Wild horses pursue me when I write. At least that’s what it feels like. Thundering hooves, steaming breath, sweaty flanks, panicked eyes.
Me, not the horses.
So I write romance novels. There's nothing like the court and spark between a heroine and a hero to tame the beast. If they’re as spirited, flawed, funny, sad, discouraged, and hopeful as the rest of us, all the better. Witty banter and a bit of heavy breathing on the way to happily ever after end the pursuit. For awhile, anyway.
Happily ever after is where it all began for me. The enchantment of fairy tales engendered a lifelong love of reading—a life I fear may end when I’m buried beneath my tottering stacks of books. A fitting demise, since even after a B.A. in Anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania, two master’s degrees, and a career as a librarian, I am woefully ignorant of the laws of physics.
And so much more, despite years of travel and the pursuit of obsessions. Like Dutch painters, the nineteenth century, everyone and everything Australian (everyone meaning Eric Bana), Greek amphorae, birds, Celtic music, natural history.
But this I do know.
Hiking and swimming cure whatever ails you.
A gourmet chef is merely a cook without fear. (Though my food processor still scares the bejesus out of me).
Standing in front of a blank canvas, a palette loaded with oil paints in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, is a fine way to while away a few hours. Or a week. Bathing optional.
Nothing is more delicious or succulent than a tomato grown in your own garden. Nothing.
Every moment of every day I share with my husband and two sons, my world, my sine qua non, is a joy.
This life, right here, right now.