I wrote this post almost five years ago, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately because of some rather heated discussions taking place in a writing forum. I want to share it again because I am STILL proud to be a Romance writer.
Is it a bad thing to admit that I write romance novels?
I’ve read the classics. I majored in English and have studied the works of everyone from Aristophanes to Baudelaire to Whitman and Tennyson. I struggled through Hardy and Lawrence and earned a grudging respect for Hawthorne’s ability to fill multiple pages with one endless sentence that somehow remained grammatically correct (see how I did that?). I can discuss Twain and Poe the way some people talk about this week’s bargains at Wal-Mart.
But sometimes . . . I just want to feel good.
Romance novels are all about the guaranteed happy ending. Real life can be a little short on those. Romance in the real world is less about roses and moonlit escapades, and more about figuring out whose turn it is to pick up the kids after school. Real life marriages deal with adultery and abuse, debt and…
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