I can imagine no greater bliss than to lie about, reading novels all day.
I have a lot of teenage readers and readers in their early twenties. My writing style appeals to them. And if they look at my picture on the back of the book, they don't see someone who looks like their mother.
The general public doesn't expect romance authors to be Harvard graduates. Which is funny, because there are actually quite a lot of us. But this disconnect means that journalists see me as an interesting story. The tricky part is making sure they understand that there are many, many talented writers who don't have 'fancy' educations.
No one knows as well as I how much nonsense is printed in books.
He’d mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn’t move. “Unless you want more than a dream,” he said. She did. “Will you stay?” he whispered. “Or will you go?” She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed. And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be.
It was juvenile, he knew, this need to assign blame, but everyone had a right to childish emotions from time to time, didn't they?