You know what 2020 needs? A Prince.

If there's a year that ever needed a Happily Ever After, badly, it's 2020.

As a writer of romance, I needed a HEA. As a sufferer of anxiety, PTSD and depression, I was afraid I wasn't going to be capable of creating one, even with total creative control.

In fact, I spent the first few months of 2020 in a critical balancing act of both needing to create and being terrified of the creative space, where I normally work out all sorts of societal ills in my narrative. Instead, I was creatively paralyzed, unable to use my usual coping skills to manage as I watched the world come apart.

How do you work through your emotions without commenting on what's going on right now, yet not comment on what's going on right now because everyone you write for (including yourself,) needed an escape?

While I reserve the right to one day delve into this new world in which we find ourselves, 2020 was not the year for me to explore how much everything had changed or how difficult it has been. In fact, I had a great deal of sympathy for most folks who, for the first time ever, perhaps, were dealing with the world blowing apart. That I've had lifelong experience was both a comfort and a challenge. For many of us, the road has been littered with painful, emotional debris that has been impossible to dodge as it kicked old traumas back up in our faces. Everything, and I mean everything has changed, assigning a big ol' question mark if it will ever go back to normal.

We had to walk gently. Out of compassion and out of self-preservation.

For me, the Covid-19 crisis was a terrifying return to January 2018, when I first got the cancer diagnosis. Everything changed with the terrifying prospect of a life-threatening illness, an aggressive foe that wanted to kill me quickly and steal me away from those I loved and rob me of the long life I had previously envisioned for myself, where I could watch my kids get married, have kids of their own, and grow old with my husband. 

Instead, everything was punctuated with a question mark, including immediate future plans. Would I make it to the five year mark? Even the one year mark? With a uterine sarcoma, that was no longer an easy assumption to make.

I didn't even want to take down my Christmas tree because I worried I wouldn't be around to put it back up again.

January 4, 2018 threw everything into a blender. Then, ten days later, my husband had a heart attack. Five months after that, I was laid off from my job, right when I needed my insurance the most.

2018 was a year where I saw my world turned upside down. When 2020 came along, and I saw the actual world do the same, it was painfully and frighteningly familiar. And I hadn't even fully healed from the first bout in the ring.

I needed an escape when all the stuff I normally used as an escape were no longer available. All I had was the inside of my brain, but none of the stories brewing around in my noggin were going to provide that for me. I had several WIPs (works in progress,) in various stages of completion, waiting for me to take the time to write them. Though I still maintained my job working from home, which helped provide stability for 40 hours a week, no longer did I fill my free time with all the stuff I used to. There was no going out, there was no regular noise to take up space in my head. There was nothing but me and a big ball of jumbled emotions playing havoc with my anxiety and my depression.

Because I need to be creative, I resorted to paint-by-numbers kits to find a way to do SOMETHING.

But in the back of my mind, the challenge lingered.

I needed to write something, something with a HEA, something to escape the walls of reality closing in. I knew it would have to be a romance, because I needed the excitement of falling in love. I wanted the promise of a happy ending.

Scratch that... I needed the promise of a happy ending.

Rewind to December of last year. I flew to Florida on a business trip, so I had a book on hand to keep me occupied on the long flight across the country. I picked up THE BEAUTIFUL ONES, by Prince, because Prince.

Except it wasn't by Prince at all. It was written by a guy hired by the enigmatic star to write his memoir.

I was enthralled from the first paragraph:

"I last spoke to Prince on Sunday, April 17, 2016, four days before he died. That night I was lying in bed when my phone shuddered and lit up with a 952 area code. He'd never called my cell before, but I knew at once it was him. I scrambled for a pen and paper and plugged my phone into the wall--my battery was almost depleted. But my charging cord was only a foot long, so I couldn't stand up when I used the phone. I spent our final conversation hunched in a corner of my bedroom, taking notes by pressing the paper to the floor."

As a writer, and as a life-long fan of Prince, I couldn't imagine what getting that phone call must have been like.

I went on to read about how this writer got this gig of a lifetime, and how he had to win over the elusive rock star. As someone who has written a fair amount of rock star fantasy, I couldn't help but think about how this story might have gone a little differently if written for a romance audience.

Basically I stopped reading that book on page 25 as the seeds of my own story started to quickly take root.

I talked it over with my bestie, Jeff Mayo, as I tossed around several ideas. Because Prince's writer was a male and Prince himself was a male, my first thought was another M/M romance, so I wanted to get some feedback on if that would be a story that would work.

That was when Jeff threw a huge curveball at me. "What if you made the rock star an ACTUAL prince?"

He had just come off nailing a college course on British history, so things like kings and queens and princes and dukes were all fresh in his mind. I was at once intimidated AF. How could I pull this off with ACTUAL royalty? Imagine the kind of homework that would take and all the rules it would involve.

And it's not that I'm adverse to research. It's a skill I've honed since a producer told me I had to set one of my stories in Romania when I'd never once stepped foot in that country. But I'm a writer. My greatest skill is making things that aren't as though they were.

Still, it promised to be a lot of work and I put it on the backburner.

Then.... March 2020 happened. The entire world shut down and I was in desperate need of an escape from our painful new reality.

This story continued to whisper in the back of my brain as I waited to see which idea would revive the muse and force my hiney into the chair to write.

It happened around May, when the pieces of the puzzle began sliding into place. And it all started with a girl named Peaches.

I had her name before I had a clear vision of who she would be. Like any girl named Peaches, she quickly filled in the rest. She couldn't be like anybody else. Likewise, neither could her romance, nor her Prince Charming.

Jeff and I tossed around the notion of researching existing countries from which to pluck our regal hero, before settling on the daunting task of creating a country of our very own. Both of us have Irish/Scottish roots, so we decided early on our Prince would have a Gaelic ancestry right to his auburn locks. (My first ginger fella... I was super stoked.)



Jeff and I spent so much time building this world for our prince that it quickly became one of the most healing moments of 2020. We couldn't leave our houses, but in our minds we traveled to this amazing new country almost every single time we talked. It was kind of eerie yet really, really cool how all the pieces fell into place. One of us would make a suggestion, then, when we did the research, we found that what we wanted to do with the story fit exactly.

"What if they had some kind of export that was directly tied to the country? Maybe something like a mineral that is exclusive to the country, making it a highly desirable export," he said.

"It could be something they could sell on a small scale for souveniers," I agreed. "Something beautiful on the inside, but ugly AF on the outside." (Y'all know me, this sort of thing is my jam.)

He sent me an article on geodes right as I was mulling the idea over about volcanoes.

But could volcanoes actually come into play in the vast open ocean west of Ireland?

Turns out, they totally can. Iceland, just north of where we wanted to plop our little island kingdom, is known as the land of Ice and Fire. It has not one, not two, but 30 volcanic systems.

The introduction of Iceland brought the presence of Vikings, which I wondered if this would fit with the Gaelic ancestry we were attempting to build off of. Turns out that the Norse were first recorded in Ireland in the eighth century, where they began raiding and occupying and intermingling with Celts.

We spent much of late spring building a whole new world with history reaching all the way back to 800AD, but in reality I think it was all there just waiting to be discovered. Whatever we had the instinct to do, the history and science was there to support.

It was wild. And a true joy. I watched the kingdom of Aldayne come clearer and clearer into focus with each passing day. We had maps and cities and history and economics, all interlinked and entwined. We even created regional cuisine. I stopped just short of making an entire language, but only because Peaches was whispering in my ear that I needed to get started on the modern stuff in the US.

Once we had all that in place, I knew I could handle the rest. And what came next brought me so much joy it actually healed many of my open, emotional, wounds.

I was a damsel in distress, locked in my lonely tower, waiting for a hero to ride in on his noble steed, the world at his fingertips, to make me whole again.

I was entranced the first time he said hello.

And I mean that literally. From the first scene, every time he said "Hello," I was a swoony puddle of goo.

