A Man Who Gets It

By Marc Nobbs (Guest Blogger)

First off, thanks to Lisabet for hosting me today. I do appreciate the opportunity to speak to you all. I want to begin with a quote :

Bottom line, this is a well written romance written by a man who gets it.

That’s what Acquanetta Ferguson said in her review of Kissed by a Rose for the San Diego Examiner.

A Man Who Gets it. I actually cribbed that for my website. You see, here’s the thing – there are an awful lot of women who simply don’t believe that men can write romance novels. Common consensus is that romance is a genre written by women, for women, and men should stay the hell out of it.

Okay, so that’s a stereotypical generalisation, but it’s true that the genre is dominated by female writers and female editors and that the vast majority of romance novel readers are women. The UK’s oldest and best know romance publisher, Mills & Boon, insist that all their authors use female pen names – even the very small number of men that write for them. And before their untimely demise, Black Lace even went as far as to refuse to publish books by men.

But you’re not really a man. You’re a woman with a gimmick.

Seriously, I’ve actually had e-mails to this effect. People who’d read one of my books and refused believe it could possibly have been written by a man. But I assure you, I am a man. I have a penis and everything. I’d offer to show you a picture, but, you know... I even have a ‘Man Drawer’ in my shed where I keep all my ‘Man Things’ –screwdrivers, pliers, the pump for blowing up my son’s football, that sort of thing.

You must be gay then. Or a closet gay.

That’s the other response I often get. Because, obviously, only gay men could come up with romantic plots and believable romantic interactions between characters. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not gay either. Not even a little bit. I’m just your average, heterosexual, married father of one who happens to be a bit of an old romantic at heart.

Truth is, I sort of fell into writing romance. I certainly didn’t sit down one day and say, “You know what, I think I should write romance novels.” When I first started this writing lark as a hobby back in the late nineties, I wrote what I suppose a lot of people would have expected from a young, horny twenty-something bloke – sex stories. Simple, let’s get buck naked and f*** stories. I read loads of them in the old Usenet groups and figured “I can do that.”

The first few were pretty bad and had very little in the way of plot or characterisation. Those first few are so bad that I haven’t even put them on my website. And when you read some of the ones that I have put on my website, it makes you realise how bad those first ones must have been. Take a look at Heaven in Leather or Memorable Holiday to see what I mean. Both are ‘stroke’ stories – that is, stories that serve one purpose only, if you know what I mean. (Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, eh?)

But here’s the thing – these short stokers never felt very… satisfying.

I’ve always been an avid reader – from a very early age – and as such I’ve been brought up on great stories, great plots and great characters. So writing stories where the characters were stereotypes and the plot was little more than a series of events designed to get the characters naked and screwing as quickly as possible, was never going to be enough for me. It took me some time, but eventually I graduated from simple short stroke stories to longer stories where I took the time to develop the characters and make them more like real people. These stories had better, stronger plots that weren’t all about getting to the sex act. Try Claire, Sophie, or Phone Calls to see what I mean – they are all freely downloadable from my website. Although, be warned – Claire WILL make you cry. I guarantee it.

The stories still had sex in them, though. Quite a bit of sex if I’m honest. But they also became, over time, more romantic in tone. After all, that's what leads to great sex in the first place, right?

The other thing that happened the more I wrote is that I got better at the mechanics of writing. I joined an online smut-writer’s group and learned all that stuff I didn’t learn in all those creative writing courses that I never took. I learnt what to avoid and what to strive for. I learned that the sex in a story should be secondary to telling the story. I learned that a good story depends on great characters that the reader cares about. And I learned that if you, as the writer, don’t give two hoots about your characters, then your readers won’t either.

The culmination of all this learning was Reunion, written in 2004 and available to download for free on my website. It’s the story of a boy and girl who never quite got together as teenagers, and then meet up again ten years later.

It’s a decent story. Not perfect by any means – but it was certainly the best thing I’d produced up to that point – even if I didn’t feel confident enough about its qualities to submit it for publication. I fell a little bit in love with the heroine, Kelly, as I was writing her and I hope it shows. I tend to fall a little bit in love with all my book’s heroines.

Reunion has many qualities that have become my hallmarks. The hero is not your stereotypical alpha-male romantic hero – he’s just an ordinary bloke who’s following his heart and doing the best he can. The heroine is normally strong and independent – the kind of woman I’m usually attracted to. And the primary Point of View character is hero – not the heroine.

