Page 3 of How to Write a Rom-Com

“Is thatnever speaking about him again?” I snap, pressing my hand against my forehead. I shudder at the thought. Elle laughs.

“Maybe my standards are too high, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask to swipe through these stupid apps and find someone who A) knows how old they are, B) isn’t trying to sell me marijuana, and C) isn’t holding a dead fish. But no, I’m met with ‘23, not 29! 420 friendly!’ And mutilated Nemos with every tap.”

Romance books don’t prepare you for these problems.

“Well, I guess that’s the plight of the single romance editor,” Elle says, referencing her own single status. “This was never a storyline inYounger, I’m not sure how we’re supposed to deal with it.”

“Maybe we should write our own book about our sad love lives.Lonely romance editor finds love after years of vagina drought,” I say as if I’m reading the headline of a newspaper. Elle and I giggle as the two middle-aged men in suits in the elevator with us give us the dirtiest look of all time.

“A bestseller for sure,” Elle whispers as the men exit the elevator. Our howling laughter follows them down the hall.

I follow Elle to our desks at the back of the floor. Heartwarming, the romance imprint we work for, is seen by some as the black sheep of the fiction division. They hide us away in the dark corner. Heaven forbid we get in the way of the “serious stuff” with our talk of orgasms and happily-ever-afters. I wish someone would write a book about how underappreciated the romance genre is, how important romance can be for people. People like me.

I think back to that thirteen-year-old girl readingTwilightunder her desk in class and deflate a little bit. Back then, I thought the romance I read about was the rule, not the exception. But the longer I work in romance, the more I’m starting to think that maybe that dream isn’t for everyone.

That girl was so unaware of thelackof love that adulthood had waiting for her.

Somewhere in my mind, maybe I thought the closer I got to romance books, the more I immersed myself in them, the closer I would get to finding my own happily ever after. And yet, at twenty-eight years old, I still haven’t found a man that I can make it through a dinner with, let alone date long term.

Adulting is hard. Dating is hard. Love is hard. They should really put that on the advertisement for this growing up shit.

That day in front of Radio City, the iconic landmark I was supposed to count myself lucky for being able to work next to every day, became a symbol for all of the “should” in my life. Ishouldbe happy that I’m “living my dream” and not constantly be asking for more—and yet, I still found myself yearning for something, or at leastsomeone, to share this dream with.

Elle and I rush past our company’s new open-plan setup and quickly drop our bags on our desks. My cubicle is right next to Anne’s, so I feel her eyes boring holes in me before I make it around the small cork wall that separates us to hand her the coffee.

“Did you trip and spill the coffee again?” Anne asks, taking the cup from me. I wrap the cup in a napkin I picked up at the kitchenette on our floor on our way in, so Anne doesn’t have the same burnt palms that I do.

When she finishes clicking her mouse more times than is necessary to open her email, she raises her eyebrows and pushes her large clear glasses to the end of her nose, so she can look at me in a knowing way.

Wow, she really looks like Miranda Priestly when she does that. I wish I could take a picture to compare.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter, ostentatiously rolling my eyes toward the ceiling to avoid her gaze.

“Lucy Bowen, what do I keep telling you?” Anne says, spinning around in her chair so fast that her short black curls swing around her face and bounce with a level of enthusiasm that I wish I had this early in the morning. “You need to—”

“Work on my core, I know,” I finish for her, returning to my side of the cubicle wall.

“It will really help with your balance,” Anne says with only a hint of condescension in her tone. Anne is tall and thin, with a sunken face that she hides behind glasses that are too big for her face. She can be menacing when she wants to be, but also appear friendly with authors at the same time.

“Oh, by the way!” Anne says a little too loudly. “Lucy, do you have those sales numbers I asked for—?” Her voice halts when she sees my hand already outstretched containing said files. She eyes me with a smirk. “You’re so good.”

“I keep telling you that,” I quip. As much as I complain about Anne’s frantic and disorganized work style, I am lucky to have such a friendly relationship with my boss. I know other assistants who are not so lucky, which is why I’m comfortable making comments like this. I’ve made it no secret to Anne that it’s time for a promotion, but as with anything in publishing, that process has been going about as fast as a train would go through molasses.

When Anne clicks her tongue, I take my cue, ambling after her toward the conference room. The others soon trickle in, mumbling by way of greeting. Anne kicks things off by discussing news in the industry, bestsellers, and any upcoming projects of interest.

“What do you think about the historical romance you mentioned last week, Nicole?” Anne asks. She’s in her signature meeting position—legs crossed, curly hair bouncing in tandem with her leg, glasses sliding down the tip of her nose. She always seems like she is thinking of something else when she is talking to you, which can be frustrating at times. But she’s there when it counts, and in my case, I’m hoping that means she’ll be there for me at my annual review in July.

“The writing is really strong, but it takes place in colonial Florida. Just makes me think of how whenOutlanderwent to America, everyone jumped ship,” Nicole explains.

“That’s a bummer,” Anne responds. And just like that, the book is out of the running. It may seem heartless, but there is so much more to being published than good writing. An editor might fall in love with a book, but if it doesn’t have its own place in the market, or if it’s too similar to another book, it’s out.

“I have a promising own-voices rom-com,” Terri adds. Anne immediately sits up and scribbles something in her notebook.

“It’s enemies-to-lovers, with an Indian-American heroine trying to avoid an arranged marriage by pretending to be in a relationship with her co-worker,” Terri explains.

“So fake-dating, own voices, and workplace romance?” Anne asks, eyebrows raised.

Tropes are one of my favorite parts of the romance genre. There’s something I love about plugging characters into their own boxes. I can only hope that one day, I’ll find a box—or a trope—that I fit into.

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