Audra lead me through one of the arched doorways to one of the many colorful parlors that branched out from this main foyer. I was assisted to The Red Room, which, as you might imagine, had dark red paint on all the walls. The molding was stark white, to take away some of the darkness, as did the huge picturesque window facing an ornate garden full of impressive topiaries. Plants and flowers gave the room some color, as did the floral rug on the floor. Taking up one wall was a tapestry mural with a huge family portrait of Prince Roan, Princess Sofie and young prince Augustine. He couldn’t have been more than maybe five years old at the time. The same age as Dash, but unlike my little brother he wasn’t free to dance around in a rainbow tutu. He stood stoic and straight, with no smile to be had on his sweet little face.

It painfully mirrored the unhappy faces of his parents, the burden of royalty dragging their shoulders down despite how desperate they were to keep them lifted.

I was so lost in the painting I had already forgotten that Audra was beside me. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go get The Duke.”

I nodded at her; slightly embarrassed how awestruck I was by my surroundings. I needed to every bit as stoic. I needed to be professional. Their story needed to be told and I wanted to be the one to tell it. If not for any reason than that sad little boy staring at me from the portrait.

As the minutes dragged by, I busied myself by walking along the ornate surroundings. They were right about the statues and the busts. There were also old books and silver candlesticks, Fabrege eggs, marble urns and Chinese vases; everything you’d expect from a palace. Historic, valuable pieces that demanded one’s attention and reverence. The only thing out of place was a huge ugly black rock that sat atop a gold stand in the middle of the room. I spent an inordinate amount of time studying the rock, trying to figure out why this ugly piece was being showcased. I wrote it off as one of the Duke of Mayhem’s royal eccentricities and moved along. I was drawn instead to the pictures lining the bookshelf. Unlike all the royal trappings, the pictures gave me a sense of who this family was at the core. One photo that struck me in particular was the picture of Auggie as a child, hidden back behind all the official portraits of the Royal family taken at various events, with various world leaders. Instead, this hidden snapshot in a tiny 4x6 silver frame predated the portrait on the wall. He was probably about three, and laughing up at the face of his beautiful, happy mother as they sat cuddled on a picnic blanket.

I reached for the frame, which dared to show just a bit of dust because the photo itself was hidden back behind the larger photos, overshadowed by the larger, looming official family photos. (Fitting, I thought.) I used my sleeve to buff it to a shine, taking my time to get anything off the glass of that precious picture, which made me smile despite myself.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at that photo, but I guess it was long enough.

“Hello,” I heard this deep voice say behind me.

I turned right into the gaze of Augustine Seamus Whitley Quinn Agassi, the Prince of Alasdair and Duke of Iver, last heir to the throne of Aldayne. He was also a mega rock star, but like Monica had warned, his regal air was undeniable.

If I thought those green eyes were piercing in photos, they were damn near lethal in person. I felt immediately exposed, like I was standing naked in front of him. His long hair curled around his sharp features, and that beard was trimmed high and tight around his sensual full lips.

I was so taken off guard I took a step back, losing my footing and stumbling right into the bookshelf that held so many golden and silver frames. Like dominoes falling in slow motion, they all went down in a clatter, one even toppling right to the floor.

“I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, mortified. I tried to retrieve the fallen soldier, but I was so discombobulated that my hands shook like crazy and I dropped it twice more. Just as he reached around me to take it from my hands, I backed up again, this time into what was likely a Ming vase. I managed to capture it, but barely.

I was flushed and embarrassed as I faced him. I realized I had that tiny silver frame with the candid photo clutched to my chest. With shaking hands, I tried to replace it without destroying anything else. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, unable to look him right in the eye.

“No damage done,” he said in that warm, hypnotic voice that poured over my senses like honey. Then, like out of a dream, I saw him reach out a hand to me. “I’m Auggie,” he said, quite unnecessarily.

I stared at his hand for a long, uncomprehending moment, fixated on the opal-like ring he wore on his finger, with the familiar crest I’d seen throughout the castle. That ring meant the rules were different, right? Shit, should I bow? I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to touch him, but he was reaching out to me. What were the rules in this scenario? Where the fuck was Audra?

Truth be told, I kind of fell in love with Peaches around the same time. He was so dashing, she was so awkward.

It was just the right mix to bring into chaotic 2020.

These two swept me up in a whirlwind that kept me glued to the pages as I churned out Book #37 like someone who was obsessed. Obsessed to escape the confines of 2020 to this brand new world where anything was possible. Obsessed to get to that HEA, which loomed greater than any conflict. Obsessed to tell this story that had been nagging at my brain for months, and with the players in place there was no excuse left to avoid it.

It was Non-Stop.



And now I have a story I can share with all of you.

On August 25, 2020, I am so pleased and proud to bring you PEACHES & THE DUKE, my first ever royal fairy tale. It's done Ginger Voight style, which means it has a lot of twists and turns, a few familiar faces, plus a sexy rock star hero to lead the way.



I hope Auggie brightens your year every bit as much as he has brightened mine.

Pre-order your copy now for the discounted price of $0.99. It will go up to it's normal price of $2.99 when the final prices and final edited copy are locked in by August 21st, so act now.

You won't want to miss this book boyfriend. Add PEACHES & THE DUKE to your TBR list today.

And brace yourself.... for Auggie.

The weight of writing "plus-size" fiction, and why I cannot be shamed.

The story of how I came to write "plus-size" or Rubenesque romances is pretty well known by this point. As a "plus-size" woman, I was sick and tired of reading books where women who looked like me were treated as the supporting characters, the comic relief, or the sad examples of what not to be. This was not my experience. As the star of my own life, I have had quite a bit of romance, quite a bit of sex, and quite a bit of drama all on my own. It rubbed me raw that, especially in romance, the "ideal" I needed to "escape" to was someone other than me. See, that kind of thing just feeds my internal chatterbox, which is already running 24/7 telling me I'm a piece of shit anyway. It ends up reinforcing this societal message that if I don't conform to the standard of beauty set by other people... I just don't count. I don't deserve to find love, I don't deserve to be successful, and I certainly don't deserve a happily ever after.

Entire multi-million-dollar industries are literally banking on this premise, from the magazines we see screaming at us from the check-out aisle, to the cosmetics and fashion industry and... let's not forget the weight-loss industry, which brings in BILLIONS per year. So naturally the women we see reflected back to us in the media all tend to fit a certain type, and woe to the women who don't. Any time any woman dares to dip her tippy-toe outside of this narrow definition of ideal feminine beauty, there's shame the size of Texas waiting to be heaped on her, to corral her back into line.

And we all kind of accept it. We all kind of go along with this idea that women in particular deserve our ridicule and our disdain simply because of how they look, which reinforces the even more destructive social messaging that a woman's value hinges on something so temporary and so superficial. If you dare to be successful in any OTHER way, whether professionally, intellectually, in your character, with your achievements, even if you want to be president of these United States, it all comes back to how you look.

If you don't look a certain way, you simply don't deserve to be happy.

And it's bullshit.

I used to shovel the shit, same as the majority of folks in our culture. I wrote thin and beautiful women, desired women, who didn't know they were thin, beautiful and desired, something I wouldn't know dick about, and publishers told me thanks but no thanks. My characters were "too perfect."

But that was how I saw the women mirrored back to me. They were certainly more perfect than I was, and more deserving of good things than I was.

I mean, that IS the message, right?

In 2007, I set out to change that message. I wrote my first Rubenesque romance, LOVE PLUS ONE, about a size-12 (gasp! shocker!) gal who not only didn't know she was beautiful... she had the world around her reinforcing that sad message. She had to fight through BOTH piles of bullshit to find her happily ever after.

THAT... I know.

Since then I've written all sorts of "plus-size" fiction, with all sorts of heroines. I have my confident, DGAF heroines who embrace the fact they are different and don't give a rat's ass who agrees with them. (Rachel from THE FULLERTON FAMILY SAGA, Andy from THE GROUPIE SAGA, Coralie from THE MASTERS SAGA, Caitlin from PICTURE POSTCARDS and Carly from GLITTER ON THE WEB.) I have my more insecure heroines, who are fighting uphill through molasses to figure out their worth. (Jordi from THE FIERCE TRILOGY, Shannon from LOVE PLUS ONE.) I have my pissed off heroine, who gained weight just to keep men dafuq away from her, (Jessica, UNDER TEXAS SKIES,) and the character who has battled the chatterbox a lot like me over the past four decades, even when she couldn't see the great things that were right in front of her. (Roni from THE LEFTOVER CLUB.) Joely Morgan, from BACK FOR SECONDS, was a 40-year-old mother of three who gained weight and alienated her hubby, who dropped her like a bad habit for a 20-something size-perfect beauty. She got the interest of a younger, hotter man who wanted to get his hands all over her neglected curves, again... writing what I know from real-life experience.

