Patricia Grasso
I'm a dog person. Who lives with 10 cats. Get the picture?
My first brush with the romance genre happened in my high school junior year. I discovered Gone With the Wind and hid it behind my American history book to read during class. (The Civil War is American history.) The ambiguous ending left me dissatisfied, though. Rhett and Scarlet needed a happily-ever-after. Believing in happily-ever-afters positively screams romantic-at-heart.
On the other hand, I love murder and mayhem as much as happily-ever-after. My usual television fare is fiction and nonfiction crime shows, not love stories. Which accounts for the mysteries I sneaked into my historical romances. Now I'm trying my hand at writing a humorous mystery, sans historical and sans emphasis on the love interest. I even prepared for my mystery-in-progress by attending the local NRA's Pistol School. Shooting pistols is great fun. I adore the .22 semiautomatics.
After graduating from high school without distinction, I earned both Bachelor and Master degrees at a state college. Again, without distinction. I held several part-time jobs during my college days: file clerk in an insurance company, long-distance telephone operator, kimono-wearing waitress in a Japanese restaurant.
And then I began my teaching career, eighteen years in the eighth grade and thirteen years at the high school. Weary with the same old routine, I decided I needed a creative outlet. So I decided to write a romance novel but only managed to talk about writing one. After five years of listening to me, a friend said to stop talking and start writing.
So I did.
I made every mistake known to man. Blunder would be a more appropriate word, but I did learn using the trial and error method. As well as studying the works of authors I admired.
After five years of writing for nothing but love, I sold my first novel. Since then, I've sold eighteen novels and won several awards--- National Readers' Choice Award New England Readers' Choice Award, Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice and KISS Awards, B. Dalton and Bookrak Awards for best-selling author. My novels have been translated into fifteen languages and sold in twenty countries.
If I had my life over, would I become a writer? Nope. I would enjoy being a Victoria Secret model. Perhaps in my next incarnation I won't be too old, too short, or too unphotogenic.
“Would you care to walk to the river?” -Miles“I would love to walk anywhere with you." -Amber”
“I never realized that life could be as difficult for a beautiful woman as it is for a plain one,” he said.“Life can be difficult for everyone,” she replied.“Misery makes no distinction between prince and pauper.”
“Let’s escape outside,” Isabelle suggested. “Do you have any other talents?”“I bake and garden.”“Do you sew, too?”Amber nodded. “I sew whenever anger incites me to mutilation.”Isabelle laughed. “One cannot hang for attacking a piece of cloth.”
“The money is mine, not yours,” Reginald reminded her. “You ungrateful wretch. I found you an earl to marry, and your son will be an earl.”“You chose yourself a son-in-law,” Regina said. “You traded me for a title.”“You will thank me—”“—for dying and leaving me in peace.”“You will regret those words some day.”“I can manage the regret, if not my own finances.”
“Look there.” Regina pointed toward the northern sky. “Polaris.”Viktor looked up. “The constant north star, one of man’s most dependable guides.”“Polaris will be waiting for us there when we are old and have experienced a lifetime of joys and regrets,” Regina said, a wistful note in her voice. “That fact makes me feel like one of God’s most insignificant creatures.”
“Do not feed that beggar. Hamlet, lie down.” The dog ignored her.“Down,” Viktor ordered, his deep voice stern. The dog whined and then lay down. The prince looked at her. “You need to be more forceful.”“I suppose my forcefulness will improve once my voice changes. Sopranos get no respect.”
“Viktor looked at the older man’s nightshirt, robe, and nightcap. His lips quirked into a smile. “The hour is late, and the household sleeps. How is it that you are still awake?”“I knew you would be knocking on the door sooner or later.” Pickles looked down his long nose at him. “You have passed the previous six nights with Her Ladyship.”“You are observant, my good man.”“No, Your Highness, I am the one who locks the door at night.” Pickles reached into his robe’s pocket and produced a key. He passed it to the prince, saying, “After tonight, let yourself into thehouse.”Viktor grinned at the majordomo and lifted the key out of his hand. “Your trust honors me.”“You are unlikely to abscond with the silver,” Pickles drawled.”
“Thank ye."“For what?"“For bein’ who ye are."Gabby chuckled and shook her head, saying, “And who else could I be?”
“How does a woman gain such wisdom in only twenty-nine years?” Gordon asked, escorting her across the lawns toward the mansion.“The same way a man does."“Which is?"Lady Keely cast him an ambiguous smile. “Either you are born with wisdom, my lord, or you make dowithout it...”