerpts and Extras
Proposal Intro, Part I
Book: Beyond Heaving Bosoms: The Smart Bitches’ Guide to Romance Novels
When Candy and Sarah first wrote their proposal, it opened with a fictional account of Genevieve Romanceuse, a mythic romance author, the embodiment of just about every stereotype we could think of. Enjoy—there's more. Oh, is there ever more. Genevieve Romanceuse, bestselling romance author, wakes up to the sound of twittering bluebirds outside her window, the sun warm on her face as it filters through her lace curtains. She blinks her blue-eyeshadowed eyelids, each eyelash impeccably outlined with mascara, and lifts a heavily beringed finger to her forehead to smooth away the fluffy white curls there. She sits up slowly, holding her silk nightrobe to her chest, and stretches and yawns. Shnookypoo, her rare hairless teacup poohuahua mix (what could be more adorable than a completely bald Chihuahua and poodle mix the size of a size 6 shoe?) is bouncing on the bed, yipping with excitement. When she turns her head, a ramrod-straight figure in a black-and-white uniform catches her eye. Her French maid, Jeanette, stands at the ready by the bedroom door, bearing a tray holding her morning hot chocolate, buttered crumpets and dog treats for Shnookypoo. Genevieve languidly gestures Jeanette over and leans back on a mound of satin pillows as the maid sets the tray down on her lap. As she sips her chocolate and feeds Shnookypoo his home-made dog biscuits, she contemplates the book she's working on. Lord Wulfgraven has just saved the heroine, Jacinthinia, from the rapacious and unnatural attentions of his arch-nemesis, a drooling hunchback with a lazy eye named Igor Sizlak. The vanquished foe lies dead on the floor of his laboratory, while Jacinthinia is weeping with gratitude against Wulfgraven's mighty chest. But there's a problem. Genevieve is only halfway through the book, and it just wouldn't do to have the couple riding off happily just yet to Hawkscarr, the Wulfgraven ancestral pile. What can she do? She taps a brightly lacquered fingernail against her cupid's bow of a mouth, brow lightly furrowed in thought. And then inspiration strikes. She gestures Jeanette over, who takes away the tray and replaces it with a writing tablet and her favorite pink ostrich-feather pen. Later, Genevieve brings her manuscript, handwritten in purple ink on pink scented paper with embedded sparkles of Swarovski crystals and wrapped in a fluffy mauve velvet bow, to her editor, Leticia Van De Trixe. Harlequin Headquarters, the multi-leveled castle in the suburbs of Connecticut, gives Genevieve a thrill every time she visits. After a handsome butler takes her coat and massages her shoulders briskly, Genevieve climbs the stairs through the plushly-appointed Regency division, noting the decorated tea parlor and the startling abundance of cravats on the male editors. Then, she saunters past the throbbing rhythm of the contemporary romance division, complete with dance club and modern corporate offices with many boardrooms for illicit trysting. Her pace quickens as she rushes past the Blaze offices, where the throbbing is of a different sort and couples roll about on red-satin beds within 10 feet of the door. Genevieve breaks into a sprint to bypass the thick, steel-barred wooden door that houses the stairs to the Luna tower, where psychic sex, polyamory, and magic were expected sights upon first visit. Finally, flushed prettily with a wholesome glow adorning her brow, Genevieve arrives at her editor's door, and her arrival is heralded with trumpet sound and a dignified march down an impossibly plush hot pink carpet. “Your book! It is finished?” Van De Trixe sits at an empty expanse of desk, waiting avidly for Genevieve to present her with the manuscript. “Yes. It is.” “I am sure it is perfect. I shall send it to be printed in one hour.” “An hour?” “You are right,” Van De Trixe says. “I shall send it immediately.” She claps her hands, and a young page in a silk cap jumps to the corner of her desk, lifts Genevieve's manuscript reverently, places it on a silk pillow, and carries it with stately elegance out of the room.