I've written characters who are where I used to be. I've written characters who are who I want to be. And each and every one I allowed to be who they were, no physical changes necessary. They had to change their attitude only, one that said, "You're allowed to find love the way you are. And that must always start with you."

Needless to say, there's been some negative feedback. In a genre where fantastic, unrealistic things happen all the time, I've heard my share of complaints that "plus-size" fiction isn't "realistic" enough to sell. One blog I read treated the whole Rubenesque genre as a joke, saying it would be more realistic to her if two mentally challenged people found love together, as long as they were hot. You can be an asshole, you can be missing limbs, you can have the IQ of a kumquat, but God forbid you're larger than a size-6, which is where this particular blogger started her fat-shaming because "No man I know would ever date a woman bigger than that!"

So the majority of American women, who tend to be a size 14/16, are SOL when it comes to finding love... even though they do, even though they date, have sex, marry, have families and generally live happy lives.

I've had personal reviews that reinforce this sad message. One reviewer, an admitted size-16 herself, said my GROUPIE SAGA was unrealistic because no rock star AND music mogul would fight over a woman who wore a size-16.

Ahem...

Oh yeah. Nothing to like THERE. She's only the first model of size to grace the cover of the coveted Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. She's listed in People's Most Beautiful. Oh, and she's also married to a hot guy who digs her curves like there's no tomorrow.

And she did all that as a size-16.

Another interviewer took issue with the fact that I don't shy away from numbers in my book. CC Cabot (or Coralie) from my MASTERS SAGA was also a size-16, which... if you look at the Victoria's Secret Sizing Guide, is 42.5-34-44.5. Coralie is 46/34/44. I made her top-heavy because some women don't necessarily have sizes that fit these cookie-cutter sizes, and my whole message with Coralie was that American fashion sizing is bullshit (particularly the use of the term "plus-size.") She, as the daughter of a fashion industry icon, couldn't even find stuff to fit or flatter in her very own store because of this segregated idea of feminine beauty. I wanted to make it hard for her to find clothes, because for many of us it IS hard to find clothes. Even Salma Hayek and Scarlet Johansson, some of the hottest babes in Hollywood, overfill certain sizes. Salma is 39-24-36 and Scarlett is 36-25-36. Back at Victoria's Secret, a size-4 is 34.5-26-36.5, but you don't get into the 39" bust size until a 12, or a 36"-bust size until an 8. Did I mention already that the fashion industry standard for "plus-size" starts at a size 6? WHICH, btw, is a SMALL at Victoria's Secret.

See where I'm going with this? THIS guy does.

But because I said that Coralie had a size-46 bust, a reviewer took issue with my gender identity. "Is this writer even a woman?" she wanted to know, because 46 inches was HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE.

She's right. I don't know much about being a size-16, as it's been about three decades since I wore a 44-36-44. My current bust size now is 48". Whether I'm a woman or not... well...

Many a guy has looked at my chest and didn't give a shit about the number (unless it was my phone number,) but thanks for the reality check, I guess. Living in my skin day to day, I had forgotten what an anomaly I was. Thank GAWD someone was there to remind me how I don't fit in. Having made the career of my dreams out of thin air, raised two amazing men, and been loved and desired by many amazing guys, my confidence was getting OUT OF CONTROL. Someone definitely needed to put me in my place.

Even though I can point to real life examples of what I write...including my very own story, it's "unrealistic." I'd venture to guess more size-16 women get married every single day than college graduates get whisked away by gazillionaires, but ... y'know... whatever. Gotta protect the message.

It should be crystal clear by this point I don't give a flying fig about "the message."

Actually that's not true. I care enough about the destructive nature of this bullshit message to change it. This is why I write the books I do. I was sick and tired of being told I wasn't the ideal, I couldn't have my happily ever after, and I was not good enough. This is the uphill battle I climb every single time I walk outside my front door, facing a culture that would rather shame me into conforming than understand me as I am.

In my book, GLITTER ON THE WEB, Carly Reynolds shares this same mission. She is likewise a size-16, but she doesn't give a fuck if you think she's huge. She dates. She has an active sex life. She lives her life on her terms, and fuck the naysayers who want to shame her for any of it.

Because every plot needs an opposing force, I decided to make a living embodiment of our social standard. I've done that before with Eddie in FIERCE, but this time I had a different agenda. I was going to put these two opposing mindsets together, and use the resulting chaos to change the fucking message. So I created Eli Blake, who is the perfect ideal of a man, according to society standards. He's painfully good-looking. He's white. He's rich. He's straight. He's successful in the eyes of the world. These are his "get out of asshole" free cards that society hands to guys like this, even when they're ginormous douche bags.

It really is amazing what we, as women, tolerate from guys who simply look a certain way. (I'll get to that more in a minute.)

GLITTER was my way of shining a light on the destructive nature of the shaming mindset that goes hand-in-hand with shaping a message around beauty conformity. Needless to say, Eli had his biases when he got into this relationship, but so did Carly. Forced to work together, and live together, to perpetuate the lie of being a couple, they were able to get past the bullshit. And that's where the real chance for romance starts.

Fast-forward to May 9, the day before I released my ambitious project, and the book world exploded around the concept of "fat-shaming" when a male model went on a social media rampage against fat women, both the authors and readers of romance. I won't name him, he got enough publicity at the start of the week, but his message was that fat writers had to write romance because they weren't getting any dick at home, and readers of romance should just go eat ice cream and hang themselves in the closet.

No, really. That was his message, word for almost fucking word.

That he wasn't more widely panned by the women who had become his "fans" as a fitness role model and cover model for romance novels, just reinforced the power of this destructive message. It's also a sad social statement that women accept abusive behavior from jerks just because we think they're good-looking. (Raise your standards, ladies. S'all I'm saying.)

This is a guy who told us fat girls to go hang ourselves in the closet. I want no part of that message. Instead I'm trying to tell us all that no matter what your size, you deserve to be happy. You don't lose your worth as a human just because some jagoff is pissed off you're not doing more to attract him.

For some reason, some guys get really REALLY mad about this. I mean, why else would you say to someone that they need to hang themselves in a closet??

He did try to wrap this "concern-trolling" bullshit with the more socially accepted "obesity epidemic" trappings. But this guy doesn't give two shits about your health if he's trying to tell you you need to end it all simply because of what you weigh. What kind of fucked up message is that?? "I really want you to lose weight so you can live longer. But fuck that, you're a fat slob of a pig. Kill yourself now." That is a passionate, deep-seated hatred of you as a potential sexual partner who didn't do enough to please him, like you owed it to him to be hot.

Spoiler alert: You don't.

Like Jennifer Weiner said, there is room in the world for the unpretty. You don't owe it to him to give him a boner or to get his attention. From this kind of explosive meltdown, I'm going to go out on a limb and say this is not the kind of man you want ANY attention from. EVER. But regardless of who or what, you don't owe it to anyone else to be thin, to be pretty, to be perfect, to look good, to fit into a certain size - OR exercise and diet and starve yourself just so the people who are trying hard to find reasons to hate you will somehow like you one day.

Spoiler alert: They won't.

I didn’t want to tell her that “they” would never stop finding things that girls are “too” this or that for, to deny us our happy endings, like we somehow didn’t deserve it anymore because we’re not perfect. It starts with too young, then it becomes too fat, too thin, too loud, too quiet, too timid, too bold, too chaste, too slutty, too ugly, too pretty… until finally we’re too old, and we get put out to pasture like any brood mare who was no longer useful.

“‘They’ will always try to make you feel like a half-person, who will never be complete until you have a man to validate you. But ‘they’ are full of shit. You are an amazing person all on your own. The right person will see that. It’ll turn all those things that are too much into just right.” - Carly Reynolds

I've talked about fat-shaming before, where I was actually FAT-SHAMED for doing so. (Not surprised.) In fact, there are some who would fat-shame me for writing romances about bigger women, just because it's "unhealthy" to encourage happiness/self-acceptance when the accepted wisdom is fat is bad. Even though studies have proven that fat-shaming is way more damaging than helpful, which I know from my own personal experience.