And that last point is, I think, the reason that Ms Ferguson described me as a “man who gets it”. I don’t try and copy what most female romance authors do. I don’t try and tell the story from the heroine’s point of view. I don’t try and get into her head and describe what she’s feeling. Instead I give the reader an insight into what’s going on in the hero’s head. I’m not trying to write “women’s fiction” or “out do” the huge number of excellent female romance writers. I’m trying to offer something different to the romance genre. Something fresh and exciting. And, I hope, I’ve achieved it.

To go back to Ms Ferguson’s review of Kissed by a Rose, she said...

If a woman had written this the male lead would have been an alpha male which most women love in fantasy. In this Marc knocks that fantasy on its ass. He writes his romance with a bit more realism, and quite frankly it is a refreshing change. As this is written from the male point of view, we as women reading this get to see how the other half of the human population thinks and reacts to love.

I am very, very proud of Kissed by a Rose. It’s a fantasy to some extent – I mean, how many guys ever meet their movie-star idol, let alone get to date them – but it’s also grounded with as much realism as I could cram into it.

I wanted to write a story where the reader was never entirely sure about the heroine and her motives and I think I pulled it off. I wanted to write a story where the reader would see the hero hurting and feel his pain, and given I had my beta-readers in tears at more than one point in the book, I think I pulled that off as well.

I recently re-read the book in preparation for its print release, and it still stirred in me the emotions I wanted in the places I wanted. And it still gave me a warm glow at the end. So yeah, I’m damn proud of it.

Romantic fiction, even Erotic Romance, isn’t a man’s world. Not by a long way. I’m one of very few men drowning in a sea of women (damn, now there’s an image to take to bed with me tonight) but I hope I’m proving to those who ‘take the risk’ and read my books that men, or at least this man, can write romantic fiction and can do a good job of it. But, I suppose, ultimately, that’s up to the romance reading public to decide.

So, what can you expect from a Marc Nobbs novel? Well, take Reunion¸ (did I mention you can download it free on my website?) which despite being one of my earlier works and not as ‘polished’ as my latest releases, does contain many of the traits I’ve become known for.

It’s got two very likable leads in Matt and Kelly – Matt was described as one early reader as the ‘nicest man in the history of smut, ever’, and while Kelly tends to split opinions for much of the book, ultimately readers love her as much as I do. It’s a passionate story, littered with hot sex scenes but in the end it’s just got a really good plot full of twists and turns that lead to a climatic (and happy) ending.

It’s also fairly dialogue heavy at times. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been told that I’m ‘good’ at dialogue. Hell, I’ve even been told more than once that I should turn my hand to scriptwriting for movies – not that I’d ever expect any of them to ever get made. I can’t see Kiera Knightly wanting to act out some of the scenes I write. Although, if I could cast Sasha Grey...

But these are my hallmarks. The hero everyone loves. The heroine we have our doubts about. The twisty, turny plot that races towards the big ending. The passionate, heart-felt, loving sex scenes. The great dialogue. You’ll find them all in a Marc Nobbs novel.

You can learn more about me on my Website. I also blog regularly on topics ranging from my writing to what's going on in the world around me as well as hosting guest posts. And, if you tweet, you can catch me on Twitter where I'm @marcnobbs

Pride

Almost anyone who hangs out on romance lists or visits romance blogs knows that June is “GLBT Pride Month”. But I wonder how many people know why the parades all happen in June. I'll admit that I didn't, not until yesterday when I started reading about the Stonewall riots. I'd heard of them, but I didn't know the details, and I didn't realize the connection with contemporary pride celebrations.

Forty-one years ago today, in the early hours of the morning, the New York City police raided a illegal, Mafia-owned bar on Christopher Street called the Stonewall Inn. The organized crime connections and unlicensed liquor were not the primary reason for this raid. Rather, this was a sadly typical crackdown on the homosexual community in Greenwich Village, for whom the Stonewall was something of a haven. The police burst in and started arresting the Stonewall's patrons, which included many transvestites, both male and female. This also wasn't unusual. At that time, it was literally against the law for men to wear female clothing or vice versa. Homosexuals could be arrested on a range of charges from soliciting to public indecency. Although the extreme persecution of the McCarthy era had eased somewhat, homosexuality was classified as a psychiatric disorder and gays and lesbians were generally considered to be in the same class as rapists and child molesters. If you were gay, your only recourse was to lay low, keep your preferences a secret, and hope that you'd be ignored.

