Tuesday, 13 December 2011
They have travelled with me all my married life; the first things I pack and unpack. Faded now, even yellowed where the sun of France, Spain and Mexico have burned, they sit where I can see them, unopened for years, just waiting to welcome me back. I have more...hardbacks bought when things were good. Angeliques, Catherines and Marianne s. All beautiful, all tempestuous, mostly green-eyed with a figure Sophia Loren would be proud of.
I would be the first to admit [since doing my degree and becoming a bit poncey] that these is no literary merit to these genres of the bodice busting-historical romance-adventures stories [although I have just spotted Ayn Rand...so that's where she went?]. Narrative driven they do exactly what they say on the covers.They tell stonking adventure stories with lots of heaving bosoms, sardonic men, gypsies, pirates and even magic.
I love 'em all.
Yesterday I picked one up...and now the die is cast. I must to the beginning go. Anglelique.. a child, poor and barefoot. Sigh!
And when the well ran dry in the 70's and no-one was writing that genre any more...I wrote one myself. A two volume masterpiece...Meg and the Rufus Box and Meg and the Blood Red Stones. Brilliant they are. Stuck on a shelf somewhere, waiting to make my fortune. Almost publishable the man said, at Collins. But kids and life, travel and work got in the way. Well...that's my excuse and I am sticking to it.