Not at all. What the genre needs are some fresh ideas. Herewith excerpts from a few of my own storylines:
Bradley was all man except for his walk – a sort of waddle not unlike a penguin’s. Brittany was a pert young therapist specializing in peculiar walks. “You don’t look at all like a penguin,” she counseled. “But just in case, I’d avoid wearing a tuxedo.”
“It’s no use,” he lamented. “No woman could love a man who waddles.” Her heart went out to him. But how far?
Jeff’s idea of a weekend in Atlantic City frankly tempted Teresa. But could she leave the convent while her garden wasn’t fully bloomed?
Raellen was the belle of the Redneck Riviera, betrothed to rich, respectable Hatton Fiske. But when rakehell race driver Monk Varney rear-ended her truck, she saw it for what it was – his pathetic attempt to meet cute.
Gorilla-Louise Maxwell hated her name, and welcomed the chance to change it by marriage to handsome Dave Sinclair. “Soon I’ll be Gorilla-Louise Sinclair,” she beamed.
The stranger barged into Gwynneth’s Orient Express compartment and thrust a package into her hands. “Take this to Istanbul. Ask the first man you meet ‘Are you the Turk?’ If he says yes, give him the package.”
She looked into the stranger’s dark features. “Proper English ladies don’t go around saying ‘Are you the Turk?’ to strange men. Especially in Istanbul.”
He flashed his credentials. American CIA. Said she, “You’re certainly cheeky enough to be a spy.”
“Americans don’t have time for subtlety,” he whispered. “We’ll meet again.”
So saying, he leapt from the train. And the Orient Express thundered through the night.
After a week as private secretary to the mysterious Dillard of Yorkshire, Ann was contemplative as she walked the moors. Certainly the Dillard was felicitous of feature but his rumored eccentricity was yet to show itself.
Now here he came, bounding across the heath, after her with a butterfly net.
With Lance and Polly it was a battle of wits and wills. “What country is Calgary?” posited Lance.
“Canada,” she answered.
“Wrong. It’s not Cana-dah, it’s Cana-duh! You mispronounced it.”
“And I say it’s Cana-dah!”
“Duh! Come here, you vixen!” Stimulated beyond endurance, they melded into a full embrace, no longer caring about the dominion to the north.
[For more of the same, visit Alan’s blog, www.essentialba.com]