The short answer is, because I live it.
Seriously, when my books come out, I expect I’ll get some comments on the fact that they include a fair amount of slapstickyness. People stumbling, tripping, falling on faces and arses (usually the heroines). Some people like that kind of comedy in moderation (raises hand) and others don’t–it’s not ALL there is to my books, of course. But I write it in because…honestly, I don’t know how to write a heroine who doesn’t fall on her face occasionally. Because I do it all the time.
Right after New Year, for instance, I made a lunging grab for my younger dareling as he took off across the parking lot. My boot caught on the curb, I fell swiftly and hard, and I ripped a newish pair of jeans and still have yellowing bruises on both knees. *sigh* Yep, that’s me. As my grandmother used to say, “Just call me Grace!”
These incidents also factor into my own real-life romance. It’s astounding that Mr. Dare convinced me to marry him at all, considering that I incurred some serious blunt trauma on one of our first dates. And it was all his fault. Yes. It was.
See, we were at the Getty Center in LA (and the man was getting some serious points for taking me to an art museum on one of our first dates. I’m not sure he’s taken me to an art museum since, but…) The Getty Center is several galleries, connected by terraces and and pathways overlooking a beautifully landscaped hillside garden and the LA skyline. It’s stunning. In my case, literally.
So we were standing on one of these terraces, holding hands and taking in the breathtaking view, and Mr. Dare (whom I have since learned is prone to these sudden bursts of energy and movement, not unlike a predatory cat) decided we should take off quickly for another gallery, because the museum was closing soon. He took off, dragging me by the hand behind him while I was still looking at the hillside garden, and
He pulled me face-first into a very large, very metal flagpole. Seriously. You know that cliche, “He didn’t know what hit him”? I was living it. I had no clue what had just happened to me, only that my head was ringing and my sunglasses were broken and I was swaying on my feet. Actually, it’s probably a good thing I was wearing the sunglasses, because although they cut into my temple and made it bleed (!), they probably sustained the brunt of the impact.
So we spent our last half-hour at the Getty Center sitting on a bench applying ice packs to my head. It was really fun explaining to the security guard for his incident report that I’d…yeah, walked into a pole. Really hard.
Anyway, if anyone ever wonders why I write these scenes–it’s because I live them! And because clearly blunt head trauma aides blossoming romance. Mr. Dare convinced me to marry him just two months later. And my head is still ringing.
Do you write (or live) slapstick comedy? Do you enjoy reading it or not?