How to Write a Rom-Com

Prologue

There are a few things that should pop into one’s head after one face plants into the asphalt outside of Radio City Music Hall.

Shit, I’m going to get hit by a car.

Ew, this ground is so gross.

Ouch.

I thought none of those things.

My thoughts went to The Wedding Planner . Awesome and completely underrated mid-2000s rom-com with Matthew McConaughey and Jennifer Lopez. Jenny gets her heel stuck in a grate and McConaughey has to save her from a runaway dumpster. As far as “meet-cutes” go, it’s pretty iconic.

That is not what happened to me.

Let’s be honest, it’s New York. So, did I really expect anyone to stop and help me up? No. I’ve lived in Manhattan for years now. Unless there is a real threat, we New Yorkers rarely even shudder.

But in my line of work, that is, happily-ever-afters, my mind is constantly on the search for my knight in shining armor. While I may work in romance, love itself has eluded me, well–forever. So, there I was, walking in front of one of the most iconic Manhattan landmarks, totally wiped out, and I was wondering one single thing:

Where. The. Hell. Is. He ?

The “he” in question being that tall, dark, handsome, mysterious stranger who comes to my aid. My McConaughey. The unsuspecting, dashing, man of my dreams who falls in love with me the moment he sees me splayed out on the pavement without a hair out of place. Was he busy today or something?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a feminist, a “damsel-can-handle-her-distress” supporter, but I’m also a romance editor. And we live for this shit.

When I stood up, grunting at the one person who asked “Are you okay?” as they continued to pass by at the speed of a gazelle and dusting off my knees, I finally saw him.

I caught a glimpse as I readjusted my backpack on my shoulders—a dash of blonde curls on the opposite side of Sixth Avenue. The moment couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds, but my eyes locked onto him from across the speeding traffic. From a distance, I could tell that he was coming to help me… or was at least concerned about the fact that I fell in the middle of a busy intersection. I was too far away, but I’m sure his eyebrows were furrowed. They had to be.

He took a step toward me. Then another.

And then his attention was taken by a child beside him, and a honking bus sped by. By the time I made it to the sidewalk and looked back across the avenue, he was gone.

Fucking rom-coms. Fucking Matthew McConaughey. You’re the reason I have unrealistic expectations of men, Matthew.

And yet, as I fell asleep last night—with an ice pack on my knee because I’m almost twenty-eight and tripping on the street can be the cause of major injury now—the image of a stranger with crystal blue eyes seemed etched in my brain, fogging my vision, like a lens I couldn’t quite clear.