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First and foremost, to understand this, one must accept that I was raised by a pair of English majors. From the time I could toddle, I was exposed to the Great Works. My bedtime stories were from Shakespeare, Dickenson, Fitzgerald, Faulkner. We followed Moby Dick's progress on a map with push-pins; we traced Huck's trip down the Mississippi.

They would sit shiva for me if they knew what's stored on my hard drive. Romantic fantasies were not allowed in our house; my mother prided herself on this fact. To have a daughter embrace the genre adored by the unwashed, trailer-dwelling masses...

If they only knew.

Like most of the fools that I know, I write to amuse myself. Currently I'm broke, working two dead-end jobs and trapped in a marriage that, while not completely loveless, has as much passion as an iron frying pan. To escape, I write happy little scenarios where I'm the exotic beauty with the almond/sapphire/emerald eyes adored by the Perfect Man. We travel to Europe, Hawaii, the mountains. We discover each others' passions for fine living. We are perfectly suited for each other, and let me tell you, we know how to kiss.

It's cleansing. It's therapy. It's Prozac on paper. Whatever. It keeps me sane as the hubby watches inane sitcoms on TV Land. It gives me something to talk about with a few of my co-workers who just happen to be from the unwashed, trailer-dwelling demographic. It gives me piece of mind.

A handful of people might mistakenly believe I'm wasting my talent. I tend not to agree with them. I'm twenty-two years old. How many suburban-raised twenty-two year olds have anything important to say? Being twenty-two is synonymous with being boring. I know this I speak from experience.

So, I will content myself with being boring. I will content myself with wasting my ability. I don't care.

So stand up, and say it with me!

I am writing a romance novel, and I am not ashamed.

Let me amend that. I'm writing a cheesy romance novel, and I am not ashamed!

Thank you very much.