Someone once asked me why I became a writer. The answer is complicated, and I'll try not to stray too often. Growing up in the small community of Woodville, Tennessee, our television set received only three channels, and you had to walk outside and manually position the pole antenna to get two of them. I've always been a night owl, and most nights there wasn't much to do, so naturally reading became an outlet for relieving my boredom. For me, getting lost in a good book was better than eating homemade ice cream.
Eventually I grew up, married a handsome sailor, and moved away. The first time my husband's squadron went to sea, I discovered the city library. Soon Victoria Holt and Phyllis Whitney were my new best friends. Until that fateful afternoon I picked up a book by Jill Tattersall. With characters who left me breathless, her romances captivated me. I became addicted. Obsessed.
Today the trend is to bombard readers with page after page of explicit sex. The romance, if there is one, is secondary. Let's face it...sex is easier to write and sell. Don't get me wrong. I've no objection to the hero and heroine rolling around in the hay, but not each and every chapter. I'd like to glimpse an enduring love blossoming beneath all that heavy breathing. Two people choosing love in spite of their differences really gets my heart racing. It's the only reason I keep reading. Without that overpowering emotion, there is no story. Only porn. And I can get that, day or night, on the cable channels.
I write historical romance. The old fashioned kind. My main characters are strong, honorable, and loyal. Sexy? Absolutely! But back to the original question of why I write...putting stories down on paper is the only way to get them out of my head. I also get a sense of satisfaction, because I know when others read about my characters, they will live forever.