I never intended to write fiction.

Before I sold my non-fiction book Cherish the Gift in the early 90s, I had no interest in writing fiction. I read only Agatha Christie mysteries or bodice-ripping historical fiction (particularly my mother’s tattered copy of Shana’s Savage Secret.) I didn’t care for contemporary romance at all.

Turns out I am pretty shallow.

The fact was that I had no story that was bursting to be told, no saga that needed to see the light of day, no compelling truth, except the one that I had thoroughly exhausted in Cherish, that begged to be set down on paper.

Until that morning in 1994 when I awoke with a fully formed scene in my head: a young woman flying through a forest on horseback, stopping in a glade only to confront a handsome rogue who wanted to do some bodice-ripping of his own, but in the nicest possibly way.

And thus it began. Within days I had a chapter written of my historical romance entitled Rebel Heart.

I joined the Dallas chapter of Romance Writers of America, DARA for short and started soaking up all the workshops, speakers, and conferences I could find. I was a sponge, eager to learn all I could about writing romance. My friend Karen, a fledgling romance writer herself and my buddy at JCPenney, joined me.

It wasn’t long (1995 I think) before we signed up for the North Texas Writers Association conference in which Diana Gabaldon was the keynote speaker.

Calm down. This was so long ago that only Outlander, the book, and its sequel, existed and Diana Gabaldon was still a marine biologist, but also a household name in romance circles. Nearly thirty years later it suffices to say that she is a shining star, with fame, fortune, a library of books, and a popular television series under her belt.

The other thing we noticed that weekend was that she was very smart, down-to-earth, and generous with her time.

I signed up to have a few pages of Rebel Heart critiqued, which always meant that a handful of would-be-authors in the same genre would circle up and and read a couple of pages of their work-in-progress aloud, inviting comments from the leader, a published or nearly-published author. Yes, it was scary, but I was seeking knowledge, remember?

And so, I clutched my pages, which I had polished to gleaming perfection, in my sweaty fist and sat in the circle, waiting. And who came in to be our published author? Diana Gabaldon.

Ok, ok. I took a breath. It’s ok.

I was one of the first ones to read. The prose flowed like that really sweet red wine we all hate now. And when I was through and, oh-so-excited to hear Diana’s obvious praise, I was a little surprised when she said, “I started one of my chapters like that once.”

Visions of plagiarism and prison flew into my head. The starting line was “He was dead.” It was a joke between me and my dad. I told him about my writing and said I had heard about a book that started “She was naked and he was dead.” I couldn’t quite figure out how to make both those things happen in the opening paragraphs so I knocked off one in favor of the other.

Apparently Diana had done something similar.

Then she went on to point out that my pages had mixed point of view. For example how could the heroine know his eyes were bluer than her own since she couldn’t really see her own eyes out in the forest. Plus the impossible description of her own hair flying in the breeze as she rode and on and on.

It seems I had also conflated a number of countries and languages and names since my heroine Caitlin had a Celtic name but was apparently a bizarre mix of Scandinavian, German and French.

And historically. . .well . . . it wasn’t.

I reworked the mess until it became such a Frankenstein (see the picture, above.) I had to put it out of its misery.

I began writing contemporary romance. Ten complete manuscripts later, I was published, twice, in 2009.

It only took 13 years.

And now I’ve sent my latest manuscript Sensible Shoes (read the short excerpt in an earlier blog) into the ether in search of an agent. Another 13 years later.

At least I’m consistent.