I was all set to rant about what's wrong with the romance genre today (think War and Peace length post) and then someone (Miss Kate) reminded me that it should not all be about the negative stuff. Plus it's Valentine's Day, a good reason to postpone any rant.
Writing romance is easy, because real life romance is weird. Twenty years ago I noticed a guy with a great smile and got to know him as a friend. He was a tall, blond ex-surfer mechanic with great hands, who could tear down and retrofit a room-sized engine with his eyes closed, but who hadn't willingly read a book in his life. A guy with whom I had absolutely nothing in common, and pretty much the last man on earth I'd have picked as the love of my life.
That same guy is downstairs dozing on the sofa, waiting for me to finish writing this. Unless he's on the road, he never goes to bed without me. Because for some weird, irrational reason, I'm the love of his life.
May you all be as fortunate as we are. Happy Valentine's Day.