Fiorella heard a very good talk at her local Romance Writers of America meeting last night, but it was also disturbing. The speaker was charming, likable. organized, and knew what she was talking about, which was how to pound out book after book and sell, sell, sell. The answer, of course, is IT--information technology--and the speaker knew her programs backward and forwards, totally unlike the traditional image of the romance writer whose husband discovers her the next day, asleep at the card table she's set up in the kitchen, with her pages sprawled in front of her.
And totally unlike Fiorella, who angsts it out on the couch in the den or upstairs in her supposed office with her computer balanced in her lap, who writes and rewrites, who strives for originality, who has messages of hope and strength she's trying to get out.
Whatever happened to the romance of romance writing? Whatever happened to the story?
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