On the night of June 28, 1969, however, something unusual did happen. The ruckus caused by the raid drew a crowd of several hundred bystanders, many of whom were themselves gay or were sympathizers. When the police began to rough up the Stonewall's patrons, they fought back, supported by the onlookers. The scene degenerated into a pitched battle. The police called for reinforcements. The gay crowd refused to be intimidated. They led the police a merry chase through the crooked, narrow streets of the West Village.

You can find a detailed discussion of Stonewall and its aftermath in Wikipedia. Many people view the Stonewall uprising as the birth of the gay pride movement. Stonewall was to gay rights what Rosa Parks' refusal to sit at the back of the bus was for civil rights. After Stonewall, homosexuals stopped trying to blend in. They began to raise their voices against discrimination and for equal rights.

That struggle is, of course, far from over. It's sad to see how, more than forty years later, individuals who are attracted to their own gender are still attacked, both physically and psychologically, still denied the right to marry in many areas, still barred from some careers if they are open about their orientation. It's easy to get discouraged. On the other hand, society has come a long way since Stonewall. Every year, gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people become braver and more vocal. More proud.

In June 1999 the U.S. Department of the Interior designated 51 and 53 Christopher Street (the location of the Stonewall Inn), the street itself, and the surrounding streets as a National Historic Landmark. In 2009, commemorating the fortieth anniversary of Stonewall, President Obama declared June to be National Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Pride Month. I find these actions a bit ironic, given the fact that the “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” policy still afflicts gays in the military, and that right now the Supreme Court in California is hearing arguments on the desirability of banning gays from marrying.

I write GLBT romance and erotica. As I said last week at the Oh Get A Grip blog, I believe that the experience of love and desire is universal. It really doesn't matter what kind of genitalia your partner has. I think that the romance community may be more tolerant than society as a whole in this regard. Still, think about what it would be like if you couldn't buy M/M or F/F or M/M/F romance—if it was illegal, labeled as obscene or deviant. We've come a long way, but it could happen. The only way to prevent this sort of thing is to follow the lead of the people involved at Stonewall. Stand up and tell the world that you believe in a person's right to love whom they choose—and that you're proud to say it.

Anna-Bella the Fickle-Muse

By Janice Seagraves (Guest Blogger)

There are muses that inspire music and there are muses for poetry and writing.

And then there is my muse. *Sigh*

Let me tell you about my muse. She used to get me in trouble at school. “Hey Janice,” she’d whisper during 3rd grade class. “You see those sparrows over there?”

I’d look out the window at the sparrows chirping in the trees. “Yeah?”

“What do you think it would be like to played tag with them?” Suddenly I had wings to chase the birds around.

“Janice,” the teacher yelled. “Are you daydreaming again?”

“No,” I lied, ducking my head.

I loved arts and crafts; it occupied a lot of my free time. I could easily envision how the finished project was going to look, but it surprised me when other people couldn’t do the same.

When I was asked what’s going on in the picture? I told a story. I didn’t mean to, but the story was there in the drawing. I kind of wondered why no one else saw it but me. At age twenty I dabbled a bit with writing, but soon returned to my pen and ink drawings then later woodcrafts.

It wasn’t till a little over ten years ago that I finally followed the calling of my muse and started to write seriously for publication.

My muse finally told me her name: Anna-Bella. She’s about the size of a Barbie doll and wears very feminine clothes. She first showed up when I was the age to play with Barbie, which may account for her looking the way she does.

Often she’s not there when I need her. Sometimes I’d get lucky and she’ll show up, give me part of the story as a dream or a movie like flash. Which could be a paragraph, or page, or if she’s feeling really generous a whole chapter.

Anna-Bella will say, “Okay, got it?” Then my fickle muse will disappear for a while, and I’ll have to figure out what happened next—on my own.

The worst time is Christmas. She’ll disappear completely. I’ll call and call, but I get nothing from her, not even a shred of an idea. Then she’ll show up drunk on eggnog. “Oh sorry,” she’ll hick-up. “I was watching Christmas tree lights. They’re cool. You ought to watch them sometime.”

