“I remember the first time he brought you around. I was half in the bag at the time—hell, maybe more like three quarters of the way in, but I remember. He stood up a little straighter, tried to act like a gentleman, even if he didn’t have any idea what that looked like.”
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.
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.
What my mother didn’t know was how often I wished she’d done as he wanted. I wish I wasn’t even here. I try hard not to be. But she doesn’t appreciate my efforts.
We were discussing his relationships with women. I told him he didn’t have any respect for women in general. He said he thinks his problem is something deep inside and he probably needs therapy to get at the root of it.
Notice I didn’t say a man who can’t dance. Or one who thinks he can’t dance. According to my husband the majority of them think that. He claims most men don’t like to dance. He says he isn’t good at it and he looks like a dork doing it. And…
There’s no such thing as happily married. There. I’ve said it. There’s the illusion of happily married. A pretense, if you will that we all buy into. We are all convinced that our marriage will be different, better, happier, than that of our peers, our parents, or anyone else we…