True confession: I didn’t read a romance novel until Fifty Shades of Grey came along. Sure, I read some of the classics: Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, A Woman of Substance, mostly when I had my period and couldn’t swim in the backyard pool. My mom would park me under a shady tree and stuck a book in my hand. (I didn’t discover the tampon until much later.)
I considered myself a feminist, working in a male-dominated career, as far removed from a femme fatale as you could be. A reader of serious fiction. I wouldn’t be caught dead reading something with a Fabio-esque cover. And I didn’t know anyone who read romance novels, or at least no one who confessed it. I read the best seller list: Fantasy, Crime, Science Fiction, Women’s Issues, Self-Discovery books. Then my niece introduced me to the YA genre and I couldn’t read fast enough: Harry Potter, Divergent, The Hunger Games, Twilight. I would normally be embarrassed to admit I was reading such novels, but I couldn’t deny my enjoyment.
I decided I could write such a story and began my journey. I soon realized I may have a tale to tell but not the required skills to pen something that had a hope of being published. I joined critique groups and attended pitch and craft conferences, and soon THE WIVES OF LUCIFER, a New Adult paranormal fantasy, became a reality, earning me a publishing contract. The thrill of writing cast its spell over me and I declared myself a real-life author.
When Fifty Shades of Grey came along, I discovered erotic fiction. I had two consecutive broken ankles that year and spent way too many months on my couch, which resulted in reading over ninety erotica novels. To my utter delight, I discovered authors like Cherise Sinclair, Sylvia Day, and JR Ward. My author critique group worked themselves into a frenzy over the success of EL James and declared, “someone needs to jump on that trend!” Around the circle we went: “I can’t write that, neither can I, I could never…” Focus turned to me: “I bet you could write that.” Shocked, I recoiled. “Me? Write romance? Erotic romance? No way!” But a story began to creep into my thoughts: A kickass FBI agent going undercover in a sex club to infiltrate and apprehend a sex-trafficking ring. She could play a submissive role, essentially play-acting, just to get the job done. Right? Of course, the story takes a turn and she’s kinda into it and, the guy is super-hot and, well, you know the climax: HEA with the dominant. But only in their sex life. She’s not submissive in any other aspect of her life, nor would he want her to be. Thus, the theme with all my protagonists. And the Steel & Desire series became a reality with a spanking new publisher. LOL
And so, I am a romance writer and proud of it. My prejudices and stereotyping of a romance novel are banished to wherever stereotypes go to die. And good riddance!
Thanks for reading!
