After I had been writing the Requiem novels for some time, a professional editor pointed out to me that there are two types of sex. This was a revelation to me, because, you know, I’ve been around. Apparently to an editor there is ‘closed door sex’ and then there is, well, ‘open door sex’. I’ll confess, doors hadn’t figured much in my thinking, but in my heedless way, apparently I had written some of the open door type. 

            In retrospect, it’s a pretty obvious distinction. We’re all used to the trope of a couple lying close, with intent written all over their faces. Suddenly a delicate breeze blows out the only candle and all is darkness, I’m going to overlook the stupidity of relying on a candle in this day and age, and point out that this is a clever ruse by your story-teller or movie maker to avoid an R rating—to avoid, in essence showing a lot of moving parts and hearing grunting noises.

            In my innocence—yes, innocence I say!—I had let the cameras roll, so to speak. My heroine, Carly Rouhl, had let nature, in the form of a gentleman caller, take its course. Now far be it for me to give away the identity of this fellow. A gentleman doesn’t name names after all, but I find the character, Evan Favaro, intriguing. Just as an example, you understand. 

            Evan is a trained researcher, which helps me with some points of exposition in the Requiem plots. He also happens to be conventionally gorgeous, like one of those interchangeable hunks from the Hallmark movies. Carly can’t quite forgive him for this. You see, she sees herself as detached and sophisticated, the educated and accomplished daughter of a great author. It offends her to think that she might be charmed by this irritating male who checks off every box in the shallow woman’s inventory of hunk-dom. So he can’t quote verses by Auden or Yeats—he’s kind and gives every evidence of loving her faithfully. To make things worse, he often shows a serious side and helps Carly with her own researches as an editor and writer. 

            So what’s the problem, you say? Well, as Carly points out, there are good-looking people, and then there are movie people, and it’s as if their scale of pulchritude starts off where normal people leave off. If your friend Bob is a 10 say, then movie stars go on up from 11. I’ve met a couple of people like that, 14’s and 15’s, and I’d like to tell you that they were vain and self-absorbed. Alas, they were, in fact, charming. Makes you want to kick a rock, doesn’t it?

            Anyway, you can see Carly’s problem. She doesn’t want to admit to anything like infatuation. Besides, Evan can’t help cashing in on his good looks by accepting a gig as a news show host on television. And there’s Carly: she has to watch Evan schmooze some himbo (that’s a male bimbo), on local TV and then let him corner her in the kitchen. It’s all very dispiriting for poor Carly.

            It may be that Carly is like me. I’ve studied great writers, from metaphysical poets to existential novelists, but I can’t help enjoying the occasional mushy romance. I’m like those chocolates that you get around Valentine’s Day: firm on the outside, (with maybe coconut or crushed cashews) and all gooey on the inside. I’m an Aquarius if you’re into that sort of thing, so maybe it’s in the stars. 

            I salve my conscience by checking off all the cliches as they pop up, and groan each time the couple bump into each other, dropping packages all over the street, or meet at some damn festival or other, but It seems a harmless vice, compared to vaping or Sudoku.

            Elsewhere, I’ve pointed out that in order to write ghost mysteries you have to gaze into the deep dark karst. (See my previous post.) Well, sometimes too, in the pursuit of a good story, you have to gaze into the gooey centre.