All of this stuff just reinforced why I write the stories I do. My entire purpose on the planet is to change the message, because I know first-hand how destructive it is. You want to be really, truly healthy? Try loving yourself enough to be imperfect. Convince yourself that you matter. You have value. You are here to be what no one else can be... and that's you. You're here to love, to learn and to grow, and you deserve to be happy. If you're not happy where you are, then change it. You have the power to do that. If you are happy where you are, then work on those things to make you stronger, to help you live longer, so you can show all the naysayers that no matter how much they try to steal your thunder, you're here to shake things up, and fuck 'em if they don't like it.

So stop accepting these ill-fitting boxes they try to cram us all into to make THEM feel better about themselves, when they're the ones who are limited. You matter. And you deserve to be here. You're going to make waves standing out, being different, but don't you dare apologize. People will try to shame you, sure, because they don't know how to handle it. This usually indicates these are people who aren't fit to judge you anyway. So don't accept that shame. There's no one on this planet more qualified to judge you for being you except you. And I got news for you... you're fucking perfect at it. Because of the scars you wear... not in spite of them.



Shake off the haters, lift your chin and own. You might be surprised who might someday agree.

“You really don’t care what people think, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like today. I tell you to skip makeup, you put on sunglasses like it’s nothing. If I had said that to Rhonda, she would have spent the next ten minutes yelling at me in Spanglish, telling me I didn’t understand what it was like to be a woman in the public eye.”

“Big difference. I’m not in the public eye.”

“Yeah, you are,” he corrected. “You just don’t care. At the spa. On the beach. You just walked through a crowded lobby in beachwear, and don’t even notice if other people stare or talk behind your back. It’s like you’re a queen and they’re all beneath you.”

I chuckled. “Oh, I notice. But you’re right. I don’t care. I’m not defined by the opinions of others.”

His caresses grew even gentler. “Like a queen.” I said nothing. “It’s sexy,” he murmured, his fingers trailing over my shoulders and down both arms as he leaned closer. “You’re sexy.”

My eyes met his. “Surprised?”

He nodded. “Every day.” He leaned forward for another kiss.

GLITTER ON THE WEB now available in Kindle Unlimited.

Author notes and free chapter of "Love Plus One"

I wrote LOVE PLUS ONE as a protest of sorts. I’ve been plus-sized since elementary school, and even though I didn’t see any protagonists or heroines in contemporary romantic fiction that looked like me, I still managed to have a fairly active love life almost from the time I decided I wanted one.

Yet if I found any overweight characters introduced in romance novels, they generally played second fiddle to the protagonist. Their extra weight proved fodder for comic relief or a negative characterization tool, making the female less sympathetic.

Eventually I woke up to this subliminal message that suggested one had to be perfect to be romanced by the handsome prince charming, but not before succumbing to it myself.

In 1995 I finished my first “romance” novel, PICTURE POSTCARDS. I had leaned heavily on this ‘standard,’ mirroring all those stories I had read as an impressionable young girl. I made my protagonist blindingly beautiful and perfect in every way – physically speaking – because I bought into the notion that was what it took to find love in a romance novel. Imagine my surprise when I was told by publishers that she wasn’t relateable. It was a fair criticism given I couldn’t relate to her either as I had never had the experience of being blindingly beautiful or perfect in every way. I wrote what I thought would “fit into” the romance genre, rather than out of my own experiences, and this rendered my protagonist one-dimensional.

Ultimately I shelved the project, but the critique stayed with me. I wasn’t sure how to “write what I know” when my experiences with romance didn’t resemble anything out of a paperback novel, no matter how many of them I read. Yet I knew what love was, I knew how to manage long-term relationships. How was I supposed to convey this in my own voice, when most books out there spoke a completely different language?

Like LOVE PLUS ONE’S heroine, Shannon, I had to step out of the shadows and discover my voice was one that deserved to be heard. My stories were worth sharing – and were completely relatable for the average American woman, who resembles size-12 Shannon more than the beautiful, perfect (read: slender) heroines I had always read about.

By 2007, when I wrote LOVE PLUS ONE, I was ready to tackle a protagonist who wasn’t so perfect, since I myself was imperfect. I wanted to show what my experiences were finding my own prince charming, where I would find love and acceptance from a romantic hero who could love me for all my traits, not just some number on a scale. I also vented about all those back-biting beauties who played nice to the fat girl for their own self-serving purposes. Many felt I was no threat to the men they wanted to pursue and therefore easily discarded – and this proved especially toxic when I dared to believe I could get the guy in question.

Shannon’s insecurity that I describe in the book has also come to represent my own unsteady steps toward this acceptance in my own mind. I dared to stand against mainstream media and proclaim that girls who are imperfect, who represent those outside the norm, can be beautiful, can be desired, and can be loved.

That is Shannon’s journey in LOVE PLUS ONE, but it was ultimately mine as well. Apparently it is a message that resonates; it is the top selling book I’ve published, nearly double that of my second best seller. The most rewarding part of the process is when a reader tells me how much the book touches her, and how much she relates to Shannon’s journey.

I’ll let the Danielle Steels of the world write about thin, blindingly beautiful heroines. I prefer those heroines who are beautifully, wonderfully, imperfect. They’re much more fun to write. And I’m convinced they are completely lovable, because I love them completely.

To read a sample chapter of LOVE PLUS ONE, click here.

Here's some music to set the mood. ;)



To read more behind the scenes stuff with more samples, check out my RUBENESQUE ROMANCE SAMPLER.

Rock Star, the sequel to Groupie, Available NOW!!

You've been waiting for it and it's finally here! ROCK STAR is available for your Kindle and as a paperback, and will be released for the Nook and through Apple and Sony shortly.

Also available for your Kindle, a GROUPIE/ROCK STAR ebook bundle! If you're new to the series or want to introduce your friends and family to the romantic saga of Andy and Giovanni, you can now purchase both books in a convenient, economical package.

Don't forget you can still enter to win one of five autographed copies of ROCK STAR through Goodreads through the month of September. Good luck!

I've had a lot of readers express how excited they were for this release. I'd like to thank you all for your patience and your support for this story and these characters. They are a lot of fun to write and I truly enjoyed revisiting them. I hope you do too! Don't forget to rate/review. I love to hear your feedback.

In the meantime here's some mood music... you can figure out where these songs inspired me during the story as you read along. ;)

My Immortal - a labor of love.

Last year I published my paranormal romance "My Immortal," a story about a troubled young woman who finds the purpose for her future tied up in the secret of her past. She grows up believing she is corrupted and undeserving of love, so her entire existence is crafted around earning her right to even exist. She does this mostly through her journalism career, where she tracks down the scourge of the earth and rights all the wrongs that occur int he world around her.

The story picks up when our heroine Adele is tracking a serial killer attacking innocent children in her town. The sheer heinousness of the crimes infiltrates her troubled dreams, which have always been a landmine of unmanageable emotional debris. She comes to find that solving the latter may actually be the key to solving the former, especially when it seems that the killer is striking closer and closer to home.



As she spirals emotionally out of control her path crosses with a beautiful and charming stranger - who sees her in a way she never has dared to see herself. He offers her romance and she finds herself pulled toward this man who feels strangely familiar though they only just met. Nicholas Sterling awakes something in Adele that she never thought was possible.



He even manages the impossible: he brings her peace. He chases away her lifelong torment of nightmares and offers her a protection she never before thought she needed.



Meanwhile her lifelong friend Michael watches on as this smooth operator swoops in to romance a woman he has loved from afar since they were children. She put up her walls against the love she long ago recognized in her best friend's eyes, leaving him to find solace in the priesthood as he was kept at the fringe of her world. Now another man has crossed the threshold almost immediately, leaving the stalwart Michael bereft and unsure what to do to protect her.



In this stark juxtaposition of terror and romance, Adele finds herself falling in love while she's falling apart. She meets a cryptic stranger that lets her know she is far more connected to the killer than she would fear from her psychic dreams. It soon dawns on her that her connection to Nicholas is not a coincidence. Their love is too powerful to be new...she finally realizes it is an echo that reaches back centuries.





