I learned to read and write before I started school. Books fascinated me more than toys. The idea of a person stringing words together in a sensible order to entertain and educate, dazzled me.

Did I always want to be a writer? Not that I knew of, but in retrospect, the signs were there. At night I concocted stories while my sister and I huddled together under the covers—especially during frozen Minnesota winters. I forgot about those wonderful times my imagination created until she reminded me a few years ago. “I never got to hear the end of your tales because I fell asleep,” she said. “And you never told the same story twice.”

In my late thirties, I discovered my eighth grade teacher had been using a paper I wrote as an example to his other students. He returned the paper to me with the comment: “I always thought you’d become a writer.” When I read the story, to my surprise, I discovered I had the same distinct author’s voice back then I use today. Had I looked a little closer, I might have realized the calling of a romance writer was already pounding in my veins.

I don’t know why it never dawned on me to be a writer, but one day my mother showed me a romance novel and said, “I think you can do this.”

Gosh, me?

I ignored her. The only destiny I could be certain of was that I was going to accomplish something different from the mundane (I’ve done that in spades).

One day, a terrible illness changed my life. I left the hospital after a near-death experience, happy to be alive, and with an awareness of how I could combine my natural intuitive abilities, and my love for people, in a positive way. I let my intuition guide me, and set about helping others to become self-empowered—especially women. What a fantastic career, filled with amazing people intent on finding their own path in life, from rocks stars to women stepping out of abusive situations. I wrote seminars, developed classes, created meditation CDs, wrote and delivered speeches, and spent time in the media.

I was also single (divorced) and loving it—until I met Hans at a riding stable. Tall, blond and handsome, and with a husky European accent (yes, a German in Texas, riding English style), he depicted the front cover of a romance novel. We matched in a myriad of ways—including his love of books, and so off we went to Scotland to wed in a privately owned castle. What a fairy tale that was! Along the way we acquired Hamish McDuff, a sassy Westie, and Wolf, a magnificent Great Pyrenees. We call them our furr kids (yes, with the double R—it feels right).

I currently live with one foot planted in San Antonio, Texas, and the other planted along the Adriatic. In Europe, I’m within a day’s drive to cities like Salzburg, Stuttgart (where Hans’ family lives), Paris, Venice (but never mind driving to Venice, a sunny ferry ride across the blue playground of jumping dolphins suits me fine). Of course, I mustn’t forget the big one: Budapest, the Paris of the East, where my son lives with his wonderful Hungarian wife. And oh, my friends in Texas! Although I have scads of blood relatives, my Texan friends are my family in the deepest sense of the word.

Not long ago, the time came when I was able to sit back and take a look at my life, chart new territory. I had finally reached a point where I could devote my life to writing. Of course, I would write nonfiction—or so I thought. After all, I had great material, a sturdy platform, and years of experience with proven methods.

What happened?

Out popped my favorite fiction: romance novels. As much sense as it doesn’t make to those who expect the nonfiction (don’t worry, that will come in its own time, as well) writing romance feels right. Oh, so right. Love, in all its forms, is the pulse of my life. Writing romance makes my heart soar and fills my world with adventure and excitement.

I love stories. I love reading them, I love writing them. Also, I fall desperately in love with my characters. I hope you will too.

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