I am reading the second romance novel I have ever read. The first romance novel happened like this. I was having one of my publishing-process-snits and standing in the grocery store, glaring at the rack of books that have sold bazillions, many of which were emblazoned with heaving man-titty, and I thought, fuck. I could write one of those. So I bought one as professional research.

It was so bad. I mean, at first I could laugh at how cliche it all was. The characters were paper thin derivatives meant to invoke a certain archetype in the same way that the stick figure on the bathroom door means ‘Woman’ or ‘Man.’ The plot was ludicrously designed to shove the characters from one soft-focus, wish-fulfillment, fan-wank to another. In fact, the whole thing read like someone’s barely filled in fantasy, just enough detail to get the job done, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t believe it. This was a bestseller? I threw it across the room about halfway through and never finished it, bitterly regretting the seven bucks I had plunked down on a whim.

I am deliberately not giving the title, however, because I do not wish to publicly diss a writer who is supporting her family with her work. That is an accomplishment not to be diminished. And clearly she is telling stories that a lot of people want.

Also clear was that I could never write one. And should never ever read one again. Ever.

Ever.

Then, the other night, a friend sent me a link to a Twilight parody of sorts, an IM conversation between two funny people who were riffing on Edward and his nighttime activities pre-Bella. Imagine it: all night, every night, the Cullen’s hook up with their hot vampire spouses for hours and hours of hot vampire luvin, while Edward, single and a virgin for 100 years, can’t stop reading their minds. Hey, so far, it’s all canon! These funny people picture him, say, scrapbooking. Vacuuming the cars. Scrubbing the grout in the bathroom. That no one uses. And then getting all bitchy when someone messes with his cleaning supplies. Poor prissy, uptight, victorian Edward! It was HILARIOUS. If you’ve read Twilight, I highly recommend Growing up Cullen.

Which got me thinking about writing funny. I can get my funny on at times, but it’s a fairly unconscious process. Is it possible to figure out how to write more funny on purpose? Or does examining it, kill it? A writerly acquaintance referred me to How to Write Funny, a collection of essays written by such funny people as Dave Barry, P.J. O’Rourke, Bill Bryson, and Roy Blount. Thanks to the wonder of kindle for ipod, I was reading a few of these essays within a couple of minutes—instant gratification rocks. One of the first essays I read was by Jennifer Cruise, no one I had heard of, but I liked what she had to say, exploring gender differences in humor, so I looked up one of her books and, a few minutes later was listening to the audiobook of You Bet. Then I realized it was a romance book.

Uh-oh.

But it was really funny! Like watching a smart, funny romantic comedy movie. Which made me realize that, while I had rejected romance in books, I had no problem with romance in movie form. Which was pretty silly. Okay, I admitted, so all romance novels are not created equal. Something that should have been obvious to an SF reader, since SF also has a huge spectrum of topic, tone, and quality. And clearly that first romance book I had picked up off the rack was a dud. For me, anyway. Clearly some romance novels are…pretty good.

Shock! Gasp! The horror!

Okay, I am having to face that I have been blinded by my artistic prejudices. Sigh.

(Why are we so quick to judge other people’s stories? THESE are the valuable stories and THOSE aren’t. It’s a favorite pastime of…almost everyone. Including me, apparently. I swear to do better!)

(Oh, and I have a minor hobby of googling odd things to see what it comes up with. When I put in ‘romance novels that don’t suck’ I was led on a link trail that ended up at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, all the romance, none of the bullshit. Ha! Turns out they liked Jennifer Cruise, too.)

I’m a dyed in the wool SF gal. I’m not jumping camps or anything. Because, basically, if it doesn’t have time travel or alternate realities or vampires or alien sex or something freaky like that, I’m just not that interested. Shrug.

But I am branching out a little. Because, it turns out if it’s really funny, I’ll read something that is completely devoid of freak! Who would have thought?

So, like I said, now this writing funny stuff is on my brain. I keep finding myself making notes on the backs of envelopes when I hear some funny turn of phrase, like collecting butterflies. Except without the pins and tidy display boxes. I could use some tidy display boxes! I find the lists later and they’ll be this long list of strange swear words or put downs or asides-to-the-reader that, in context, made me laugh. On the list they are dead reminders of that moment of laughter (much like dead butterfly collections, come to think of it), but I like re-reading them, an activity which feels not unlike ingesting something tasty. Nom nom nom.

I have been drawing in the idea nets and building up the picture of my next novel. I find I am now casting a few new nets for funny. A bawdy baker character has made an entrance. And a talking cat. The whole thing may backfire rather pathetically, but so what. Should be fun to try. And if I’m going to spend a year writing a novel, it might as well make me laugh.

I can’t believe it has taken me this long to think of this.