Hello there, writer types.
This is your heroine speaking and I have a few things I’d like to say to you. First of all – thanks! I would not be alive without you and please don’t think that I don’t appreciate it. Despite all the pain and angst and danger you put me through, it’s still better than never having lived at all.
And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but there are one or two (OK, five!) things I have a little, itty-bitty problem with. Please bear with me and let me get this off my chest, then I’ll willingly go back to doing whatever you want me to do.
1. Please don’t name me Cat! Do you know how many other heroines there are named Cat? (answer is 772). And while we’re on the subject, please don’t name me Catherine, Cathy, Katy, Kat, Katya, Caitlyn, Kathleen or ANY OTHER NAME THAT WILL INEVITABLY BE SHORTENED TO CAT! Also, please don’t name me Lilith.
2. While we’re on the name thing, please don’t name me Al’Bsi’Ryzh, or if you simply HAVE to name me something that requires numerous apostrophes, could you at least name me something that can be shortened into a cute little nickname that most definitely is not Cat?
3. If you’re gonna make me a kick ass heroine with awesome skills with guns/lasers/swords/martial arts/etc., could you please give me a little on-page training session? While you’re taking your post-writing-frenzy nap, guess what I’m doing? That’s right. I’m working my booty off, perfecting those kick ass skills. Hey, heroines need to sleep sometimes, too, ya know. If you want me to destroy the villain in hand-to-hand combat, please give me a little credit and show off to the reader how damn hard I have to work to stay totally kick ass.
4. If you absolutely have to make me a virgin heroine, please do me a favor, do a little research, and then tell the damn truth. My hymen is not a rampart to be stormed. Neither is it located halfway to kingdom come up the birth canal of love. Don’t get your facts about basic female anatomy from romance novels. Biology texts are much better.
5. One last thing – if you make me fall in love with a guy who treats me like shit for most of the story (e.g. is convinced I’m evil/I’m an enemy spy/I’m a whore/I killed his mother/etc.) then make sure he gives me a damn good grovel at the end. The worse he’s treated me, the better the grovel has to be. I mean it! If I don’t get promised the moon and the stars and the universe, never-ending happiness, and a lifetime supply of foot rubs, I’ll be off with the nearest space geek in town, just as soon as you have written ‘The End.’ I really know how to scupper a happy ever after if I don’t get my grovel!
Hey, thanks for listening. I really don’t mean to sound ungrateful, and I’m sure YOU would never commit any of the above-mentioned deadly sins. (Though I have it on excellent information that Agent Z. has committed at least three.)
Be seeing ya!
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