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I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving my first year in college. “It’s
Intensive Arts,” I explained patiently to my disappointed parents over the phone. “All the
serious students stay at school to work on independent projects.” I had no independent project, but I wanted to feel like a serious student. My roommate’s boyfriend was directing a one-act version of Flannery O’Connor’s
Good Country People. We wanted to see it. It was serious and intense.
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We spent Thanksgiving Day at another roommate’s home in Virginia. The two of us from big, eye-the-table-and-count-how-many-cookies-everyone-gets, kind of families ate with an enthusiasm that shocked our friend’s lovely mother. After dinner, his
grandmother went around the table with an air of laughing prophecy. To the smartest
among us, she said, “You have the eyes of a philosopher.” I was impressed by her insight and waited for my turn. “You have bedroom eyes,” she said slowly. It made me feel excessively romantic.
Ten years later I sat on my bed trying to
think of a way I could make money. My husband
was just out of grad school and we had three
kids. Romance novelist, I whispered to myself.
My friend’s grandmother’s voice was the
first thing I thought of in support of such a
notion. A beautiful old woman with a wonderful
sense of humor thought I was romantic, that had
to mean something, right? And I must be romantic
if I’m sitting on my bed, talking to my cat,
making a list of possible jobs and the only
thing on the list is romance novelist.
It took me almost ten more years to learn how to
write. I didn’t experience the apocryphal,
I-can-do-better-than-this, book toss reputed to
have begun many illustrious careers. My reaction
to reading my first romance was, How does she
do that? How does she make him so sexy?
How does she make her so smart? Why
can’t I put this book down? I hadn’t
read any romance before I decided to start
writing. (Remember, part of my impulse to think
I could do it was a laughing prophecy about
bedroom eyes. Practicality is not a big part of
my make-up.) Now I was reading romances that
made me fall to my knees in the bookstore,
stunned by how a writer opened her story. I read
books that made me stay up all night because I
had to know what happened next, even though my
real life was falling apart and I needed sleep
to function, and be able to take care of
everything. I almost ruined Thanksgiving dinner
when I was in charge of the turkey because I
kept sneaking away to read. How does she do
that? How does she make him so sexy? How does
she make her so smart? Why can’t I put this
book down?
I wanted to write books about things and ideas
and people that haunted me. I wanted to write
about the connectedness of everything, and the
importance of having the courage to make the
right choices, even if you can’t explain those
choices to anyone else. I wanted to write about
beauty, and the possibility of happy
endings.
I joined Romance Writers of America and my local
chapter. I entered contests, and I sat alone in
my living room to read terrible (and some okay)
scores. I paid attention to what the judges
said. And I got better. I went to conferences
and met wonderful people. I wrote and revised
and wrote and revised and wrote and revised. I
piled up rejections, paid attention to what the
reasons were, and I got better. I lucked into a
fabulous, amazing critique partner. I pitched at
conferences, added to my rejection file,
listened to my critique partner, and I got
better. I sold a book I loved, to the publisher
I wanted, and the editor I wanted, and I
couldn’t sleep for a week.
I’m still reading books I can’t put down,
still writing about ideas and people who move
me. And I hope someday I’ll be a very old
woman with long hair, who looks around a
Thanksgiving table and opens up a world of
possibility for someone else.
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