“Yeah, I use to think they were cool too, when I was nine. What about this story we’re working on?” I’d thump a finger on the keyboard.

“Tomorrow, I’m heading to bed.”

Disheartened, I’d sigh and shake my head.

Last Christmas I had enough. I had the second round of edits to do on Windswept Shores, which is my first book. I thought she’d be as excited, too. After all she had inspired me to write it.

But she just yawned. “Yeah-yeah, I knew we’d get one sooner or later. Edits? Not my department, sweetie.” She wondered off doing God knows what. Stare at Christmas lights again, I suppose.

Then she came home drunk on eggnog, singing silly little Christmas tunes in a high squeaky voice.

“Where the hell have you been?” I snarled at her. “We have edits to do, missy.” Looking her up and down, I yelled. “Just what are you wearing? What’s with the candy stripped dress and stockings, and red shoes with the curly toes?” I narrowed my eyes. “Did you mug an elf?”

Then she pantomimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.

“Okay, that’s it.” I tossed her sorry little butt in a birdcage then hung it by my desk. “Now help me out here.”

Saying nothing, she stuck her legs through the bars to rock it like a swing, and then stuck her tongue at me.

Grrr. Those were some very hard edits to get through too.

It wasn’t until recently I finally let her out, but I made her promise not to run off again. She’s sitting on my shoulder right now, still wearing the elf costume and smelling like a stinky little bird.

For a treat we went out to the mall. We took my daughter to Hot Topic and bought her a jacket. Then my daughter remembered she needed a dress for high school graduation; we found the best dress . . .

Wait a minute . . . where did you get those elbow length, lace up gloves? I know I saw some at Hot Topic. You didn’t—?

The little muse shop? But there’s no such thing. Anna-Bella, what did you do?

Anna-Bella smugly produced a frilly dress and changed right there in front of me. The material is roses with a black background. She also had black stockings and Mary-Jane’s to complete the outfit. She said, “I’m tired of the elf costume.” Anna-Bella kicked it off my desk.

Well, no duh. You’ve been wearing it for months. Picking it up, I throw the smelly Barbie-doll-sized clothes into the garbage.

She made herself comfortable on my shoulder. “Tell the nice people about our book.”

What? I have to go to work—now?

She nods, and then pulls my ear.

Ouch! What did I do to deserve a muse like you?

Just in time for summer reading.

From Pink Petal Books: Windswept Shores by Janice Seagraves (and Anna-Bella).

Windswept Shores Blurb:

The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?

www.pinkpetalbooks.com
http://janiceseagraves.org/

Excerpt

If she had to spend one more day on this godforsaken island, she'd go stark raving mad. The thought spurred Megan into rolling a large log with one foot then the other, until it was near the bonfire. "God, this thing is heavy." With a grunt, she lifted one end until it teetered upright then gave it a shove. It landed in the fire, embers swirling in the air.

Breathing hard, she flicked a glance at the teal-colored sea. She'd thought a vacation to the Bahamas would be the perfect getaway, would be a solution to the problems she and Jonathan had faced. She'd been wrong—dead wrong. Tears of grief filled her eyes. The never-ending crash of the waves on the beach and the cries of the seagulls seemed to mock her with the reminder she was utterly alone.

She'd felt like a tiny speck of sand last night when a violent storm had swept across the island. It had made a mess of her meager campsite, which had taken all morning to fix, and had demolished her seaweed SOS sign. She'll have to recreate her SOS. Sighing, Megan trudged toward a pile of kelp. As she got closer, she saw a figure wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. Her stomach lurched.

Oh, God, it’s another body washed up from the plane wreck. That would be number twelve. As always, she couldn't help but wonder if the next one would be Jonathan. He hadn’t been wearing jeans on the plane, so she knew she’d been spared seeing his corpse this time. Thank God. She approached the body with dread. Tightening her resolve, she knelt. Suddenly the "dead body" coughed and rolled over. With a scream, Megan jumped back. She clutched her chest and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

He’s alive!

Biting her lip, she stared down at the still-breathing man. His drenched t-shirt molded against his broad shoulders and well developed upper body. Short, golden brown hair stuck out in all directions.

Megan, get control of yourself. Don’t wet your pants the first time you finally see a living person. She got on her knees, plucked the seaweed from him and wiped the sand from his face. His day-old whiskers scratched her palm. Reddened skin stretched across both cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Her thumb caressed his parched full bottom lip.