It is a love that ultimately demands everything. Though she long believed she had to fight for a purpose, Adele had been born with a purpose. Only she can bring an end to the reign of terror this killer has brought upon her town. She has to take a stand and possibly lose everyone she loves most in the world, to sacrifice against an evil that has risen from the ages - even if it costs her the love of more than one lifetime.



In "My Immortal" I explore the idea of soul mates and the immortal nature of love. I did this because of my own journey to love through loss, and dedicated this book - rightly so - to my first husband, Daniel. His fingerprint left an indelible mark on my life that reaches far beyond the clutches of death.



I did this using the immortality of vampires and toyed with the idea of how reincarnation can redeem even the most vile among us when the last act of life is to save the life of the one you love. I hope you enjoy. <3

Save the Date: Groupie's Sequel ROCK STAR Releases September 2012

September 25 has been a rather special day throughout my history, including when I met my best friend in 1980:



And when I met my first husband, Daniel, in 1987.



Now we can add the "birth" of my newest baby: "Rock Star."

"Rock Star" is the highly anticipated sequel to my Rock and Roll Rubenesque saga that began with the sizzling debut of "Groupie." For those who have been anxious to see what has become of Andy, Vanni and Graham... buckle your seat belts. You're in for a thrilling new ride right through the dark underbelly of fame. I hold nothing back and spare no one.

In the second book in the series, readers get insight into the mind of the romantic hero, Giovanni Carnevale, as he reaches the pinnacle of success as a world wide rock star. Everyone wants a piece of him, but all he wants is the one thing he can't have. He's angry and he's entitled, with ample opportunity to make really bad decisions. The combination proves explosive.

Andy must watch from the sidelines as her beloved Vanni falls victim to grifters, scandals and alcoholism thanks to this self-destructive behavior. Things come to an emotional head when his estranged father comes on the scene just when Vanni thinks things can't get any worse.

Darkness shadows Graham Baxter as he begins his journey as a paraplegic. The powerful mogul bitterly handles this new vulnerability by lashing out at the people who could help him the most. He needs Andy more than ever, pulling her in yet another hopeless direction. Andy is put in the impossible situation of keeping the most important promise she has ever made, or saving the man that she can't help but love.

I get to turn up the scandals, secrets, passion and heartbreak to 11 in a very Jackie Collins type of way. Flawed characters face excess and all the pitfalls that entails. They fight as hard as they can to hold onto anything real in the fake world of celebrity.

It's a fun little sandbox in which to play around. I look forward to your joining me on the next leg of our journey.

Enter to win one of five autographed copies of the paperback, courtesy of Goodreads, from now until the end of September.

Read a sample chapter here!

Can a Good Man Love a Size 16 Woman?

This was a search phrase that brought someone over to my personal blog this past week. I had written a diatribe against the notion Rubenesque romances were unrealistic simply because most men (and certainly all "good" ones) couldn't possibly want a fattie. For the (female) blogger who made this assertion, this included any woman over a size 6. So me being me, I proceeded to feature hot superbabes who ranged in size from an 8 (Beyonce) to a size 16 (model Crystal Renn) in order to show how beauty comes in all sorts of packages.

Trust me, when straight guys are looking at women like Sofia Vergara, Salma Hayek, Scarlett Johansson and Christina Hendricks, they couldn't care less what the number is on the label of their clothes. They're kinda too busy doing this...



In my "Groupie" Rubenesque series of romance novels, my heroine Andy Foster is a size 16. She catches the eye of a rocker on the rise who finds himself insatiable for her fuller, more luscious curves. The books come with hot, sexy scenes and I never apologize for Andy's size because she doesn't feel the need to. She is comfortable in who she is, and it's that self-confidence - along with her hourglass figure - that keeps Giovanni Carnevale coming back for more. If you have a hard time believing that a size 16 girl could have that kind of effect on a hot bad boy rocker, I present model Kaela Humphries.

Also for your consideration, model Ashley Graham:

How about Fluvia Lacerda?

So is it really unrealistic to think a size-16 can be a beautiful, sexy and desirable woman? Only if you swallow the bullshit we're sold as women in this culture, and I most certainly do not.

I'm a proud writer of Rubenesque fiction because I refuse to buy into this cultural mindset women only are as valuable as the size dress they wear. Femininity is a beautiful mosaic that we forfeit for some tired ol' paper doll template with very little wiggle room. (Literally.) We're inundated in the media with this physical ideal of what women are supposed to look like, which is reinforced in movies and in books to drive it home that if you want a prince charming, you have to be perfect (i.e. young, thin, beautiful.) Any woman who finds love, then, should fit into this narrow example. We see this perpetrated over and over again to the point we accept it as the ultimate "fantasy" of what our happily ever after should look like. All you have to do is dye away the drab, fix or prevent those wrinkles, stuff down those love handles, pluck, tuck and otherwise change everything about you.

If you go by this media standard, then I guess the answer to "Can a good man love a size 16 woman?" is "Are you freaking kidding me?"

By no small coincidence this mindset helps sell magazines and fuels multi-billion dollar diet, beauty and fashion industries. No matter what is wrong with you, there's a product on some shelf to help fix it. How convenient is that? We are continually (and successfully) sold this bill of goods that the only things we need to worry about are how to lose those pesky extra pounds and how to find/land/keep a man. Go stand in any grocery store checkout line anywhere and peruse all those blurbs meant to entice you into picking up and buying a woman's magazine.

What is the media telling you about yourself? It's telling you that you are one hot mess, and only their sage and all-knowing advice can save you from your biggest problem. You know... YOU.

I'll let you in on a little secret and save you about $5 on that magazine...it's all hogwash.

Men aren't nearly as obsessed about our weight as we are. They know what they like when they see it, and that runs the gamut between slender and athletic to voluptuous and "womanly". Many men like curves. Studies have even suggested they are biologically predisposed to. They salivate over buxom beauties that are closer to a double digit size than a size 0. They sing happily about Brick Houses and Big Butts, while we give more and more of our money to those who get rich off of convincing us we're fat and ugly (and that fat always equals ugly.) We fixate on that stupid scale while, honestly, they're more concerned with how confidently we carry what we got. This is why the average American woman can be an unforgivable size 12 yet still find a husband, have a family and generally enjoy life despite what the media would have her believe.

The real world application of sexual attraction is a little more complex than what you see on a magazine.

Some men even find what we consider our fatal flaws kinda sexy. It means we're not perfect. When you think about it that's a lot of pressure to put on a mate.

In fact, judging that all men can only love a certain size woman isn't giving guys a whole lot of credit. Sure they are visually stimulated creatures who have a propensity to think with their penises. But shouldn't the guy you're with be able to love all the things that make you uniquely you the same way you love all the things that make him uniquely him? I mean... isn't that what the ideal of love truly is? Being unconditionally accepted and valued for who you truly are, warts and all?

The real-world answer of "Can a good man love a size 16 woman" is a resounding yes. Thankfully for all the people who don't fit in the paint-by-numbers boxes of mainstream media (which is the majority of us) love isn't a formula. Good men can love a size 12, a size 2, a size 24 and a size 10. It's not about the *size* - it's about the woman inside. It's a novel idea, really... that someone can be loved for the sum of their parts and not something likely in a constant state of flux like one's dress size.

Many people will tell you that what they thought they wanted and where their hearts eventually landed were completely different. Love is funny like that. If you create within you a woman worth loving, which has nothing to do with the size dress you wear, a man is going to find himself falling in love with you. The trick is to be the kind of woman he never knew he wanted/needed, which is kinda what happened with my darling hubby, Steven. I'm sure 14 years ago if you would have asked him to conjure the woman of his dreams, it wouldn't have been me. Instead he got more, in almost every sense of the word.



In my not-so-humble opinion this is the very quality that makes them "good men." If you've been dumped on your ample fanny because some guy couldn't handle your extra padding, the problem isn't really yours. It's his for being a superficial jerk. Wipe that dirt off your shoulder and move on. One day you'll be so thankful he dumped you so that a truly good man could find you and give you all the love that other guy didn't think you deserved.

But let me also propose this: if a "good" man dumps a size 16 woman, it probably has nothing to do with her size. More than likely it has everything to do with how she views herself because of that size.

