Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Something is amiss here. But I’m not sure what it is yet. So instead of having them thrown out on their asses, I call to the security guards. “We’re good now. Right, ladies?” I say this through clenched teeth.
Once again, I get the blank stares.
“I said, ‘Right, ladies?’”
“Yep.”
“We’re good.”
“It’s all good.”
They say this in unison, nodding their heads, trying to look innocent even though the lot of them were just behaving like a bunch of mean girls in high school.
I turn to the security guards. “Thank you for your quick response time. I’ll take it from here.”
They let out a breath and give me an eye roll that says, Romance conventions. Who knew?
Once they’re gone, I take a deep breath. “OK. We’re going to put this room back in order, take our seats like civilized people, and we’re going to have Reader Rants. Do you understand?”
A hundred women nod, an accord agreed upon, and that’s when I realize I’m kinda doing the Master Choke voice, so… it makes sense.
“Good. Let’s proceed.” And I clap my hands to give the start signal.
In less than five minutes the room is neat, the rows tidy, and the ladies are seated.
I take note of Babydoll Tee and squint until I can make out her name on her badge. Angela. Ride-or-Die Grandma is sitting right next to her now. Her name is Elaine.
Hmm. Yes, something is definitely afoot.
But I don’t have time to address it now because a woman in the front row raises her hand. I point at her. “Yes. You have a question?”
“But… Steve, all the authors left. Who will we complain to?”
“You may complain to me. How’s that?” I take a seat on the table, brace my hands on either side of me, and lean forward a little. “I’m all ears, ladies. Tell me, please. What in God’s name could possibly piss you off about romance books? I’m all ears.”
They all start talking at once, but I put up another hand and they go silent. “One at a time.” I point at a woman in the back. “Go.”
“Cliffhangers! That was a real rant that deserves some attention! I hate them!”
“Listen, cliffhangers work”—I squint so I can read her name tag—“Ainsley.”
“Ashley. Ashley Blackwell.”
“Ashley. Sorry. Look, they work, OK, Ashley Blackwell?” She kind of blushes when I say her full name. The Master Choke voice gets ‘em every time. “It’s like serial TV. Everyone knows the story keeps going. You all love a series, right?”
They nod. They do. I know they do.
“So we gotta use the cliffies. That’s how we keep you coming back. And if you don’t come back, we don’t have a reason to write it. Would it piss you off more or less if an author dropped a series for lack of interest? Or if you had to wait for the next book in the story? Ask yourselves that.”
“Hmm,” a lady to my left says. “It kinda does make sense. I mean, I get as frustrated as anyone having to wait, but… I don’t want them to stop writing. I just want more, more, more!”
“And you’ll get it. So much more. If you can just muster up a little bit of patience. You need to accept the cliff. Embrace it, because a cliff means there’s more coming, ladies. More meet-cutes, and more first kisses, and more first times…” I waggle my eyebrows and they laugh and giggle. “More love, ladies. The cliffy means there’s more love.”
“That’s true,” another woman, whose nametag reads Linda Gerace, says. (Underneath her last name she has written, “Soft ‘G.’ Like Giraffe.” I have to appreciate her attention to detail.) “It’s not one of my rants,” she goes on, “so maybe I don’t speak for everyone, but I always get a little panic attack when the end of a series comes. I always want more. No cliffy means no more series. My heart flutters over this and I don’t even want to finish the book because I don’t want to leave the world.”
Suddenly, the whole room is in agreement.
“Oh, I agree.”
“With you, sister!”
“Yes!”
“See?” I say. “The cliff means there’s more coming. More time with your favorite characters in your favorite worlds.”
“But what about a wedding and a baby?” one woman exclaims, getting to her feet. “I want a wedding and a baby!”
“How many books don’t have a wedding and a baby by the end of the series?” I squint again to see her nametag. “Abby?”
“Will you say my whole name out loud too?” she asks, coyly.
I sigh. What have I started? “Sure. What is it?”
“Evans. Abby Evans.”
“OK, Abby Evans...” There are giggles. “Seriously. How many leave it out of the last book?”
“Well…” Abby squirms. “The last book in a series… yeah. Most of them do have it in the last book.”
“Of course they do,” I say. “Because romance writers—most of them, anyway—know what they’re doing, Abby. When you demand that we put a wedding and a baby at the end of the first book, you’re being unreasonable. The wedding and baby are a signal that you’re at the end. And didn’t we just decide that we never want it to end?”