Friends, when I was in my early twenties, I sometimes told people at parties that I was a romance novelist. I wasn’t, as it happens, but my life was disturbing back then, and I was trying something new. Perhaps I was trying to bust out of an existence where a parent of mine was emotionally abusing me while my other parent avoided looking me in the eye. My housemates called me “crap” on an hourly basis—in fact, it was their comedy catchphrase and I totally believed them. In a way, those words, “I’m a romance novelist,” freed me from all that. They also showed me that in the circles I was moving in, romance novelists were sneered at. At the same time, learning to be happily sneered at was quite a refreshing lesson! It certainly taught me who to avoid.
Now, about twenty years later, I am a romance novelist. I’m proud of the fact, and I adore romance. Actually, under a pen name, which I now associate with the old, more closeted version of me, I published novels with both big and little publishers. But these days, I’m committing to a dream by submitting Harlequin manuscripts.
Why you want to write about clowns is beyond me. They’re ducking terrifying.
—Duck
Just the other day, I realized that now, when I actually meet new people, I don’t say, “I’m a romance novelist.” I just say, “I write.” Maybe this is because I’m not looking to be affirmed or feel more important, and I don’t need to escape much. Frankly, I’m lucky to just be happy being me. Of course, if someone wants to know what I write, I tell them. Easy. No shame, only pride. And how they respond usually tells me something.
I suppose happy me—because I am happy now—doesn’t need a fancy intro. I just need The Man, my home, a duck, my friends, a good romance novel or movie, a glass of wine, the birds nesting in the eaves, and that warm little glow I carry inside that says I love myself.
Funny, isn’t it, how things change?
How do you introduce yourself? Has it changed over time?
Romancey Pants 
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