She patted the side of his face. “Hey, are you okay?” That’s a dumb question. He isn’t okay.

“Hmm?” Gray eyes fluttered open. He stared at her a long moment, frowning slightly. “G’day.”

“Hello there.” She hated the sound of her voice. It sounded rusty, unused.

Abruptly he rolled away from her to heave onto the sand, making a loud, ugly retching noise.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at her. “Sorry, mate, I swallowed too much sea.” His gaze went over her shoulder in the direction of the bonfire which crackled and popped not far from them. “Mite big for a barbie.”

Sitting back on her heels with her hands folded in her lap, Megan followed his gaze, then back to him. “My signal fire.”

“Signal for what?”

“Help.”

His accent intrigued her. Was he English or Australian?

“G’darn,” he looked around, “where the bloody hell am I?”

“Don’t know. There’s no one here to ask.” Megan shrugged helplessly, but couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Are you from England?”

“Naw,” he rubbed his eyes, “I hail from Sydney, but my port of call these days is Fort Lauderdale.” He blinked up at her. “You?”

Ah, he’s an Aussie. “I’m Megan Lorry, from Anaheim, California,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the surf and the roar from the fire. “Are you a survivor of Air Bahamas flight 227, too?”

“G’day, Megz,” he answered, struggling to sit-up. “Sorry, I’m not from your plane.”

Megan slipped an arm around him lifting his back off the sand. Turning his head to her hair, he took in a couple of short breaths. Megan pulled back staring at him. “What the—did you just sniff me?”

“Ya smell too good not to.” He grinned, causing his cheeks to dimple. “Name’s Seth Dawson.” Leaning back on one arm, he stretched out his hand to her. She clasped it as if it was just a friendly greeting between strangers back home.

Ooh La La!

I just got the cover art for my upcoming vampire ménage release, Fire In The Blood and I have to share it with you!

The story is set in Jamaica. The release date is August 16th! You can read an excerpt on my website, at http://www.lisabetsarai.com/fireinthebloodex.html.

Meanwhile, while we are on the subject of covers, you might like to see the cover of the upcoming anthology Best Bondage Erotica 2011, which includes my short story "Wired". The collection is scheduled for release in December.

Even if you're not into BDSM, you can't help loving this cover. I think that the model looks like Buffy!

Getting new covers is always such a tease. It makes it even harder to wait for the release!

RNA NWS (Read on for an explanation!)

By Maggi Sherwin (Guest Blogger)

I’m Maggi Sherwin and I’m based in the UK. I live in Epsom and it just so happens that as I’m writing this, crowds are starting to gather in town to either walk, or take buses and taxis, past our house and up to Epsom Downs. Its Derby Day, and the racegoers have the weather for it too - fine and sunny. It’s an annual even and I’ve been myself. The crowds present a noisy colourful spectacle, but today I’m more than happy to sit quietly here at home and write something for you about one of my favourite subjects – the RNA.

How many writers’ organizations invite up to 250 unpublished hopefuls to join and learn from them? I know of only one – the UK-based Romantic Novelists’ Association. A few years ago, a helpful editor, instead of a blanket rejection of the partial manuscript I sent her, liked it enough to write back pointing out the strengths and weaknesses in my work. It was just what I needed. I appreciated that if I wanted to be published, my skills needed to improve, particularly in plotting and pace. I’d heard the RNA had a New Writers’ Scheme and decided to join. It’s a move I have never regretted.

The most appealing thing about the Scheme is the opportunity to have an entire manuscript read and critiqued by a published member. A good critique can lead to a second reading, and a second reading can lead to publication. I know of several members who found a publisher in this way in their very first year, others have taken a little longer. Orion, HM&B, Robert Hale and Little Black Dress have all taken on authors who were on the Scheme.

Not all members achieve publication this way but the RNA plays a big part in their success in other ways. It’s like an apprenticeship. You learn so much from published authors, either at chapter meetings or at talks and workshops at the annual Conference. I have listened spellbound to the likes of Jodi Thomas, Jean Fullerton and Jill Mansell explaining their craft or their journey to publication. This has helped me to improve my writing but, almost as important, I’ve learned about the publishing industry in general. Where else could I have heard of the opportunities for new writers in e-publishing? Without the knowledge, support and encouragement of fellow RNA members to persevere and to experiment with different romance genres, I would now be published. The RNA helped to turn a researcher and editor of military history into a writer of erotic romance!

