I’ve Been A Romance Reader Since I was THREE! (A true story.)
I’m a romance author. Which means, I’m a romance reader. Since I was about three years old. Too young, you say? I beg to differ. I distinctly remember sitting on my mother’s lap as she read stories to me, stories that made me believe in Happily-Ever-After and the power of true love to conquer evil.
Three. Years. Old. I read other things later. High Fantasy with dragons and knights and sorcerers. Thrillers, with spies and detectives and murder. I read how-to’s and self-help and biographies of famous people I admired. I read history books and literary fiction because I had to. I read a few classics just to see what all the fuss was about – and must admit I hated most of them. I read Mark Twain and Shakespeare (who I actually rather enjoy, once I get used to the way his words work.) But nothing held my attention, not for long. Nothing but romance.
I keep coming back. Different genres. Different time periods. Sweet stories. Sexy stories. Any kind of story as long as I got my Happily-Ever-After at the end of the journey. Why? Was it because they were the first stories I heard? Did they somehow shape my psyche for the rest of my life?