I’m in the middle of writing a romance novel right now. Actually, I’m in the middle of polishing a romance novel, which is not quite the same thing. And it’s not exactly a romance novel, because I can’t bring myself to write unmarried characters having sex. But it is a love story, and it follows a lot of the conventions, so for the sake of simplicity, I’m working on a romance novel.
A romance novelist once said that all her heroes were inspired by her husband. That holds true for me, too. Even male leads who have little in common with Christian at a surface level always end up taking on something of his—a mannerism, a funny offhand comment. Sometimes, as in this novel, a critical subplot is drawn straight from life.
And yet, at least once a week, I realize that my ability as a storyteller is woefully inadequate to bring the nuances of real love alive on the printed page. The sheer complexity of human emotion defeats me. One day I leap up from the computer, exulting in my success; the next day I skim the same passage and realize how abysmally simplistic it sounds.
How, for instance, do I show the way that two people who communicate constantly can nonetheless find themselves so disconnected from each other that they spiral into sarcasm, menial digs, and constant fault-finding—not even bothering to clarify the assumptions made on both sides? How do I write the tiny spark that sets off an explosion of gargantuan proportions—one whose violence can’t be resolved in one sitting—one that continues to send out aftershocks for a week?
Assuming I had the talent to write this (which I don’t assume), my critique partners would shake their heads and say, “Kate, that’s just not realistic. (Fill in the character’s name) totally overreacted. Nobody acts like that.”
And yet, we do act like that. Regularly. Why is it that something that plays out on a daily basis sounds unbelievable when we see it in black and white on the page?
I think the answer is that in fiction—genre fiction, anyway—nobody wants to be reminded that such things happen. Fiction is supposed to be an escape from reality, not a constant reminder of it.
And yet, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stopped reading in the middle of a paragraph and realized that the author is speaking directly to me. It’s that sudden, low-voltage shock to the chest, the abrupt clarity in the mind, like coming out of a stuffy, overcrowded house into a crisp, clear, and utterly still noon.
I aspire to write those moments, but I despair of ever succeeding. And maybe they can’t be orchestrated, anyway. Maybe they’re Inspired at both ends—in the writing and in the reading. Maybe the best I can do is just get out of the way. And keep writing.
Kathleen M. Basi 
I just wanted you to know that I’m enjoying your blog. How cool to read that your heroes are inspired by your husband! The sad fact, though, is that if you get to writing more on your novel, then that means less time for this impromptu writing about life.
I have been fretting about the same thing recently. This blog serves more than one purpose for me. I’ve been a journal-er for twenty-plus years, and now I’m doing most of it on the blog. (The trouble is I spend more time composing a blog than I do scribbling random thoughts in a journal!) I love that people I’ve never met can find me; I hope that what I write can help someone else who needs to hear what I’m saying.
But the blog is also a publicity tool for my writing attempts. However, if that’s true, I do have to put out a few articles, novels, songs…well, you get the idea. 🙂