I am still on the NWS scheme because my novella ‘Pure Silk’ is under 30,000 words, but I’m working on the final chapters of a full length erotic romance. This, I hope, will be my ticket to full and permanent membership, the very thing I aspired to when I first joined over three years ago.

Visit me online at http://www.maggisherwin.co.uk.

Pure Silk available now from Total-e-Bound

Summer is Here!

Today is the Summer Solstice--the shortest night and longest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere) and the first day of summer.

I now live in a tropical climate, so summer doesn't necessarily mean much change in the weather, but I still remember the excitement of summers as a child. I loved school, most of the time. Still I cherished the freedom that came with the change of seasons. Back, then, summers were endless. Trips to the lake, games in the woods, popsicles and the ice cream truck, lemonade, long afternoons lost in some book, twilights that seemed to last forever...

Summer held a kind of magic, especially when I got a bit older. You could wear clothing that was barely there. The nights were lush and soft, moon-drenched and smelling of new-mown grass. Romance was always a possibility in the summer, the time of bare limbs and bronzed skin, strangers met on vacation, stolen kisses and heartbreak when you had to part.

I just submitted a story set in high summer in the hills of western Massachusetts. I know the area well. Summer is particularly sweet in New England because it's so short. The plot of my tale doesn't really have much to do with summer, except for the fact that the characters are all involved with a summer stock theater company, but the magic is still there in the background, at least for me.

My current work in progress, in contrast, is a holiday tale that takes place during a blizzard. Quite a mental shift!

In any case, Happy Solstice, whether summer or winter. I wish you a season of love!

Happy Anniversary to Me!

Today, Sunday the 20th of June, is my twenty eighth wedding anniversary.

I find that un-effing-believable.

I never expected to get married. There were so many divorces in my family that I was convinced marriage was a waste of time and emotional energy. I knew I could support myself through my career; I didn't need a man to take care of me financially. I felt comfortable having relationships outside of marriage, so I could fulfill my needs for sex and companionship. Meanwhile I suspected that the chances of meeting someone who wouldn't bore me after a few years was pretty small.

I'm so glad that I was wrong.

K. was the first men in my life who pursued me. I tried to discourage him, but he was incredibly stubborn. (Nowadays, he says he learned about stubbornness from his wife, but it's not true!) I had to admit that from the first it was amazingly comfortable to spend time with him. I felt as though I'd known him for years. As I've written elsewhere, he seduced me with tales of his extensive travels. I sat there in the restaurant, fascinated by his adventures in Europe, Africa and Asia. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "I'm always looking for someone to travel with...".

Our wedding was a highly personal celebration with more than a dash of hippie flair. I wore a white sari with a red blouse and skirt underneath. The ceremony took place by a pond in a state park. It was the only day that June that it didn't rain. (We were ready, just in case, having rented a tent and bought a sledge hammer. After that, we always called it our "wedding sledgehammer"!)

We wrote our own vows and chose our own music, which we played through the speakers of K's car. The food was picnic-style. We cooked some of it; close friends and family also contributed. The guests sat at picnic tables or on blankets, eating lasagna, gazpacho, home-baked bread, Indonesian sate and cheesecake.

It was great fun--and cost us about $500.

I tried to find some photos of us as a couple, but apparently we were too busy organizing things to take many pictures. So I've included the photo above, taken on our honeymoon. We went to northern Canada, the Laurentians, and even though it was July, it was, as you can tell from my husband's hunched shoulders, pretty chilly!

It didn't matter. We were just happy to be together. And remarkably, we still are. I didn't realize right away what an excellent decision I'd made, agreeing to marry him. Not only did he turn out to be intelligent, responsible, considerate, creative and funny, he also had all these practical skills like plumbing and electrical wiring. Oh, and he was nearly as interested in sex as I was!

Twenty eight years later, we're still together and still in love. We've had lots of adventures adventures together--he kept his promise to take me traveling--and I know that even though neither of us is a spring chicken, we'll have more.

Today I'm incredibly grateful. I'm so glad that I turned out to wrong about marriage. If I'd been a bit more stubborn, I might have succeeded in driving away the man who has become my lover, my partner, my editor, my carpenter, my system administrator--and my best friend.