my audience is a lot like me: female; avid fiction reader; enjoys various romance genres and women’s fiction, suspense and mystery; mature; intelligent; loves libraries; owns a computer and an ebook reading device; has a smart phone she fears is smarter than she is; doesn’t completely grasp or understand social media but makes the attempt to; won’t waste time on bad books; takes advantage of senior discounts if available.
All he’d have to do was Google “Chemistry Films” and if he was interested and diligent enough, he’d figure out what that more that didn’t meet the eye was.
“What do you do to stay in shape?”
“Sex.”
“What!”
“And lots of it.” Granger smirked at her.
“Uh huh.”
“You’d be surprised. Lots of lonely housewives here in Liberty. Not to mention the widows and divorcees. Oh, sorry.”
She knew the rules. She knew she’d broken a couple of them. She knew she was in trouble. She’d just guaranteed herself even less freedom than she’d had before. God, she was stupid.
I’ve always believed the writing, the publishing of books, the selling of books, might simply be a tool in God’s arsenal.
The word beautiful was probably used 200 times to describe how the hero sees the heroine. Dear author: Get a thesaurus.
Hot guy has breached the neutral zone, shouted her internal alarm system.
“…you’re the only thing in this house I really value.”
The next thing I knew, my face was kissing the counter and Thomas was bent over me, his hand at the base of my neck holding me there. I panicked. What was he going to do? Rape me? Slit my throat? Torture me? He’d seemed so…semi-normal. Hadn’t he?
Why must I always find something to mock about other people’s happiness or romantic moments? Am I that uncomfortable with genuine emotion? With love? I write romance novels. I should be applauding these moments, shouldn’t I? But instead, I tear them down and pour my caustic words on top of them. A chilling thought is maybe I don’t really buy into what I’m trying to sell.
