One of my very first and fondest memories of my introduction to the wonder of books is of curling up in an armchair on my father’s lap while he read me Pat the Bunny. (Point of clarification: For my entire childhood and a good part of my adulthood, I thought “Pat” referred to the bunny’s NAME.) I discovered the library in early elementary school and read every book, fiction and nonfiction, that had to do with anything horse related. I poured over the Scholastic magazines they passed out at school to choose which one book my mom would let me buy. In late elementary school I received the entire boxed set of the Chronicles of Narnia one Christmas. I promptly turned to the window the same armchair I’d once curled in with my dad and didn’t come up for breath until I’d read the whole seven books cover to cover. I was exposed to a good, wide understanding of story genres by borrowing my father’s Reader’s Digest Condensed Books from his bathroom. I read anything with words, from the back of cereal boxes to seven-hundred-page fictional tomes in a wide variety of genres, from history to fantasy. I was the kid in the corner with my nose in a book, extremely shy and introverted, as I am to this day.
And then, on a circular wire rack in a five-and-dime in John Day, Oregon on a family reunion, I discovered romance novels. Harlequin Historicals, which back in the day were sweet stories that swept me away into faraway lands. And I fell in love with love. I carefully followed Janette Oke’s career as she broke ground for inspy romance, and jumped into the writing fray when Multnomah started their Palisades inspy romance line and they bought my first novel, Beloved in 1998. I think I always knew my path, and I’m so grateful inspy romance, this blog, and every reader, are here today.
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