When I’m not writing, I am a family economist/behavioral economist. The philosophy behind both of those is that I study the use of time, money, and other resources — in household units and in a manner that accounts for psychology.
Running Valentine’s Day through the economics filter yields interesting results.
Take, for example, Valentine’s Day as a method of conspicuous consumption, and the role of social media in creating the conspicuous part. Today, people will post pictures of flowers, restaurant meals, and possibly engagement rings or jewelry. The gifts may be given from the heart; the need to post pictures on Facebook and Instagram comes from a desire for the world to know the value of the item.
Or for that matter, Valentine’s Day as an exploration of assortative mating. This is an economic concept borrowed from sociology that posits that people get sorted into couples based on complementary resources and similarity of levels of resources. Thus the stereotype that the rich man gets the trophy wife — there’s a little truth to the stereotype, according to the assortative mating theory. So, in effect, we don’t marry someone out of our league — we marry someone that complements us. And we marry as much for their resources combined with ours as we do love and romance.
And let’s not even mention that chocolate in a heart-shaped box costs much more coming up to Valentine’s Day than it does the day after. That’s pure supply and demand.
I take advantage of this last economic fact by celebrating Half Price Chocolate Day tomorrow.
Tag: romance
Alpha males.
I’m beginning to hate the phrase.
This morning I got a friend request on Facebook from someone who is most certainly an Internet scammer. Tipoffs: He’s pictured in military uniform with a military background. He lists his home as three different places in Africa so he’s apparently doing something dangerous, and to sweeten the deal, he’s widowed.
In other words, he’s the perfect romance novel hero.
I once got rejected by Harlequin because my story needed a hero who was
- older than the heroine;
- richer than the heroine and
- more powerful than the heroine.
In other words, an alpha male, and the female protagonist is his dazzled (and subservient) woman.
Is this what I, a female, am supposed to fall for? If this supposed to be my fantasy? As a highly educated female, and one who lives in voluntary simplicity, my male won’t be alpha, but egalitarian. He might be dark and brooding, but smart enough to learn how to manage his own feelings. He might be an entrepreneur or a college professor or a social worker, but what he contributes is complementary skills.
It’s not sexy enough, where sexy is defined as a female so desirable the lone wolf tears off her clothes and pledges to change (but not enough to get a social work job). The female is thrilled to find her needs will be taken care of and she won’t have to be challenged at work anymore.
I probably will never write a romance novel again.
And I rejected Alpha Military Man for the third time. Who falls for these guys anyhow?
My Attempt at Writing Santa
I really don’t know how to write in the romance novel trope:
- I’m much more interested in relationships than sex. In fact, I can’t write sex scenes without laughing.
- I don’t like the traditional gender roles expected: He’s strong rich and powerful, she’s beautiful (and maybe accomplished, but not as much as him).
- Because I never wished for That Guy, I am out of touch with that particular female fantasy.
That being said, here’s an excerpt of a “meet cute” from my novel, The Kringle Conspiracy, which was rejected by Harlequin for the above reasons. I think it’s a fun exploration of the Santa mythos for adults.
*******
Marcia stood in front of a store she had somehow missed her first time down the block. She wondered how she could have missed it, as she could see through its windows well-crafted wooden toys and children’s furniture, not to mention dollhouses, rocking chairs for adults, and small carvings. Perhaps, she thought, she had dismissed it because of the “Closed” sign that hung on the door.
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Courier} p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Courier; min-height: 14.0px}
As she stood there, nose pressed against a misty show window, she heard the jingle of keys. Her reverie broken, she turned to see the flannel-shirted man, a short, rugged-looking redhead with a close-cut beard, turn a key in the lock.
“Sorry I wasn’t here,” he said pleasantly as he pushed the door open. “I had to get some – hey, weren’t you just in the Book Nook?”
“Yeah, I was the one who chatted with your Santa friend.”
“My Santa friend – oh, yeah, Jack. He’s actually retired Air Force, believe it or not, but he comes out of retirement every year to play Santa for the community.”
