So, You Want to Be in a Romance Novel?

"Thanks," I say, my face aching from the polite smiles I've been forcing since nine this morning.  "I'll be in touch."  The woman struts out on her stilettos, her derriere swaying like a sailboat in rough seas. 

I pick up the last yellow file folder and scan the first page of the enclosed resume.  Sarah Tucker.  Thirty-one.  A little old for what I have in mind.  Her picture appears younger, and I wonder how long ago it was taken.  Might as well get it over with.  I lean across my desk and push the intercom button.   "All right, Jess.  Send in the next applicant." 

The door opens, and a perfect girl-next-door stands there.  Wearing a navy-blue suit with a blouse buttoned above her collarbone.  A refreshing change from the silicone I've been staring at all day.  She even has freckles across her nose and cheeks.  No problem casting her in her twenties.

"Come in," I say, my smile a little less forced.  "Have a seat."

She steps into the room.  Pumps.  She's wearing pumps.  A little worn in the sensible-height heels, but polished.  It's as if she's read my synopsis—which is impossible because I haven't written it yet.   

She sits in the seat across from my desk, clutching her purse—which matches her shoes, for God's sake--on her lap.  "Thanks.  I'm Sarah Tucker.  I'm here for the job interview.  For the romance novel heroine."

"Yes, I have your resume.   Tell me why you want a job in a romance novel."  I brace myself, waiting for the canned,  I want to bring happiness into the lives of poor, bored housewives speech.  But she doesn't say anything for a minute.  She fusses with the hem of her skirt.  (Mental note: good nervous gesture)

"I have to be honest.  My business—I have a small gift shop—hasn't been doing well, and I need a little extra cash.  My neighbor—Maggie, she's the mother hen type—well, she saw your ad and talked me into coming in for an interview."

"Any experience?"

"Experience with what?  I've never been in a novel before, if that's what you mean.  But I've read a few."

"More with the romance part.  Your resume says you're single."

Her face clouds.  "Actually, I'm a widow.  My husband died in a car accident about a year ago.  I guess I'm lonely, too—which is probably why I let Maggie talk me into trying out.  You know, to ease back into the world again, but with kind of a safety net.  I mean, it's fiction, right?  I'd be pretending to fall in love, but it wouldn't be like I was betraying the memory of my husband."  She looks around, as if she's afraid someone else might be watching.  Lowers her voice as if she's afraid to be overheard.  "David and I—well, we had a…um…healthy relationship.  It's been a long time.  I thought maybe…"

"Very good."  No problems trying to explain a twenty-eight year old innocent.  I go down my notes.  "How do you feel about tall men?"

"Not a problem."

"Cops?"

"Never really thought about it.  Are you telling me the hero is a tall cop?"

"I haven't cast him yet, but that's the plan."

"I'm fine with that.  Nothing like a man with a badge. Or a big gun."  Her cheeks turn pink and she lowers her gaze.  "It is fiction, after all."

Excellent.  I think for a moment, jot another note.  What if she's more experienced than my hero?  Might make a nice twist.  But subtle.  No way a thirty-something year old cop would be that inexperienced.  But it could be a fun first-encounter scene. 

I consult my list again.  "Your hair—would you cut it?" 

She looks at me as if I'm nuts.  Maybe I am, but if we're going to be working together, she's got to be willing to look the part. 

"Um…sure."  She runs her fingers through her shoulder length hair.  "Why not?  It'll grow back." 

"What about cats?  Can you work with them?"

She chews her lower lip.  I make another note.  "I'm allergic," she says. 

"Hmm."  I think about the three cats and their pivotal roles in the plot. 

Her expression shifts, and I can tell she's into the fantasy now.  She wants the job. 

"Oh, but I can handle it—I can take pills or get shots, or whatever."

Her eyes brighten to a shade of blue that matches the stone—sodalite—in the pendant one of my critique partners gave me.  It's supposed to enhance creativity, and I've been wearing it day and night for the last three months.  Her excitement is contagious.  "I don't think that will be necessary.  I can minimize your scenes with the cats." 

"You'd change the book for me?"  She sounds incredulous.

"Let me explain.  I'm what the industry calls a "pantser." 

Her eyebrows lift. 

"I write by the seat of my pants, so to speak.  I'm not always sure where the plot will take me, and I rely on character input.  How do you feel about that?  You won't just come in and recite the words on the page.  I might ask for your suggestions."

"That sounds like fun.  I studied art, not writing, but there's an underlying aspect of creativity in both areas, don't you think?"

"Definitely.  One more question.  Writing is all about rewriting.  How would you feel if you spent three chapters covering a series of plot points, and then I changed my mind, threw them out, and we'd start over?"

"I think it sounds exciting.  So this is a collaborative effort?"

"Very much so.  Can you handle it?"

"Does this mean you're offering me the job?"

I look at the file folders in my reject stack, and at the empty "to be interviewed" basket.  "Well, we have a few things to iron out.  Liability insurance for one thing.  Romantic suspense can get dangerous."  I wait for her to change her mind, the way the only other candidate to reach this point had.  Instead, she smiles. 

"But I'm not going to die or anything?  The heroine has to live, right?  It's fiction.  It's not like this stuff is happening to me for real, is it?  Just to my character.  Nothing really bad will happen, will it?"

I don't tell her about the last five chapters.  And, she's right.  Kind of.  Bad stuff happens, but I guess it boils down to everyone's individual definition of really bad.  I smile and drop my gaze to her resume.  Her every thought is telegraphed on her face, and I'm not sure how well I'm doing at hiding mine.

"There's one last thing," I say.  "The contract is contingent upon a compatibility with the hero.  Once I narrow down the choices, I'll call you back."

"I understand.  But I'm sure there won't be any problems."

"From what I've seen today, I'm inclined to agree.  Thank you for coming in."

She stands, smiles and offers her hand.  I walk her through the outer office and hold the door for her.  When she's gone, I turn to Jess.

"Get Randy Detweiler on the phone.  See if he's free at four."

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