Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Before I started writing I had this romantic notion of the life of a novelist. There was lots of travel to glorious locations, conversations with book clubs who made fantastic cupcakes, long hours reading in hammocks, and quiet hours telling myself stories that turned into books on best seller lists and made-for-TV movies. That sounds so fab.
My reality? There's a jet engine in my kitchen, I can only reach one burner on my stove, the last place I traveled to for work had a single grocery store in the whole town, all the book club chats I've done have virtual cupcakes (calorie free, but still), I only seem to read while waiting for kids at soccer and ballet, and I can't hear myself think - let alone write. My imagination never factored in carpool and Facebook, emergency soccer cleats shopping or Twitter hashtags.
Reality can suck it. Seriously. Reality is why I love to read, to escape to the Caribbean sun when the rain just won't let up, to travel to Paris instead of the pediatricians office. There are few things that can't be made better by sitting down with a friend and having them tell you a story.
Long before I knew any authors, that is how I thought of reading. Like stepping out of the fray and cuddling up to a friend who could take me away from it all. And now, a lot of those ladies are my friends. I get to hear about their stories before they make it to print, to reflect on why they told that story at that moment and feel a squeeze of pride when their books do well.
And that is why I ignore the jet engine in my kitchen, the laundry that has piled up, and my email inbox and just write. Tell myself a story, one that someday you can read and escape whatever it is that's clouding up your sky. For me, romance novels are the umbrella for what life rains down. Or your refrigerator. What have you.
Find Jenna's latest escape from reality, Cooking Up A Seduction, at Amazon| Goodreads | B&N | Kobo | ARe
Jenna Bayley-Burke was rescued from life as a bitch (retail manager), snitch (retail service analyst), and pimp (executive recruiter) by a colicky insomniac who turned into a boy genius, and now a six foot tall ManChild. And he's only twelve. The HappyBoy and PrincessGirl try their best to keep the family too busy to notice how quickly kids grow up.
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Posted by Meg Benjamin at 4:00 AM