See, this is really the crux of the whole problem. I can bet you the woman who asked that question had just been dissed by the guy she fancied and it probably wasn't the first time. This is a pattern that has repeated, so she ended up in that spot where she wondered, "What's wrong with ME?" since clearly she is the common denominator.

If you're being continually dumped by otherwise good men, it may indeed be something you're doing wrong. But that has dick to do with the size you wear. Despite what our culture will tell you, being overweight is not a personality flaw or inherent failure. It's simply a physical condition. Carrying a few extra pounds isn't really even a "bad" condition, despite being "aesthetically displeasing" to many. Some detractors will jump on the "health" bandwagon of fat-shaming but the simple truth is you can't determine someone's health by the weight they carry, and that's usually just a straw man argument anyway. The teenage boy mooing at you at the grocery store couldn't give a rat's ass if you are in more danger of developing heart disease or diabetes anymore than that guy at the bar sizing up the hot chick with a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other cares much about her liver or her lungs.

It's not about health, it's about fat. And here's the great thing about fat... you can lose it. No, really. You can. If you think your weight is holding you back most of the time there are steps you can take to change your current physical condition. The problem isn't with the weight. It's with your attitude. If you don't love yourself you're not going to do the things you need to do to take care of yourself. Period. So whether you plan to stay a size 16 or not, eventually you're going to have to give up hating your own body.

A remarkable thing happens the minute you do. The people around you then begin to treat you with the same respect you show yourself. The person most guilty of not being able to love the size 16 woman is the size 16 woman. Societal distaste aside, odds are the one beating you up most for being a size 16 is you. You've bought into the fantasy the media sold you. If you were a size 4 and a guy didn't love you, you wouldn't blame your size. So that means you accept inferiority based on nothing more than a dress size, which kinda makes you the superficial douchenozzle and not the guy at all.

Worse...if you think no one can love you because of your size then that sadly becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. You're never going to believe that a man could love you despite your size because you clearly don't. Even if you do luck out and find "a good man," he begins the fruitless endeavor to fill the holes you keep gouging in your own self-esteem. Anyone trying fill that bottomless pit of validation will inevitably tire from the strain.

Even some of those "good" men.

Can a good man love a size 16 woman? I argue that only the best men can. So do your part to hang onto them... love yourself as unconditionally as you wish to be loved and give these poor guys a break. If you have a good man who wants to love you, he already thinks you are the body beautiful. Own it, diva!

Why I Write Fiction With Plus-Sized Heroines

The first (and obvious) reason would be because I myself am a plus-sized woman. The go-to advice for any writer is to write what you know, but for many years I always wrote about the women I used to read about in other popular books. I mimicked Danielle Steel in creating blindingly beautiful women that every man wanted. My first version of "Picture Postcards"* was written in this way way back in 1996, whereupon publishers promptly rejected the work because the character was out of reach for being "too perfect."

I wrote two more romances before I finally decided it was time to write about someone a little more like me, which I did with "Love Plus One." And to be totally honest with you, it was the most fun I ever had writing a romance novel.

What made me sit in the chair initially, however, was that I was hacked off about the typical romance novels I read that glorified the thin, perfect heroine and cast any pudgy girl as the comic relief. If she got any guy it was usually someone who was like her, i.e. overweight and without a lot of options. That's not to suggest he's any more or less worthy of her, or not a great catch himself. I have always considered Dan Connor the most perfect husband of all time. But why can't we get the hot guys too? Where's it written that the super hot guy WON'T fall in love with an amazing woman who just so happens to be heavy? In my books, just like in my life, I show our options are limitless. We can get any guy we want... even the super hot guys who make all the girls turn to butter.

I refuse to settle for stories that suggest anything else.

Though I loved her while I was a teenager, Danielle Steel shot to the top of my shit-list when it came to this kind of literary condescension. I can't remember the book but I do remember that she used fat to make a character less sympathetic. I believe it was in a book where she tackled the serious issue of domestic abuse, which of course immediately offended me as a woman, a domestic abuse survivor and a fat person.

It dawned on me there weren't enough heroines out there who looked like the average American woman, much less looked like me. I figured we all needed a voice. Instead of the rare book that spoke about how fat girls needed to lose fat because it was the big challenge in their lives, I wanted them to know that even if they didn't lose weight and get to a "perfect size", they could be loved perfectly for who they are.

In that respect it became a feminist issue at its core. You don't see this message of total value represented in the media. Instead of finding beauty in a woman beyond some numbers on a scale, we put a woman's value on hold until she can deal with the weight.

I can't count how many times I heard the well-meaning but double-edged compliment, "You'd be so pretty if you just lost weight."

Thanks?

Far too many fashion designers treat the female body as nothing more than a human hanger for their clothes. Curves are vilified. Models have run the general gamut of looking like prepubescent boys to underweight, sickly drug addicts during the ill-advised "heroine chic" era. Anyone who has any kind of flesh at all is treated like a hero for attempting to make her career as a model, and we pat ourselves on the back for giving her any kind of platform, like we're doing her a favor.

It's gotten so bad that models who wear a size 6 may be considered "plus-sized." To put that in perspective, according to her dressmaker Marilyn Monroe was 36-23-37. A size 6 at Victoria's Secret is 35.5-27-37.5.

How does the fashion industry feel about a size 6?



Technically this is still a small according to VS standards, but according to an ABC report a couple of weeks ago that is where many modeling agencies start their plus-size model criteria.

The women the fashion world uses to make us buy their product, whom they exalt as the ideal, weigh 23% less than the average women. And we support this ideal every single time we buy a magazine.

In today's culture Marilyn Monroe would be smeared on the cover of the tabloid magazines; paparazzi would wait in the bushes to get unflattering photos of her backside to sell copies of their rag-mags IF she'd even be famous at all.

Things have changed a bit in standards of beauty and sex appeal since Marilyn's generation.

What kind of message is this sending our girls? It's telling them they have to start dieting at age 8, that's what. To be beautiful, to be loved, you have to be super skinny.

And please don't misunderstand. I'm not saying heavier girls are prettier than skinnier girls. I'm just saying they're not UGLIER. We all can be beautiful, no matter what size we wear. We just have to believe it *INSIDE.* Where we fail as women, and as a society, is we give that power over to everyone else.

Let's face it, our standard of beauty is set by the media. If a woman gains weight, she is subject to scrutiny and her press is generally negative. If a little 13-year-old like X-Factor's Rachel Crow loses 15 pounds she's lauded as a good role model, even though most of her extra weight was that awkward result of how her body was adjusting to adolescence.

This is why young girls are discouraged from dieting because their bodies are still developing. (Teens who diet also fall prey to other behavior problems and eating disorders.)

But in our country the very worst thing you can be is a fat woman.

You see the sob stories on talk shows where they pick that one girl who never got a date because she was too fat (when really that has more to do with an absence of self-esteem, rather than the presence of some extra cellulite.) We ride the sofa while watching outrageous competitions like The Biggest Loser, somehow "inspired" by dramatic, rapid weight loss that is medically cautioned against.

Typically you are supposed to lose about 1-2 pounds a week for sustainable weight loss... but it's so bad to be overweight in our country the weight has to come off RIGHT NOW or else you're just a useless pile of blubber that doesn't even count as a whole person.

This results in these sort of fad/crash diets that only make us FATTER. It is by no coincidence that a country that makes billions (with a B) in the diet industry is also one of the most obese in the world.

(Note that the obese person in question in the above photo is - surprise, surprise - a WOMAN.)

Despite the fact that 34% of Americans are obese, you can be discriminated against for employment and generally mocked in the media as the last socially accepted bias. Even shows like "Mike and Molly," which star plus-sized actors who find love with each other, the main concept of the series was how fat is funny.

I've been on the losing end of that all my life, so I can tell you it's nowhere near funny.

Over the years I've discovered that anyone who mocks or shuns a fat person for being fat, or judges them harshly because of it, has pretty big issues of his or her own. It's as hateful as any other bigotry... and as unfounded. Just because you know I have extra weight doesn't mean you know me.

It doesn't make me lazy. It doesn't make me stupid. Most of all it doesn't make me desperate. Anyone who judges us by these skewed caricatures robs themselves of seeing us as the beautifully flawed and wonderful three-dimensional human beings we are.