“He does a great job. So, is this your store, or do you just work here?”
“This is my store.” He indicated the door with a flourish and stepped behind the glass counter full of small wooden sculptures.
Marcia stepped through the door he held open and instantly gravitated toward a wooden car that sat on a glass shelf, a cut-out with wheels. Of plain, unpainted wood, the car showed painstaking craftsmanship in the smoothness of the finish, the pleasant contours that comforted a hand. Marcia pushed it, feeling the “clack-clack-clack” the wheels made as it traveled down her invisible road. “I bet little kids really like this.”
“Not just little kids, apparently.” From behind the glass counter, the man grinned at her, a grin that removed all mockery from his words. Marcia realized that he was not as young as she had thought in the coffeehouse. He had the slightly weather-worn look fair-skinned men get in their thirties, with laugh lines around the eyes. The faint freckles and red hair, she thought – those must have thrown her off.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed as things clicked in her head. “When you said this was your shop, you meant this was your shop.”
“Well, yes?” One eyebrow quirked itself at her.
“I mean – you make this stuff, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wow, you have a real talent!” She looked at the walls, the shelves with toys, the dollhouses, the hobbyhorses all glowing with warmth. I mean, I used to play with trucks like this, but they never felt so good. I bet your dollhouses have stairs that really go up to the second floor!”
“Where else would they go?” The shopkeeper chuckled, and Marcia sighed happily.
“I’ve always hated dollhouses that you can’t really walk through. And dollhouses that are all out-of-proportion to themselves.” Marcia talked rapidly, breathlessly, then stopped. “Listen to me get so worked up about toys!”
“And what’s wrong with that?” He casually strolled over to where she stood by the car, still idly pushing it.
“Nothing, I mean …”
The flannel-shirted man cut her off with a question she hadn’t expected. “Are you from around here?”
“No, I’m on sabbatical here till the end of the month.” She was relieved to talk about something she felt comfortable with instead of babbling. “I’m a grant reviewer for a private foundation.”
“Sabbatical, eh? That means you’re a professor?”
“Got it in one. Just got tenure last year, and the college thought they could spare me one semester of leave to recover.”
“I should have guessed you were a professor.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and saw that he played idly with a pen. “Why?”
”Because you don’t miss anything. Luckily, though, you’re not one of those stuffy arrogant types.”
Again, his smile, the raised eyebrow, took all potential sting out of the words.
Again, his smile, the raised eyebrow, took all potential sting out of the words.
“What makes you say that?” Marcia asked. “I might be stuffy and arrogant for all you know.”
“Because you still know how to say ‘wow’.”
“Wow – er, I mean, thank you!” She felt her cheeks grow warm.
“See what I mean?”
Marcia’s cheeks grew even warmer. Fortunately, as she glanced up at a simply elegant mantel clock, she found an excuse to flee – “Oh! I’ve got fifteen minutes to get back across town!”
“Here, take this with you.” The man handed Marcia the pen he had played with, and she discovered that it had a business card tied to the end of its smooth, curvy, turned-wood body.
“Kris Kringle’s,” Marcia read aloud. “How odd … but this shop is yours and not the Santa guy’s?”
“My shop. I’m Kris.”
“Kris – oh, no, not Kringle, is it?” Marcia laughed.
“Nope,” he chuckled, “Kriegel. But you can imagine what it was like for me in grade school. I decided to use it to my advantage.”
“I know all too well. I’m Marcia Wendt – as in ‘Marcia Wendt to Hell?’”
“Oh, dear,” Kris Kriegel said sympathetically. “You do understand, then.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Kriegel, but I do have to go. This pen – it’s too nice to give away, isn’t it?” Marcia felt torn – the pen was glossy and fat and entirely too pleasant to the hand.
“No, really. It
s yours.” He curled her hand around the silky wood with both his hands, which felt warm and calloused.
s yours.” He curled her hand around the silky wood with both his hands, which felt warm and calloused.
“But why?”
“So you won’t lose the business card, of course.”
Words Like Me 