Organic Farmers Turn Me On?

In my early writing days, one of my ideas was to actually make a living from

writing. I had just moved to Toronto after living in Asia for several years, and was teaching ESL for very poor pay. While I had been meditating in Japan and chasing men across India, my friends at home had graduated from law, medical and business school. I needed a career path quickly, so I decided to try writing Harlequins. It seemed an easy way to make some money. With my boyfriend Rob's amused support, I wrote away for the Harlequin guidelines. Yes, I know this makes it sound like it was a zillion years ago, but it was 1999, and write away for guidelines is what you did then. (Okay, it was a zillion years ago...)

A quick perusal of the guidelines led me to some choices: did I want to write a Harlequin American Romance, Harlequin Intrigue, Harlequin Victorian, a Harlequin Medical Romance or one of many other choices? I decided to attempt a contemporary story with a moderate level of sexual morality. The characters would obviously have sex in the book, but not before they had made some kind of commitment. As research, I checked out a bunch of Harlequins from the library and took notes on structure, tone and euphemisms. I wrote out my required proposal and sent it off. A few months later Harlequin wrote me back and asked me to write some sample chapters. I happily sat down in my closet of an office and typed out the required pages. My book was about a sad but beautiful artist who moved to a small Island off the coast of BC and fell in love with a local man. Periodically, Rob would stick his head in my office and narrate corny sex scenes to me. He always began, “He looked across the room at her and felt his heart sing.” I would ignore him and add details about my heroine's long black hair and her moody paintings.

While waiting to hear back from Harlequin, Rob and I were invited to my cousin Louise's house for a Jewish holiday. Louise asked what I was up to, and before I had a chance to respond, Rob cheerfully told her I was writing Harlequins. I had never told him it was a secret, or that I wouldn't publish them under my own name. I blushed the same colour as the kosher wine. In my effort to shush Rob, I confused Louise who then thought I was spending my days READING Harlequins, not writing them. When I tried to explain, she patted my hand and said it was okay. "We all need a little smut in our lives sometime," she said. I was mortified. Her son was in law school and I was reading Harlequins? Luckily, I was also an intern at Toronto's NOW magazine and Rob was able to distract her with a small book review I had written.

A few months later, I received a polite rejection letter from Harlequin. It included some feedback on my proposal and chapters. Apparently, my male lead wasn't manly or dashing enough. He lacked the necessary swash buckling heroism. I tucked the rejection letter in a drawer and forgot about it. I was already applying to teachers college and journalism programs, which seemed a more secure form of employment. Months later when Rob asked about the book, I explained that Harlequin had found my male lead a little weak. "What did he do?" Rob asked. When I explained he was an organic farmer, Rob laughed so hard, he nearly missed my explanation that my farmer was also moody, sensitive and had a ponytail. This only made him laugh harder.