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Hey – a girl can't help it. If I feel more at home writing about life on the wild side, it's only because I'm following that old literary maxim: write what you know.
Growing up in a blue-collar motor city, and with comments such as 'does not play well with others' on my grade-school report cards, it was pretty much a given that I would end up creating loner heroes, tough heroines, and gritty settings. My characters have always been real people with real flaws, desperately struggling to find the love that will redeem them.
But there's a kinder, gentler side to me. Underneath the motorcycle leathers (I was going how fast, officer?) and the rose tattoo (don't ask – there was a bet, I won, that's all you need to know) beats the heart of a true romantic. The day I met the man who eventually became my husband, I told my sister, 'get out of the way, that one's mine.'
Okay, okay. Really I said, 'I've just met the man I'm going to marry. How long do you think it'll take him to figure it out?'
I'm a sucker for stray dogs (we've got four), abandoned kittens (six, and they're pretty darn big cats now), and not-so-cute little kids who aren't the first ones picked for the volleyball team. My idea of a great date with my husband is going to a baseball game. My idea of a great baseball game is any one in which the Red Sox win (a hopeless romantic, did we say?)
While my work as a reporter in the criminal court system gives my books a darker edge, and my Irish ancestry lends them a touch of Celtic mysticism, first and foremost each one is a story about a man and a woman falling in love and holding on to that love – and for that I need look no further for inspiration than my own life.
So what happens to bad girls when they grow up? If they're lucky, they get to write about it and the story has a happy ending. Because the best romances always do.