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Whenever I'm asked why such a serious, sober person as myself spends her days making up preposterously romantic scenarios and setting them in the glamourous, larger-than-our-lives Presents world when she could be... I don't know, planting petunias, working towards world peace – I point to the universal truth, a woman with a couple of spare hours is in need of a romance novel.
Conjuring up a gorgeous alpha male and setting a heroine at him with all the subtlety of a Greek mama looking to marry her daughter is the best part of what I do. Assembling trip-wires and digging rabbit holes and building roundabouts to muddy the course of true love running smooth keeps me up nights. Watching it all fall in a heap half way through is why I eat chocolate and carry an extra ten happy pounds. Having it all come together in the end is incredibly satisfying. Knowing someone, somewhere, will spend a couple of hours with my story is humbling and worth all the effort.
When I'm not so occupied, I live in Melbourne Australia where the coffee is excellent and we have enough cold days to make curling up on the sofa with a towering pile of yet-to-be-read books a legitimate mid-week activity.