Want to know a secret?
Well, I guess it’s not really so much a secret as a confession. I never aspired to be an author. And, I never, ever dreamed I’d write romance novels.
What?
I didn’t scribble notes and fabricate prose from the time I could string two or three words together? I didn’t dream of being the next Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott, or Emily Bronte?
Nope.
Almost sounds blasphemous, doesn’t it?
I did write some rather heinous poetry in high school, but there was never the slightest inkling to someday become a published author. Really. I’m telling the truth.
So, what happened, you ask? Okay, maybe you didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you anyway. Lucky you.
I started reading—more like voraciously inhaling—sweet romances when I was thirteen. A girlfriend gave me a Barbara Cartland Regency to read, and I was hooked! Over the next several years . . . er . . . decades, I read thousands of romances, mostly historicals because to me, those are the ultimate romance. (BTW, I graduated from sweet, just a wee bit.)
Still, it never crossed my mind to write a novel, let alone a romance. All that dialogue and . . . well, you know, the sex. I couldn’t ever write a love scene. Ever. What would people say?
Actually, they ask all the time if I write them from my personal experiences. Seriously?
But I digress. Back to how I became a historical romance author. I know, the suspense is killing you.
A couple things happened that starting the old creative juices flowing. I went back to school and got a bachelor’s of Science in Liberal Studies and a Master’s in Teaching (In three and a half years-Do Not do that! It nearly killed me.) Naturally, there were all sorts of torturous essays I had to write, but professor after professor told me I had a knack for writing.
One of them, my Children’s Literature professor, turned to me one day after I’d shared a children’s book I’d written for an assignment, and said, “You’re going to be a great teacher, but writing is your true gift.”
Yeah right. The story was a ridiculous thing about split pea soup and a frog swimming around the bowl. Still, the insidious seed of, “What if?” had been planted.
Within a year, my last child left home for college, and there I was with a brand new teaching certificate, no kids at home (hubby doesn’t count) and I was only substituting part-time.
So, what did I do?
In February 2011, I parked myself in front of my computer, and as an experiment, decided to see if the scene that had popped into my head a few weeks before, could be made into an entire novel.
Seems it could.
Highlander’s Hope, the first book in the Castle Bride’s Series was born. My, but that was a long labor! Now, I’m celebrating the The Earl’s Enticement’s release, the third and last book in the series. Another six book series, The Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series, is in the works, as well as two anthologies and a novella. All the books are spin-offs from the first series.
Now, I’m thoroughly addicted and cannot imagine why I waited so long to begin writing. Hubby would say I’m obsessed, but that would mean I’m preoccupied and a bit fanatical about writing. . . . All the time. Every waking moment.
Darn. He’s right.
I think the most important thing is, once the niggling seed to become an author took hold, a dream I didn’t even realize I harbored, blossomed. And look where I’ve ended up?
What are your impossible dreams? What can you do to make them come true?
Here’s a snippet from The Earl’s Enticement
Angling her head, with a great deal more composure than she felt, Adaira met Roark’s penetrating gaze and waited for him to answer her question.
He flicked a silk flower on her hat. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you.” She said no more, just waited. He was stalling.
He gestured in the dog’s direction. “Guinevere. She’s blind in one eye.”
“Indeed.”
Adaira would wait him out. Curling her toes in her shoes kept her from tapping them in impatience. Or kicking him.
“I also have a blind mule and a deaf sheep,” his lordship proudly announced.
Adaira clenched her hands, bit the inside of her cheek, and made a strangled choking in the back of her throat trying to suppress her laugh. It gushed forth in loud peals. She slapped her hand over her mouth, but couldn’t control her hysterical giggling.
“A deaf sheep? Are all of your animals needy in some way?” She sat up straighter and gripped his forearm. “You have an owl in the library?”
The earl drew himself up, and pretended to look down his nose at her. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with having an owl in one’s library? Are they not wise?”
Adaira shook her head, and between bouts of giggles said, “You are hopelessly absurd.”
She sat back, folding her arms across her chest, while trying to balance her parasol. “My, my. It seems you’re a fraud, my lord. Why no self-respecting member of the peerage keeps an owl in his library.”
“He does if he raised it from a fledgling. I found her beneath a tree. She must have fallen out. You see, she has deformed feet. Sophie would never have survived in the wild. I couldn’t let her die,” he said softly, his voice low.
