I think I know why people read romances. I figured that out at thirteen when I found a Harlequin Presents left behind at the family cottage. But why write romance when there are so many “loftier” forms of literature?

Way back when I first decided to write a novel, I was thrilled to join a small, apparently dedicated group of writers who met once a week in a community building. They were “fiction writers” and I joined with bright-eyed enthusiasm and barrels of energy, eager to learn and absorb all they were willing to share.

The group consisted of a retired English teacher, an extremely talented writer married to a musician who was convinced he was the only creative in the family and she didn’t deserve the time to study craft or to write. There was a family man who wanted to write adventure. Another member sold non-fiction articles and had a fabulous idea for a women’s fiction novel. We had a woman married to a professor (for some reason she thought his position was relevant in terms of her ’standing’ in the group) She was convinced that literary fiction was the only thing worth writing.

I found this group in October of that year…and had already begun my first romance novel. By January, I’d completed a partial and had queried Harlequin to see if they’d be interested. I never considered not querying. The whole thing of you write, you submit, you write, you submit just made sense.

Apparently I was alone in that theory. As time moved along, I realized not a one of them had ever submitted their work (aside from the article writer that is).

The retired teacher was actually afraid of what her family would think. This was a woman well into her middle years who’d raised a family, had a successful career and a genuine love of the written word.

By the next fall, I’d had my first rejection from Harlequin, (the first of many!) had found the local chapter of RWA, and was working on a new story. I wrote, I submitted, I wrote . . .

The chance to do a reading from our works in progress came to the group. I was asked not to read. Why? Because I wrote romance, and you know, they didn’t want the writing group’s rep to be tarnished. Huh.

I went to the reading: heard a member read a poem by Robbie Burns instead of his own work. Other people in the group finally admitted they hadn’t actually been writing and had nothing to read.

And these people were encouraging me to stop writing romance. Huh.

I write romance because I believe in romance. I believe love is what makes us get up in the morning. It is a driving force in our lives. Love makes us connect with others, makes us have pets, makes our lives glorious and miserable and messy and beautiful.

Love makes life . . . life

. . . and I wouldn’t trade my romance writing for anything else.

And if I feel a twinge of validation for my efforts and in my career I hope you’ll forgive me. There’s a five year old in most of us who gets a one-shot at blowing raspberries and when my first Harlequin Blaze hits the stands in a few weeks, imagine me, mouth pursed, blowing the biggest juiciest raspberry EVAH!

Twelve years ago, I began writing my first novel. I was fresh out of college, having studied to be an English teacher. I still had my teaching internship to do in the fall, and I was terrified. I knew student teaching was going to be difficult, especially for a shy, awkward girl with a monotone voice and the stage presence of a cucumber.

I thought I should do something easy in the meantime to distract myself, something like, you know, write and sell a 300-page novel. I was sure I could do it. After all, I had a bunch of college essays under my belt.

I wrote a book in about six weeks, and I was thrilled when I held in my hands that hefty manuscript (a bit of trivia: the title of the book was Desert Rose). I packed it up and sent it off to a publisher. The same day, I also went to the library, thinking, hmm, well, while I’m waiting for the publisher to send me my first check, I should study up on writing a bit so that my second novel will be even better than the first.

I checked out a stack of how-to-write-fiction books, and I hadn’t made it through chapter one of the first book before I was overcome with dismay. In the author’s description of all the glaring mistakes first-time novelists make, I saw my own beloved novel. I’d made every beginner’s mistake, and I suspected I’d even invented a few new ones.

I didn’t have to wait long for my belief to be confirmed by a second opinion. Less than a week after I’d mailed the manuscript, it came winging back to me with a form rejection letter attached.

I wasn’t shocked at the speed of the rejection. By that point, I’d read all the how-to-write-fiction books, and I could tell by re-reading the first page of my novel—the first paragraph even—that it sucked. I knew the editor was right. I had to start over from scratch.

Which I did. Many, many times.

I went on to do my teaching internship, but afterward my then-husband’s job transferred us to a rural town in Germany for the next five years. I couldn’t find work there as a teacher, so I had lots of time to write.

After four years of frustration, rejection, and self-doubt, I got my first hint that I might not completely suck as a writer—I was a finalist in the Golden Heart contest. Then I got my first agent. And five years from the time I started writing Desert Rose, I made my first sale to Harlequin Temptation and my second sale to Blaze.

The moral of the story? I’m not sure. The stupidity of youth can pay off? Writing leads to lots of frustration and angst? It’s important to read the how-to manual before you write the 300-page novel?

What did you do when you were young and stupid that you’re most glad you did, because you might not have had the guts to try it once you knew better? I’ll send copies of my first two published novels, Some Like It Sizzling and Pleasure for Pleasure (or winner’s choice of any other two), to the person who posts my favorite answer to this question.