I’m just going to say it – I want to write romance fiction. I don’t want to be Danielle Steele, or Nora Roberts, or Nicholas Sparks. NO. I want to be utterly, truthfully ‘me,’ and I want to use my unique voice to speak to the individuals who aren’t afraid or ashamed to enjoy the sexy side to literature.
I aced all of my Lit classes in college, but I’ll be honest with you – most of the novels we had to read were downright depressing. Beautifully written, poignant, and symbolic… But gloomy, sorrowful, and never a happily-ever-after.
On an intellectual level, I understand this. The great American novels aren’t meant to be fun. They are meant to make you think, reflect, and deeply ponder the meaning of your existence. I get it. But I must also point out that I am much more often inspired by the opposite.
I’m faced with enough harsh reality on a daily basis. When I read, I want to be taken someplace beautiful, blissful, and untouchable. I want to feel giddy and intoxicated with the pleasure I’m receiving from the written words. I want to feel like it’s me in the story, capable of such passion. I want to be left wanting more. Much, much more.
In a world where there seems to be endless violence, cruelty, senseless wars, and an unfair number of us longing for that one person we can’t have – I just want there to be as many happy endings as possible. Even if they’re purely fiction, I want the thoughts and the feelings to be out there. I want the unrealistic happily-ever-afters; and I want to contribute some beautiful stories about the hero and the heroine defying the odds.
Having confessed to this, I must also admit that I have NEVER allowed anyone to read anything I’ve written that falls into my chosen genre. I shared the outline of one of my working projects a few months ago, but that’s as personal as I’ve been thus far. And, believe me, it was extremely challenging for me to let my guard down, even that much.
I’m taking an even bigger leap this week, friends. I’m sharing an excerpt from one of my working manuscripts – one of my tightly guarded, fiercely protected romantic fairy tales.
And I’m terrified.
This is my vulnerability at its peak; and as my bestie said just hours ago, “If you want to publish books, you are going to have to get used to feeling this way.”
Amen to that.
I’m choosing to embrace my fear, instead of continuing to hide behind it. I’m choosing to share a small piece of what I’m working on. I hope it’s as fun for you to read, as it is for me to write.
Here it is:
“I felt him come up behind me, quietly, slowly, until our bodies were almost touching. He leaned in and breathed deeply, his nose in my hair, making me shiver with awareness and anticipation. Gently, he brushed my hair away from my neck and very deliberately pressed his lips beneath my ear.
I wanted to fight it, truly, I wanted to be stronger. But I couldn’t resist turning around to face him. I met his soft, blue gaze, and I saw the desire in his eyes as unmistakably as I could feel my own.
Grasping my face in both of his hands, he pulled me into his kiss with tender force.
In that moment, I was his. He owned me. And he knew it.
Our lips met, and I melted against him, his arms welcoming me. I opened my mouth on a sigh, and his tongue swept mine, teasingly.
His kiss deepened, becoming more intense – I felt dizzy and lost in the primal pleasure of kissing a man who knew exactly how to kiss me. Slowly… Sensually… Seductively… And with the skill to guide me through his rhythm.
‘So this is what it feels like,’ I thought, ‘to be lost in another. To be ready, and willing, to let my inhibitions slip away as swiftly as my uncertainty. This is what it feels like, to want more.’
As though he could read my mind, he gripped me tighter, with a possessiveness that was both thrilling and intimidating.
I was his. He owned me. And he knew it.”
Stay tuned, my friends. Stay tuned.