Writer. Reader.

I started writing stories when I was a kid, continued sporadically through college, and carved out more time in adulthood. But I didn’t finish anything, besides some short stories for classes and that one teenage fanfic about a boy band (so embarrassing). The ideas were there, though not fully formed.

Finally, when I was in graduate school, I broke through. I finished a novel! I call it my masterpiece, not in that it was some fantastic work (it was not), but more in the traditional apprentice/journeyman/master system. I produced something. And it was like popping a cork.

Since then I’ve written various genres, but my heart is definitely in romance. I love watching relationships develop and grow. Seeing flawed people learn about themselves and learning to trust someone else is catnip to me. The guarantee of a happily ever after, or at least a happy for now, ending is important to my reading enjoyment. The world is hard enough. I don’t need to add pain and misery. Well, maybe a little angst.

As I’ve written what I wanted to read, I haven’t felt the push to share it with others. Maybe it’s been fear holding me back. It’s hard putting something of yourself into the world for others to see and judge. But my life has changed in the last few years. Maybe I’m finally growing up. If I must. Maturing, then, perhaps. The fear is still there, but love plays its part.

I love my characters. I want to introduce them to people. To see them live in someone else’s mind for a few hours. And, so, I must also put myself into the world. It’s a new adventure. The process may be slow, but I have to start somewhere.