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Dear Reader,
I didn’t start out writing my stories for you, but rather for me. A switch, quite literally, flipped on in my brain just shy of my fortieth birthday, and unseen forces sent me scrambling to a computer when the imaginary people plaguing my dreams started insisting—quite loudly—that I get their stories down on paper. I wrote my first books in blissful ignorance, unschooled in such things as style, grammar, pacing, story arc, or plot. My only concern was to shut those people up.
Ironically, considering I was a voracious reader, it never dawned on me that anyone else would be interested in reading mystories. I just wrote them just so that I could read them, and then I shoved them in the closet and started writing another one. But I eventually realized my characters didn’t really exist, because it takes someone elseto read them to bring them to life.
A thought is merely a thought until it is shared, and only then does it become a tangible thing. Until someone other than me reads one of my stories, it is only a massive collection of words. That’s what language is, after all: a means for one person to convey their thoughts to another.
How cool is that? It doesn’t matter if you’re in Europe, Africa, Australia, Asia, South or North America, or even on the moon when you read one of my books, as you read, you are giving my characters life. You are seeing them through your own unique perspective based on yourlife experiences; judging them by yourpersonal ethics, yourhopes and dreams and emotional needs.
So for taking these people out of my head and putting them into yours, I thank you.
And I’m quite sure my characters also thank you.
If you co
Only if you are indifferent do I feel that I’ve failed.
I don’t like every person I meet. Do you? I don’t agree with everything everyone says, nor do I like some of the situations I find myself in, either. And I certainly don’t like how life turns out sometimes. So I don’t expect my readers to like everything in my books, and, quite honestly, I hope you don’t.
When I pick up a book to read—be it from a favorite author, or one I haven’t tried before—I am usually searching for an emotional fix, depending on my mood at the time. Personally, I have only one requirement: that I don’t walk away from a story feeling bummed out, desolate, or without hope. I read romance novels because I likehappy endings, and for that reason alone I write them.
And I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing that youread romances because you also wish to walk away believing that no matter how dire things seem, there is always hope. This need for a happy ending is sort of a universal theme, isn’t it? Hope is the ultimate human emotion. It is powerful enough to get us out of bed every morning even when that happy ending seems impossible, and it is as vast and timeless as the ocean.
It wasn’t until my first book was published, Charming the Highlander,that I realized I no longer was writing just for myself, but for you, too. A good friend and very wise woman told me—when I first started dealing with editors, book reviewers, and bestseller lists—that no onecan be in my studio with me, telling me how to tell my stories. I couldn’t let anyone sit on my shoulder censoring me, directing my creativity or insisting I make a character or situation fit their personal sensibilities.
So I’m still writing foremost to please myself, and until that thought in my head is completed to my satisfaction, nobody reads my story—not my editor and certainly not you. And then the delicate dance begins, and we all come together to engage in a universal conversation of love and hope and happily ever after.
Within days of my first book getting published, I started getting e-mails to my website from women the world over, telling me how something—a scene or character or situation—touched their hearts. I was blown away, as it still hadn’t really dawned on me that my stories might have any sort of impact on others.
Well … try as I might to keep my writing studio free of earthlyvoices, I can’t stop you—my reader—from sitting on my shoulder. Only instead of censoring or directing me, I feel you cheering me on! So this is my shout-out to you: Thank you for your letters, for enjoying my stories, and for telling me that you do.
That’s not to say that I don’t have my critiques, but realizing I can’t please everyone all of the time, I’ve decided to write stories for those of you who like reading them. If you like them, then feel free to tell me; if you don’t, then also feel free to tell me. Remember, it’s indifference that hurts. If I can’t get some sort of rise out of you, then I haven’t written a story that involves real people, much less the very real situations that greet each one of us every morning when we open our eyes.
So you just keep on reading, and I’ll keep on writing.
Until later, from LakeWatch … keep reading,
Turn the page for a special look
at the next novel in
Janet Chapman’s
Midnight Bay series
Coming soon from Pocket Books
“I’m going to be sick.” Maddy clutched her stomach.
Eve laughed, pushing her hands out of the way to finish buttoning Maddy’s blouse. “That’s just your hormones doing a happy dance.”
“I can’t believe I let you badger me into asking William on a date. When he said yes, I nearly threw up, and I couldn’t do a damn thing right the rest of the day.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I think I put Mem’s dentures to soak in ginger ale, and I know I sent Hiram home from the assisted-living center without any socks.”
“It’s August—he probably wasn’t even wearing socks.”
“But Hiram’s not a day camper; he lives there! Oh, what have I gotten myself into? It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date that I’ve forgotten what to do!” Eve laughed.
“You think this is fu
“I think this is payback,” Eve teased. “Are you forgetting helping medress for my first date with Kenzie? I have about as much sympathy now as you had for me that night. Come on,” she said, pulling Maddy over to her old vanity.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help,” Maddy said.
“Because I love you. It’s killing me to see you ru
“Oh, please,” Maddy said, rolling her eyes. “I do not have martyr’s syndrome; I just don’t have time to lie around with cucumbers on my eyes, sipping mint juleps.”
Eve led her toward the hall. “As of tonight, everything changes. You are going on a date with a handsome man, and you’re going to forget about everything except having fun.”
Maddy tried resisting. “Slow down, dammit; I’m not ready to have fun with William! You said yourself that he’s too much man for me. He’s going to eat me up!”
At the bottom of the stairs, Eve wagged her finger at her. “Honest to God, if you’re wearing your panties when you get home tonight, I will never speak to you again.” She unbuttoned the top two buttons of Maddy’s blouse. “The minute you get to the restaurant, order a drink and chug it down to relax yourself,” she continued. “But only onedrink.” Eve spread Maddy’s collar to expose some cleavage, then grabbed her hand to lead her toward the kitchen. “And you do the driving tonight.”