I had fallen in love with Keats and Shelley, Shakespeare, and the Brownings, and of course Nora Roberts and E.L. James, too. Since then I have wanted nothing but to be a writer. It’s my life’s goal. Now not the White House–visiting, Nobel Prize–winning, Great American Novel–writing kind, but the bodice-ripping, Fabio-covering, down-and-dirty-but-with-a-happily-ever-after kind.
I haven’t just been twiddling my thumbs since I graduated; I have been doing my romance-writing research, obviously. I’ve been reading as many romance books as I can. Writing as much as I can. And selling kitchen cabinet hardware at Home Depot like a boss. Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.
And I can sell the shit out of some kitchen cabinets. And cut keys and thread pipe. All while hoping I would meet a shirtless contractor swinging some serious lead pipe. And maybe inspire a few books.
Sadly, that only happened in my head, but it was a recurring, long-standing affair with no one real. Well . . . there was this one guy and he was wearing a shirt, but after some quality flirting and a seriously white smile, I never saw him again. But I digress.
Today, I am a published author. Actually, I haven’t published a book. Yet. I wrote a dandy little ditty for the San Diego Metro News. That’s right I am a journalist. Not the roasting-in-Afghanistan-with-the-troops or hanging-out-in-Compton kinds, either. I’m not Anderson Cooper, after all. Today, I am a published author . . . in the Funerals and Obituaries section. But hey, I’m a hit with the blue hairs. Today, I am the newest reporter for the San Diego Metro newspaper. Sort of.