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I wrote my first novel when I was seven. It was a romance, which probably says a lot about fate and the mysterious paths that sometimes lead us through life. By the time I was ten, I'd read Gone with the Wind even though that famous scene where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs puzzled the heck out of me.
I loved school, hated gym, and graduated high school at fifteen and a half. More importantly, I fell head over heels in love that same year and finally figured out what that scene in Gone with the Wind was all about.
At university, I studied creative writing. I also studied to be an elementary school teacher because everyone knew you couldn't possibly earn your living as a writer. Life got very busy. I married the boy I'd met at fifteen and a half, began teaching, became a mom, stopped teaching, took in every stray cat and dog I found and eventually ran for public office – and won – but I never forgot I had once dreamed of being a writer. In what little spare time I had, I wrote poems and short stories. The poems were dark and murky. The short stories were dark but not quite as murky. I even sold some of them but I knew I hadn't yet found the kind of stories I really wanted to write.
And then one day, I thought, 'I wonder if I could write a romance novel…' So I wrote one and sent it into the world where it was rejected in some places and given encouragement in others, until my husband, that boy I'd fallen crazy in love with so many years before, took matters into his own hands and mailed my book to Harlequin Presents.
Eighty five books later, he still loves to remind me of that.
When Harry Met Sally, The Last of the Mohicans and Pulp Fiction