It’s not uncommon for me to climb into bed at night with my husband while thoughts of another man still linger in my head. But it’s not an issue between us. He understands that my heart sometimes belongs to someone else. He has even been known to ask me “Who was it today?” to which I smile and whisper “Talon” as I drift off to sleep.
I am a writer of Historical Romance. I fill my life with Medieval Knights, Scottish Highlanders, English Lords, and Civil War Soldiers. I see myself in every lady fair and I fall in love with every handsome prince. I sigh at every first kiss. My heart beats faster at every gentle touch and breaks each time it looks as if all is lost. And each time happiness reigns I know love conquers all, in life as in fiction.
When someone asks me what I do I tell them, “I am a Romance Writer.” And they often smile and give me that look that says, “Oh, you’re not a real writer.”
But the way I see it, I use the same words as Faulkner, Shakespeare or any winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. I simply string them together so that my characters fall in love and live happily ever after.
I don’t consider myself any different than any other writer in any other genre, whether Romance, Mystery, Women’s Fiction or any on Oprah’s Book List. I sit myself down, work on character and plot, agonize over each word and pray that what I wanted to say shows in each sentence.
And when someone tells me that what I wrote gave them pleasure I know without a doubt that I am proud to be a Romance Writer.