Erotic romance writer, traveler, journalist, reader. Lover of dark chocolate, female protagonists, yoga, and sexy stories.
The truth is, my imagination is often bigger than my gut. I’d like to think that if I ever got dropped into a situation, I’d take a deep breath and agree to some really cool things, but there’s a lot I know I’ll never get the opportunity to do.
And a lot I plan to do anyway.
I do not have a half-naked Greek Goddess of muse and inspiration lying across my bed. Inspiration doesn’t work like that.
Because no matter what we write, we must give some of ourselves over the story, to the writing, to the characters, the sacrifice every writer must make to get it right.
The writer aesthetic is cozy. It is sleepy and comfy, it is intentionally messy buns and no makeup and stretchy jeans. It is the uniform of the rainy-day, tea-drinking, muse-chasing writer, and it is my favorite.
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Writing a book does not happen on the day of the release, but rather, over the course of so, so many hours and so many opportunities to give up.
And I consider that my greatest accomplishment.
I got the ring bearer to the bathroom before his little tuxedo wasn’t so cute anymore.
Gardening is a lesson in managing the unmanageable. We can arm ourselves with the right tools and educate ourselves on the right care. But sometimes knowing in advance isn’t enough.
I had a lot of first loves. When I was a little kid, I fell in love with Simba from the Lion King and then Aladdin. I had crushes on the boys in my kindergarten class that changed from week to week, crushes on the boys in first grade, second grade and third grade.
Is it any wonder I became a romance novelist?
Looking inward to see the great gifts I’ve been given over the years helps me to reconcile some of the worry and nerves I feel over these new next steps and reminds me what really matters.
