Random thoughts on our impending doom and everyday life, courtesy of a Romance Writer who occasionally feels the need to talk like a Sailor.

Friday, 27 April 2012

That’s not Romance... or, Love in the Time of a Zombie Apocalypse.

My non-writing BFF (my writing BFF is Babette and you can find her groovy guest post here... read my MS ‘Final Girl’ recently. Much to my surprise she got right into it. Mish (we’ll call her that because it’s her name) reads mostly historical and contemporary romance. She doesn’t do weird or bloody and has never understood zombies. So, she reads the book and makes a few comments. Let me give you a dramatic re-enactment of the tipsy moment to which I’ll be referring.

Mish: I liked it. But it’s not a romance.
Me: Huh? What do you mean it’s not a romance?
Mish: Well, you call it an Erotic Romance, but it’s not really, is it?
Me: What shit do you speak, woman? They meet, they have adventures and stuff. Sex. Zombie chaos and carnage. More hot sex. Then they fall in love. How is that not a romance?
Mish: (Rolls eyes and flicks hair. She has really cool, flicky hair because she’s a hairdresser.) It’s not a romance. Romance is (lots of waving of hands here) candles and baths and tender moments, isn’t it? It’s not running away from zombies all the time. That’s not romance.
Me: They’re not running all the time and they have candles. There’s no electricity, of course they have candles. And there are several bathing scenes (add finger wagglingg here).
Mish: What... you mean when there was a rotting body in a tub?
Me: No, apart from that. And the rotting body was there for a very good reason.
Mish: Right... whatever... Anyway, it’s not exactly romanticky, is it?
Me: Umm, that’s not even a word.

Okay. Now, romance is a subjective thing. And it’s the wooing we’re talking about here, I checked back with her when we were both sober. Mish believes in the Happy Ever After at the end of Final Girl, but still believes the tale is not ‘romanticky’. So what is romance? Is it roses and candle lit dinners? Or is it my partner agreeing to do the washing up with his shirt off despite thinking I’m a loon (and having the children laugh at him)? Maybe it’s a bit of both. Little things count. In survival situations, a hero giving the greater portion of the last can of Irish Stew to the heroine could be considered romance. How about providing your love with a shoulder to lean on when they’ve f**ked up spectacularly? Believing your honey looks rocking when they’re wrecked? Yep. Romance. There are a million, billion different versions of love and affection. A trillion ways to treasure someone, on the run from the undead or not.

In summation, different strokes for different folks. I’m chuffed she read the book in record time and wants to know what happened next. I done hooked her, I did. And the rotting body in the tub IS there for a really good reason.

Disclaimer: No Mish’s were hurt during the making of this blog.


  1. The washing up wins for me, every time - with or without a shirt! Good post and I have every confidence that the body was there for a reason!

    1. I love you Imelda. Just saying.

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