Friday, April 29, 2011
Posted by Liane Gentry Skye
"Who wrote this (insert expletive)?" my oh-so-alpha hubby shouts from the man cave.
Hmmm. Seems my darling boy toy has swiped one of my romance novels again, mistaking it (cough, cough) for an action thriller. Because, you know, the shirtless, tattooed gun toting studmuffin on the book's cover isn't enough of a giveaway. But then, that's a SEAL for ya. Show the man a weapon, and the rest of the world fades away. Unless, of course, there are boobs involved. But how to bring a SEAL to his knees is the stuff of another post.
"She just called a rifle a gun. Any idiot knows...."
*Sigh.* "If you don't like it, don't read it."
"Just tell me this. Who buys this shit?"
Shrug. "All those clearly misguided souls who put that very book on the best seller list."
Insert your one each alpha male throaty growl.
Boy toy and I have had this discussion before. I've tried to explain that romances are written to appeal to women. Granted, accuracy is a wonderful thing, and something every good author should strive for, but unless a woman has spent enormous amounts of time embedded (as in married) with the real deal, she's not likely to know a SEAL seldom refers to his gun as such, but rather a calls it his weapon. "Dear, I doubt the hero's gun is the weapon readers are interested in."
DH emerges from the bathroom...um, man cave...waving the book in question. "I'm reading this. I care. The hero is talking ops with a chick he just laid. Which would never happen."
Ahem. A-FUCKING-hem. "You did," I say, resisting the urge to buff my nails on my shirt.
"That was different. I married you."
I raise my chin in a style worthy of the most kick ass heroine. "So the last twenty years were about protecting the interests of national security? And here I thought you loved me for the banana stuffed french toast I made for you the morning after the tequila fest from hell." Translation, somebody is so not getting any tonight.
"I didn't mean it like that. But if these women want to write SEALs, they ought to do their homework, take a class or something."
"Well...yeah. Only without the classified shit."
"Sorry, honey, doesn't exist."
"Fine, let's write one...."
And the rest, as they say, is history. For the sake of family peace, I'm forcing DH to educate us poor, misguided romance novelists. Do you have any burning questions about Navy SEALs or other SPECOPS warriors? How about secret service protection details?
Ever wonder what happens to a SEAL after retirement?
Want to know what's REALLY under the Donald's comb over?
Share your questions here, and we'll address them in my five part "Confessions of a Frog Hog" series.
The only caveat is, don't ask DH to reveal mission specifics. It will never happen...unless you ply him with copious amounts of cleavage and tequila, because every romance author and reader knows a SEAL is still, after all, a red blooded, All American man. :)