I don’t think the writing was so terrible in those manuscripts, but I was writing the wrong things for me. My follow-up failure – ahem, I mean story – was Forgetting Tuscany, a love story set in the stunningly-beautiful Tuscan region of Italy (also a land to which I’ve never traveled), and the book after that was something with a senator and a murder and an organized-crime-but-love type of plot. I’m certain there was a reason (other than cowboy appreciation), but I cannot imagine what it might’ve been. To this day, I’m not sure why I conceived a story whose setting I was wholly unfamiliar with I’m allergic to horses, I’ve never been on a ranch, and I’ve spent almost zero time in Texas. But…my first full-length manuscript was a godawful 90,000 word novel called Beyond Texas, a sweeping epic filled with horses, ranches and – of course – burly ranch hands. It was what I enjoyed reading, so it felt like the natural choice of genre for me. When I first decided to write a book, I attempted contemporary romance.
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