Today’s post is all about YOU. Why? Well, a) it’s Labor Day weekend and I’m feeling lazy (yes, lazier than usual!), and b) I’ve been cleaning out some of the many boxes of TBR books in my garage. And my hallway. And my office (which is actually a breakfast nook). Confession–I’m a booksale junkie. There isn’t a happier weekend of the year for me than when the Friends of the Library hold their annual sale. It’s heaven on earth–thousands of books piled into a warehouse and priced at .25, .50, and 1.00 for the really nice volumes. But thanks to my addiction to these blissful events, I have more books than I can ever read, and, I’m finding, lots of duplicate copies. I need to get rid of some.

So, here is the topic–dating. Or rather, the foolishness we mortals get up to when dating goes sour. In my cleaning-out, I’ve found a stash of old notes from high school, passed between my best friend and myself in AP English class. Many of these tearful letters detail the break-up with my boyfriend (my first “real” boyfriend–we dated all of six months–so the angst is extreme and very shrill). I tried many of the old break-up standbys. Hysterically tearful midnight phone calls, driving past his house, notes in his locker, etc etc. Yes, Gentle Reader, I even shoe-polished his car. Oh, the humanity!

Sadly, such things are not always confined to teenage girls who have read too many romances (remember the “dialing while intoxicated” scene in the movie Sideways?). I started wondering what our favorite lovelorn Regency ladies–such as, say, Caro Lamb, or Emma Hamilton, or Janet’s Perdita–would have done with such dangerous modern tools as the IM or text messaging. What delirious heights of romantic lunacy could they have scaled if, in addition to publicly burning poems and having meltdowns at Almack’s, they could drink too many Cosmos and start texting him about how he vowed he would marry her and now he has proved to be the most perfidious rogue in the world, and whhyyyyy didn’t he love her anymore???

Here is your assignment. Let us know what YOU think your favorite Regency lady would have done to get back at her faithless lover, if they were suddenly deposited in 2006. The best comment (or best 2 or 3–I really have a lot to get rid of) will receive a random packet of “vintage” Regencies from my booksale stash. Let the angst begin!

Many frequent romance readers have noticed how dissimilar a book’s hero and heroine is on the cover to the description within.

Readers may not be aware of this, but it seems that dark-haired heroes on book covers sell much better than blonds. So even if the hero’s hair is described within the book as flaxen as a field of corn on a summer day, the guy on the cover’s hair will look like, well, mine (By the way, there’s been such a rumpus because the newest James Bond, Daniel Craig, is blond. Personally, I wouldn’t care if he were bald if he did a better job than Timothy Dalton, a guy I find totally hot, but who sucked as Bond. But that’s just my opinion).

Now, I would never be so silly as to not buy a book because the hero’s hair is not to my liking, but I would be so silly to not like the hero if he is too short. I might be prejudiced from personal experience–prior to my 6’1″ husband, my boyfriend of six years was 5’3″ (I am 5’6″). But if the hero is anything less than six feet, it gives me pause.

I especially like tall, rangy, sinewy men, the kind whose veins pop out of their arms. Mm. Preferably with very little, if any, chest hair. Picky, I know, but I’m reading romance for escapist fantasy, and I don’t fantasize about 5’10” hairy-chested men. So sue me.

What are your deal-breakers when it comes to your heroes? Do you find yourself passing by the books with a blond on the cover? How about height? Chest hair? Muscles? Would you find a bald hero sexy (I would, especially if he looked like Jason Statham)?

Superficial Megan
www.meganframpton.com