RedHotRomance

It's not often I actually go away on the weekends, but I'm just back from a wonderful wedding in a small town north of Seattle. Flew up from the SF area with my 80+ year old parents (a story unto itself) for the rehearsal dinner, wedding and quick trip home. My head is still spinning, my pocketbook is much lighter, and I'm left with the odd feeling of having lost a weekend. I was trying to figure out why this Monday felt so out of place, when it finally dawned on me that I've learned to measure my days by words written.

I wrote NOTHING from Thursday through Monday. Not a paragraph, not a story idea, not even a note to myself. I'm still not sure if this is a good or bad thing, though it does remind me that the methods by which I store my memories have changed. "Oh, I remember that. It was right after I finished writing Wolf Tales," or, "Yeah, that happened before I sold to Ellora's Cave." (A LONG time ago!) We define ourselves by so many different things, whether it's by our motherhood and how many children we still have at home (none, thank goodness!) or wifehood or single status or what we do, which all comes around to the fact I realize I now define myself as an author.

An author of paranormal erotic romance. I got to say that a lot this weekend, introducing myself around to family and friends of the bride (this was my nephew's wedding) as "the fallen sibling." It turns out they ALL knew I was an author, something only my brother could have told them, so it was a lot of fun to hand out my Wolf Tales bookmarks and take the jabs that came after the raised eyebrows finally dropped back down to normal.

Now it's time to get back to my writing, to once more settle into the daily routine of so many words written, so much more of the story uncovered. I'm going to be grinning, though, imagining some of those wonderfully staid wedding guests buying my books and making the connection between the middle-aged gramma they met at the reception and the sensual tales of the Chanku.