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Dr. Seuss was my first love. When my mom left me in the children’s section of the library I’d find Horton and the Cat. My mom hated the good doctor and refused to checkout his books. He was my secret, guilty pleasure. Eventually, I read about Narnia, Oz and Green Gables.
When my mom grew too sick to visit the library, a friend brought her a stash of romances which she kept in a big box beside her bed. Weekly, this good friend replenished the box. My mom didn’t know I read her books; it was like the Seuss affair, only sexier. Reading became my escape from a horrific and scary situation. Immersed in a story, I didn’t have to think about the life and death drama taking place on the other side of my bedroom wall. Books were my hallucinogenic drug of choice. In college, I studied literature and fell in love with Elliot, Willa and too many others to mention. (This had no similarity to my dating life.)
I’m no longer a child living with a grieving father and a dying mother, nor am I the co-ed in search of something or someone real, nonfictional. I’m an adult blessed with an abundance of love. I love my Heavenly Father and His son, my husband and family, my dog, my friends, my neighbors, my writing group, the birds outside my window.
Because I’m a writer, I also love my characters. I adore their pluck, courage and mettle. I admire the way they face and overcome hardships. But, as in any romance, I sometimes I get angry with them and think that they are too stupid to live. At those times, I have to remind myself that they live only in my imagination, unless I share. Writing for me is all about sharing--giving back to the world that has so generously shared with me-- because I learned a long time ago that the world is full of life and death dramas. Sometimes we need a story to help us escape.
And we need as much love as we can find. That’s why I write romance.
I have won awards and contests, but since one disgruntled critic once told me, "If you're as good a writer as you think you are, you should show us, not tell us," I no longer trot out my winnings. In the world of storytelling, they don't really matter.
on Oct. 17, 2012 :
This book is described as romance/suspense and it was true to its word. Honestly I found it hard to get into because Laine is... well she's difficult. I have such a problem with women who are all stubborn and turn their back on logic and love because of their own issues and insecurities which is exactly what Laine does.
It starts off with her grandfather's funeral, the subsequent discovery that his body is missing, visitations from her grandmother ghost that only Laine sees, and the dealings with her marriage which may or may not be going to hell in a hand basket. Once I got past my initial problems with Laine, and then me starting to really like her ghost (even though she's frustrating even to me with her half answers and child like attitude), and then me rooting for her husband. Because not going to lie, I called it. I really felt bad for her husband and I was annoyed that Laine couldn't see what was really going on. But it's often the case, isn't it? Lots of couples hit rough spots and instead of really working on it together and both listening to each other, one person makes assumptions and that's really what signals the end, right? Well I can't tell you how it turns out for Laine and her husband, but I can tell you the ending of the book brought full closure.
Except I would have loved a better showdown of wife versus secretary. I'm just sayin.
(reviewed within a month of purchase)