I write romance novels. I am unapologetically proud of that fact. Since 1995, I’ve published 13 works of “genre” fiction, including three soap opera tie-ins, five figure skating murder mysteries, and four romance novels, two set in the Regency period, and three contemporaries.
This past year, I got the rights to a majority of them back from
their respective publishers, and decided to re-release them on my own,
as enhanced multimedia editions. (That’s a fancy way of saying e-books
with audio, video, and other extras.)
Alas, re-releasing the books meant re-reading them, since I had to
make certain they were good to go from a technical perspective. Now, I
happen to be one of those writers who, once my book is on the shelf at
Barnes & Noble and Amazon, almost never refer to it again. A)
Because I am always convinced that every book is out to kill me during
the actual writing process, so we rarely part on good terms. And B)
Because when I say that I am proud of my work, I mean in an
sort of way. Some people can’t stand to hear themselves on an answering
machine or to watch themselves on TV. I do not enjoy looking back over
So, I did it.
And then I remembered… Oh, yeah… I used to write some pretty hot sex scenes.
Before I had kids. (In fact, I wrote the final sex scene for my 2000 romance, When a Man Loves a Woman, while in the throes of morning sickness with my oldest son. I don’t recommend it.)
Read the entire piece on Soaps, Sex, and the Writing Mom at: http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/reading-your-mothers-sex-scenes/