Frankly... it's their loss.

Which is why I got out some aggression in "Love Plus One." If you've ever carried an extra few pounds and other girls turned into catty little jerks because of it... this book is for you.

There's some ugliness going on, but it's not what you may think you look like in the mirror. It's the disdain and condescension you get from others who think you're somehow lesser than because of the size dress you wear.

The only time you become lesser-than is if you believe it. These do not have to be your standards.

And, even more importantly, you can raise your standards in regards to anyone else. If they can't see past your weight to see how much you can contribute, your talents and your skill, your devotion and your dedication, then they don't deserve a place in your life in the first place.

Those are superficial, shallow people who would never see you as a person no matter what you do. If it's not fat it'd be some other little quirk or trait that would prompt them to stuff you in a box so they don't have to bother with getting to know you AND being responsible for their side of the social contract.

A person who can be bigoted for one reason can be bigoted for any reason, but you can rise above them.

This is the "moral" if you will that I addressed in my book. Find your value beyond all that petty, immature behavior and only invest yourself in those willing to do likewise.

They're out there... and they're worth finding.

I don't always take the self-esteem issue route. In "Groupie" my heroine was proud of her curves and knew how to use them. She understood not every guy would appreciate it but she wasn't about to change herself or make herself feel bad because of the superficial standards of someone else.

This is the confidence that made her sexy to a rising rock star; the guy every other girl wanted but she managed to snare. (You go, big girls!)



In My Immortal I gave my character an standard of beauty that crossed over centuries. What would make her the most prized and beautiful woman in the 1800s helped her keep modern men at bay. It would take a love that defied death itself to teach her she was indeed worthy of all good things even though she thought she wasn't. (This, by the way, had nothing to do with any extra weight.)

Believe me, someone out there will find you attractive even if the society around you tries to make you feel like a failure because you commit the crime of being fat. In my books it's usually more than one guy. In the last 25 years I have been single a grand total of two and a half years. And if I wasn't dating or married (and even if I was) there were those who were interested aside from my spouses.

I had a few "frenemies" both thin and fat who resented me because of it. They just couldn't figure out how someone like me got the things they somehow couldn't.

I didn't let fat stop me. I didn't let it stop me from getting a job, getting a man, having a family, or most importantly... being happy even when the world around me didn't think I had any right to be so. (This included members of my very own family.)

Do people still look at me like I'm a failure? Of course. But I don't live my life to their standards. If I did I would not have raised two AMAZING men to adulthood, been married to two of the most wonderful men on planet Earth and made the life of my dreams a reality.

Maybe I had to work a little harder but it only made me appreciate it more.

And now I can turn all that into stories for other women and girls who wondered, like I did when I was 16, if I would ever find someone to love. The answer is yes. Look in the mirror and start there.

So far the response has been overwhelmingly positive, which is part two of why I decided to pursue the genre: there's an audience for it. My two romances, "Love Plus One" and the revamped "Under Texas Skies" are my biggest sellers thus far, which proves there is a market for this sort of thing and I'm quite happy to be the one that provides it. It prompted a rewrite of nearly other story so that I can cast dynamic, diverse women of size in roles I previously only reserved for the thin and beautiful because I thought that was what the audience wanted.

What the audience wants is someone genuine they can believe in, and so I leave a little bit of me in every single heroine. It's as honest and real as I can possibly make it.

(And should I write a story where the size is not mentioned, it's because I don't consider it worth mentioning in the context of the story.)

I proudly write fiction with plus-sized heroines because despite what the world around you wants to tell you, you're perfectly lovable just the way you are. Modern media may make you the butt of the joke, the supporting character, the long-suffering best friend... but I believe you deserve top billing as the leading lady. And I give you handsome, romantic leading men who appreciate you for ALL of who you are, not just candy for their arm.

And it is my honor to give you a chance to shine.



*"Picture Postcards" is due for a rewrite and release in 2012 as a Rubenesque romance fairytale.

Confessions of a "Groupie" - Author Backstory

For anyone who knows me even remotely, especially my work within some celebrity fan circles, you really don't have to wonder what prompted me to write the romantic, sexy, fantasy-filled backstage romp I affectionately and appropriately named "GROUPIE."

Truthfully, this is a book that has been in the making since roughly 1979, when I first had my first celebrity crush. I was about nine years old when Cupid’s arrow hit from a console television set. That was when one of the local stations in Abilene, Texas fortuitously began playing reruns of The Monkees.

Of course, I didn’t understand the concept of a rerun back then. I wasn’t even convinced that singers weren’t actually showing up in the radio station to sing songs throughout the day. All I knew was that the guys in the band were cute and made me laugh.

One in particular looked especially young, and in my nine year old brain that meant he was accessible. (I've always had lofty aspirations.) He had a baby face and deep, brown eyes and an accent completely foreign to my West Texas ears.

I had fallen like a brick for Davy Jones.


Imagine my devastation when I learned that he was actually about twenty years older than I originally thought. This, in my mind, meant he was no longer accessible. Not that he was a celebrity, not that he wasn’t anywhere remotely close to Texas, but that he was twenty years older and married.

These were hard and fast rules when I was nine years old. Needless to say, I was crushed.

Eventually I would move on thanks to a timely Christmas gift from my parents. My Bert & Ernie AM/FM radio allowed me the freedom to discover my own music. Because my nearest sibling was a decade older than I was, I spent most of my childhood as an “only child” – one that would have to come up with creative ways to pass the time.

Most of this I did in my bedroom, where the burgeoning storyteller began to take shape courtesy of my Fisher Price Little People and my growing population of Barbie dolls. My constant companion was my radio, and 1979 was probably my favorite year in music. It was new, it was exciting and most of all it was completely different than the Country & Western stuff my parents loved.

I sold my soul to rock and roll.

One of my favorite songs that year was a tune called “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” by Journey. I loved the more primal beat, even though I was much too young to understand the overtones of the lyrics. It took me a good decade to understand the barrage of “nah nah nah nah nahs” at the end of the track were virtually the singer saying, “Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah” to a cheating ex.

At the time I just loved the beat of the song and the pure vocal of the lead singer. I would belt it out with vigor every time it played on the radio.

A couple of years later I was staying up late waiting for my mom to come home from work, and much to my surprise (and delight) I found out Journey would perform said hit on a rerun of “The Midnight Special.” I perched in front of the TV in my jammies and waited with bated breath.

When I first laid eyes on the lead singer, I didn’t know quite what to think. He had long dark hair, something I wasn’t used to seeing around my military town. He had a prominent profile and a face full of character, an ethnicity I found exotic and strange. From the way he dressed to how he sang, I really didn’t know what to make of him. Then he went down into the first row of the crowd and sang directly to one of the girls, which tattooed itself immediately onto my 11-year-old brain and even eventually made its way into “Groupie.”



I still loved the song and couldn’t really get the lead singer out of my head, even though my initial response wasn’t the starry eyed infatuation I felt for Davy Jones.

I continued as a fan of the music mostly, but nothing could prepare me for that one summer night in 1983 when I would fall completely and hopelessly in love with a man I’d never met.

Back in the early 80s my mom was raising me as a single parent, and as such didn’t see much need for things like cable. I may have wanted my MTV like any other self-respecting teen of the decade, but I settled for Friday Night Videos.

When I saw that a Journey video for “Faithfully” was coming on, I remembered with a bit of a rush about the last time I had seen the band perform. Imagine my surprise when I realized that the lead singer’s hair was shorter and he now sported a mustache.

I never cared for mustaches for traumatic personal reasons, so I found the new look a bit jarring. Eventually he ditched the 'stache during the course of the video, and I found myself heave a sigh of relief that he looked more like the guy I remembered.

I listened as he sang about an undying, faithful love and after the second verse he turned to face the camera as he sang. A breeze lifted a tendril of his dark hair away from his face and his potent eyes stared deep into my soul as he sang, “I’m forever yours, faithfully.”



I was a goner. My heart fell down somewhere near my feet and I think for a brief second there I forgot to breathe. Forget getting struck by Cupid’s arrow – I had been leveled by a bolt of lightning. Within a week I had the Frontiers album in my hand and I showed my mom the man I knew I was going to marry.

