The Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

When I was eight years old, I announced to my parents that I wanted to write love stories when I grew up. Why not? I loved Barbie and Ken, Fred and Wilma, Barney and Betty, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, Snow White and their respective Princes Charming. Arthur and Guinevere (sorry, Lance) and Scherezade, whose storytelling was so compelling it saved her life and won the heart of a king.

When I was eleven, a family friend published her first novel, one of the seminal historical romances. My mom read it. I wanted it. I pestered Mom until she told me the basic plot, of a Scottish girl who was kidnapped into a harem, fell in love with the sultan, and stayed there until she was much older and returned to Scotland. But I was too young to read it, so stop asking.

I did stop asking. I snuck the book instead, and when caught reading it under a brass bed with a flashlight during a power outage, announced with a straight face that I was reading it for the history and costumes. Which was much of the truth. Still too young. Snuck the next book, too. Got my own of the next, because by that time, okay, I was still young, but I'm sure Mom knew I was going to sneak it anyway. Those books called me and I had to answer. I knew that was what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life.

Today, my first historical romance, My Outcast Heart, is officially on sale. Eight year old me is very very satisfied. Thirtycoughcoughmumble year old me says "okay, time to finish the next one." And the next and the next and the next.

Thank you, Mom, and thank you, Aunt Sunny.