I love romance. I. Love. Romance. The first time I read a romance novel was back in the 90s. I was working a double shift––from afternoon to night––and night shift, when it wasn’t an inventory night, could be long and lonely. I hadn’t prepared, so I hadn’t come with a book or a magazine or snacks. BUT, there was a romance novel in the desk. When the day shift arrived, I hadn’t yet finished the book, so I took it home with me.
I should backtrack a smidge, the book had been there for weeks and I’m fairly certain I poked fun at its owner during that period. My point is––I had never been moved to read the darn thing. Okay, I wasn’t really moved to read it then either... It was something to pass the time.
I finished the book after sleeping for a few hours. Now, I now it sounds as though I’m going to rave about it, but I’m not. It was terrible. Not the writing, not even the premise, but rather how the couple’s hate-love relationship evolved. I mean, there was no way she could have fallen in love with the lout. Yes, lout. It was a historical romance. And, yes, this is simply my point of view. But the book got me thinking. There had to be better out there and I was convinced I could find these mythical creations.
Yeah, they weren’t so mythical. I was simply uneducated in romance. I spent the summer reading. I discovered Julie Garwood. Linda Lael Miller. Lisa Kleypas. I love Nalini Singh, Zoe York, and Victoria Dahl. Need I say more? There are so many fantastic romance authors publishing today that I could include pages of names. But this is about me. Ha!
This is the long on how I got on the romance track. I wanted to write something that created as much pleasure in someone else as it had me.