Once upon a time, I was a short, scrawny junior higher named Naomi who wanted to be an archeologist . . .
So I settled for a degree in English education. After all, I liked to read. Regrettably, reading classics for literature classes didn’t turn out to be nearly as fun as reading romance novels. But that was okay, because by then I wasn’t going to be an archeologist and magazine editor anymore. I was going to be a serious teacher who changed the world by impacting my students lives . . . and I was sure this impact would come. Eventually. After the students from my student teaching classes tired of shooting spit wads behind my back and starting water fights.
Desiring a little break from the spit wads and water fights after I graduated, I married my college sweetheart, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, and had a baby. My life was suddenly perfect.
Read. Not the classics from college. Oh no. The good guys almost always die at the end of those classics, and who wants to read a story about people who get killed? (Well, besides my stuffy old literature professors.) So I set off on a search for books that ended with “Happily Ever After.”
Half a year later, after exhausting all my friends’ romance supplies and throwing a couple books across the room that I didn’t much care for, I looked at my old college laptop and said, “I have an English degree. Why don’t I write one of these?”
And so I did.
Interestingly enough, I find writing historical romances to be a lot like archeology—minus the dirt and bones and worldwide travels—because I still get to play around with history. And I now work for that editor (book editor, not magazine editor) who lives in New York City and wears high heels. So my crazy adolescent dreams didn’t turn out to be too far from reality. How many people can say that?