I was twelve
when I fell in love for the first time. The lucky man was a romance hero, the
star of one of the countless ‘white cover ‘Harlequins that I devoured each
evening after my homework was complete. I read the books by the grocery sack
full. A friend brought them to school, I read them, then passed them to my
grandmother. She would read them, we might even talk about them, and back they
went to my friend. Not long after, my faithful friend would bring in another
sack full, and the process would begin all over again. Harlequin Presents,
Silhouette Romance, Kismet. I read them all. And I loved them.
The older I
got, the Harlequins gave way to single title romances, fabulous historicals.
Books set in the Highlands of Scotland, the ton of England, pirates on the high
seas. Even the rebellious colonies called the Americas. Then one of my favorite
authors published a contemporary, and I was off running again. These books were
like none other. They were about millionaires and nannies, women trying to make
it in a man’s world, and professional football players. Corporate raiders,
lawyers, doctors, and cowboys. And I fell in love all over again.
When I
started writing, I naturally gravitated toward romance. I had well-meaning
family members encourage me to write all sorts of genres. “Write something like
Stephen King. He sells a lot of books.” I was told to write a mystery, to ‘write
chick lit’, and almost every other kind of genre known to man. But I love romance. And I have for a very long time.
It’s my favorite reading material. One man, one woman, falling in love. To me
there’s nothing better.
I can say with great conviction that I will never write a horror story, a murder mystery, or anything remotely like a suspense. It's not that they aren't worthy to me. They just aren't what I love.
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