What a surprise!

The new paranormal I’m working on finaled in the first contest I sent it to. I didn’t get the typical phone call this time. I found out through a posting on another author’s website. The story is a finalist in the “Where the Magic Begins” contest sponsored by Romance Writers Inc. chapter of RWA.

At the time I sent it in, I was calling it Contemporary Amazon. I have since changed the title to The Reluctant Amazon. I am really enjoying writing it and am gearing up to submit it to the Golden Heart competition.

I feel truly blessed with the success I have had in chapter contests. I have only entered a select few, but I have had four manuscripts final in five different contests.

I must be doing something right.

Please excuse a diversion for this post. I want to talk about teaching instead of writing for two reasons.

First, I have had parent/teacher conferences the last two days. I love this year’s seniors, and I had expected to enjoy most of my meetings with parents. I wasn’t disappointed. They were so complimentary, and my poor little underused ego loved hearing that I am impacting the lives of these students.

Second, I received the statistics from my students’ performances on the Advanced Placement Psychology exam. My numbers are usually pretty sweet because I demand my kids work their fannies off. These statistics didn’t disappoint. But what stood out to me the most were the essay scores. Judged on four levels as top quarter, next quarter, and so on, my students — with one exception — were in the top bracket. I couldn’t be more pleased with these kids! I want to give them all a big hug!

Putting these two thoughts together, somewhere in my scattered mind I finally decided that I am a good teacher. Such an interesting notion. I’ve always known that kids enjoy my classes, especially psychology, but to have parents being so praising of my work and to have numbers I can look at to show me I have done a good job really brought the notion home. And it only took fourteen years for me to figure this out.

Hopefully my writing career will unfold at a more rapid pace and I will find the inner strength to be proud of my stories.

I wonder what people think when they find out I write romance.

It’s amazing how a genre can get so little respect. A couple of my students were teasing me about what I write, saying that I needed to spend my time writing a real novel. I suppose I should fail them in the class just on principle.

But it did get me thinking. Why do some people believe a romance novel isn’t a novel? It’s bound between covers. It has pages. It tells a story. If it’s missing other qualifications, I’m not aware of it. Why is one genre or story more respectable than another?

I remember the key note speech Lisa Kleypas gave at the Dallas convention. When everything she owned was destroyed and she went to purchase “necessities,” she picked up Kathleen Woodiwiss’s Petals on the River. I would have done the same. If you need to ask why it was a necessity, you will never understand why romance is so loved.

To me, a romance NOVEL brings conflict and resolution — good triumping over evil — love conquering all. And some people consider those bad things? Give me a break. I would take a romance novel over any story of angst, violence, or horror. I choose to spend what precious little free time I have on a story that is uplifting and life affirming.

What’s not to like?

Sometimes I’m amazed at how far I’ve come and even more amazed by how far I have to go.

The second anniversary of my starting my first manuscript is fast approaching. I suppose I should pull out that dinosaur and take a look at it. The only reason I hesitate is because I know that one of two things will happen. I might look at the words and be disappointed at how little talent I had when I started on this odyssey. Or I might read it and realize that I have learned so much since I wrote it. With my Type A personality, I fear it would be the former rather than the latter.

My writing has changed so much, I am almost embarrassed by my early stories. Okay, I AM embarrassed. Ironically, I tell myself something entirely different than I would tell my students. I would praise them for their progress and encourage them to step back and admire what they had done and how far they had come. Me? Well, I would wish I could have known then what I know now.

It’s rather a paradox, isn’t it? You can’t learn how to write unless you write. But when you write, you know you can always improve. I suppose I’m waxing philosophic, but it boils down to this — I want to be the best that I can possibly be.

You know, I think I will pull that story out and give it a gander. Maybe I’ve grown enough to be pleased with how much I’ve grown.