These were big words for a thirteen year old. Like I said... lofty aspirations.

Over the course of my teen years Steve Perry would come to define my ideal. I was kissing a lot of frogs in those days, so it was just easier to put all my hopelessly romantic fantasies onto a person safely at arm’s length.

He was a safe outlet to love until I met my first husband and fell in love “for real” when I was about 18.

But I can still feel my heart soar whenever I hear Steve sing, and I know down deep that this celebrity crush actually helped get me through some very painful and difficult years as an outcast, with nowhere to belong and no one to choose me.



I’m still a fan, although I’ve given up on the marrying part. (Those who know me did tease me about my second husband being a “Steve” though.)

(Steve did, however, heavily influence a short story/novella called San Francisco Serenade. I guess I still have those lofty aspirations, I just leave them to my fictional characters these days.)

Many years later I would meet another celebrity who would have the same sort of impact in a more significant way. It started rather innocently while watching VH1 in 2002, when I caught a series that featured various celebrities waxing nostalgic about the 1980s. Some of the celebrities I knew, but one in particular, the one that stood out the most, I had never seen before.

To my surprise, I found his comments were the funniest. It seemed like my best friend of 20-something years and my second husband were all rolled up into one cute, comedic - dare I say - accessible package.



I found myself looking forward to comments from actor/comedian Hal Sparks the most, and over the course of the next few years (and several “I Love the” series) I became sort of what you would call a semi-fan. I was pleasantly surprised when he showed up in Spider-man 2, and I never purposely sought out "Dude, Where's My Car" or "Queer as Folk." But it was undeniable... each time I saw him I liked him a little bit more. It took me a year or so to get on the computer and find information about him. At this time I was still fairly content to keep celebrities behind the velvet rope. In 1998 I had attempted to meet a couple of my teen idols and was treated very poorly by one of the members of a band I had loved throughout my adolescent years. This rejection was directly due to my larger size, and this individual made sure I knew that he wanted nothing to do with me because of it.

When my friend tried to get a picture of me and this person, he made sure he grabbed a random stranger passing by to put right in the middle of us so he wouldn’t have stand next to me. (Look for me to get even with this individual in the next book. I think I shall name him.... NEAL.*)

(*Edited 2012 to clarify, I ended up naming him Leo. He's a dickhead based on a douche bag with absolutely no redeeming value. Kind of like the fucko who inspired him. But I'm not bitter. *Anymore.* Muahaha.)

Needless to say I was ready to keep all the celebrities I *really* liked under glass so I wouldn’t risk this type of painful rejection in the future. I never went to see Davy Jones in concert, I didn't stalk Steve Perry (much) and I was content just to catch Hal's appearances on random VH1 specials.

The more I read about Hal, however, the more I thought about going to one of his comedy shows. Everyone who had gone to see him had nothing but glowing comments about how wonderfully he treated his fans. Still, I was unsure and stayed mainly on the fringe of the fandom. I didn’t even get involved with individuals on the message boards because whenever I tried that in the past it always ended poorly.

I had yet to learn that some groupies and fans are a breed all their own.

So I missed out on things like Hal’s Sparksvision, where about 80 of his fans convened on Los Angeles to enjoy a movie premiere, a comedy show and a chance to see his band play live.

I was way too gun-shy to even think about participating in such an event in September of 2004.

But a mere few months later I would get another big surprise. In November, just days before my birthday, I opened up my email inbox to find an email from Hal himself. Initially I thought it was an auto-reply to let me know I had successfully joined the mailing list for his website. But when I opened it, it read, “A little birdy, and by little birdy I mean that big birdy you’re married to, said that it was your birthday!” He wished me a happy birthday and a great year and I sat thunderstruck at my computer desk that this person I hadn’t even tried to meet could reach out to contact me, this (figuratively speaking) little nobody from small town Texas.

I would come later to learn that was just the kind of guy Hal was. Even at his Sparksvision event he would go seek out those fans too shy to meet him so he could connect with them in some way.

I met Hal for the first time eight months later, when I made sort of a pilgrimage to see one of his comedy shows in San Francisco. I was still nervous that I would be rejected, especially since Hal is a good looking guy who makes no bones about appreciating good looking women. This is an equation that has NEVER really worked out in my favor. So I even shied away from going up to meet him in between the two comedy shows because I thought just seeing him perform in person was enough to make me happy.

Eventually, thanks mostly to the two-drink minimum (times 2,) I was able to go up and meet him for the first time. When he looked at me I didn’t feel rejected, if anything I felt completely “seen” for the first time ever. He has these dark, soulful eyes that reach right down into your core and immediately put you at ease. I nervously teased that I had driven through a tornado to meet him (true story) and therefore I deserved a hug. He gave me one freely, and not one of those wimpy side hugs but a full body head-to-toe hug.

Then he pulled me close for a picture, where he smiled big as though he were happy to do it, and made sure to give me another hug before I left.

I was hooked from that moment on. He didn't just treat me well as a fan, he made me feel valued as a person. There is NO ONE I've ever seen that has this much consideration for his fans, who will stand in line for two hours straight and still be as genuine with the last of the group as he was with the first.

This affirmation came at a point when I didn't feel that from a lot of people, particularly men, and helped me grow in confidence and self-esteem. It even gave me the courage to chase after yet another idol who had the same kind of impact on me that Steve Perry once did, turning me into a screaming teenager whenever he looked into the camera.

If anyone knew me from those days, you probably get a good idea who inspired Vanni – right down to the similar-sounding nickname.

*cough*Connie*cough*

Imagine that kind of swagger and intensity and you have Vanni, except he's Italian instead of Greek. (And of course Vanni likes those fat bottomed girls, which makes us love him even more. ;) )

Because of how well Hal had treated me I jumped headlong into promoting him and even getting involved in the fandom, which were filled with more normal people than I had found in fandoms previously. I figured that like attracts like, and the people that Hal attracted were just at a more evolved state as human beings.

Of course they weren’t ALL that way, and over the years I’ve spent in Hal’s group of fans I’ve seen quite a cast of characters come through.

And it is through all of these experiences that I finally decided to write a story from the fan point of view of that fantasy relationship with her favorite rock star.

I think this is a common fantasy that many of the women I’ve known have had a time or two. It was fascinating to write it from the perspective as the groupie who gets the star because I myself have never experienced this phenomenon, nor do I think I ever would even if I were single. The fantasy is a fantasy because real life can never creep in with all its disappointments and heartbreak.

The groupie experience from what I’ve seen is quite similar to the experiences I’ve had as the “fat girl,” who had the good looking guy give her attention behind closed doors but never had the opportunity to be the gal on his arm, and it is that emotional integrity I brought to the book.

There may be those who think that this book is about any one person in particular, but this is not the case. Vanni is a mix of what attracted me to my idols, with my own spin on what I would have wanted from them if I had pursued anything. The groupies, including Andy herself, were more a combination of the people I’ve met and known throughout the years, but most of the people present were basically enhanced for effect within the story. This includes Talia, the stalker-groupie, who encompasses all the negative things I’ve seen regarding some of the more aggressive (and questionably unhinged) folks who didn’t quite recognize or understand boundaries.

Essentially I took everything I’ve seen and learned and turned it up to “11.”

Hence the dedication of the book, for anyone who sees themselves in these characters and thinks that I have used them or their likenesses for the story. There are only three people in the book based on real people, and those people were acknowledged with special thanks for all their help both with the story and with research.

That means if I didn’t specifically tell you a character was based on you, it wasn’t. This book wasn’t a tell-all vindictive piece. It was a book of fiction based on fantasy, with a plot crafted for effect.

(But I’m willing to wager I’ll still be on several people’s shit list regardless of this disclaimer, which kind of makes this fantasy world within my book so much fun to twist around for my own purposes. ;) )

Now, for you readers who want to throttle me right now because of how the book ends, all I can say is hold off burning me in effigy until after the trilogy is complete with “Rock Star” and "Mogul." The “journey” is far from over, and could not be summed up in one book.

There’s more sex, love, angst and scandal to come, and then I'll do another blog to tell you what inspired the ultimate direction of this saga. Until then, enjoy the fantasy. I know I sure did.