I love romance.
I dream romance, read romance, believe in the power of romance.
Even though I’m as single as they come.
Yup, 40 and never been married.
Forty, and I haven’t had one romantic moment in my life.
Or, at least, not romantic (enough) for me. Continue reading
I’m from New Jersey, no
Not really. I mean, geographically
NJ and DE and MA and CA –
Yes, but my heart, my soul?
I’m from a deep deep unseen place
That began in the bottomless sea, Continue reading
ROMANCE IS DEAD, the headlines read.
Just like God, and book reading, and carb-eating.
But we all know they never went away.
So I laugh when people squirm after they learn I write romantic suspense.
“Inconsequential!” are the comments I hear (or the sneers I detect).
I am unfazed.
Photo Credit: Francois Duhamel
But still, I’m encouraged when I read articles like a recent Time Q&A piece on Nancy Myers, the writer/director of the new movie The Intern (starring Robert DeNiro and Ann Hathaway), in which Myers addresses the state of romance.* Continue reading
The weather is frightful outside. You have just arrived home from a hard day at work, your feet are freezing, and your brain is fried. You collapse on the big cozy chair in front of the fireplace with a cup of hot tea and pick up a good book. Your dog sits on your feet, puts his head on your knee, and asks with warm, pleading brown eyes, “Please, please, please take me out for a walk.”
You say YES.
You are divorced and have vowed that you will raise your two young children on your own, with no help from a man, thank you very much. In fact, you have no intention of dating for quite a while. Your best friend introduces you to a tall, attractive, persistent man (he involves you in hours-long, long-distance phone conversations and acts as if you are extremely fascinating and intelligent). Ten months later, he asks you to marry him… Continue reading
I look at him across the table, thinking, who is he? Who is this tall, intense, handsome, stiff, strange man sitting with me at La Provence, eating his asparagus quiche daintily as if it were made of flower pedals?
I’ve known him for more than 30 years – intimately – and I truly have not a clue who he is. It was so much easier, when he was my baby boy, and even when he was a burgeoning almost-teenager, still giving me hard hugs at night. He told me stories about his war games with his best friend back then, and his dreams of being an importer/exporter, even though he had no idea what that meant. He was chubby, with a wonderful chuckle and a dimple as wide as a dime. Continue reading