Don’t ask me why, but I suddenly started wondering how many of our blog-ees are lifelong romance readers and how many came to the game later. I think of myself as a lifer, but the romance genre as we know it today bears little resemblance to what was available when I was a kid and young adult–which I considered at the time to be zilch. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. There were the early Harlequin books, and I loved them for a while, but then they began to bug me because the hero was always this older than dirt guy (to my 12, 13, 14 year-old mind) of 30, who treated the 18-year-old English flower like crap through most of the book then pledged his undying love on the last page. Huh? I could never see where that was coming from, because he sure as heck didn’t show it. (“I love you darling, truly I do. And by the way, you look lovely in your frock. We must spend a fortnight in my flat.”) Gak. But then came the Gothics, with their covers of women looking over their shoulders at a castle/manse/decrepit old house with its one lighted window…

Susan wants to know: Do you wear your heart on your sleeve? Or is it just me? I confess. I’m an emotional slob. Don’t get me wrong, I’m nobody’s pushover. But every darn time I try to express how proud I am of someone I love, tears invariably well in my eyes. And wouldn’t it be grand just once to have a disagreement where I make my argument in a calm, logical manner? But, no. Right when I want to look my strongest, I usually end up crying and looking weak and girly instead—a particularly annoying habit when my argument is rock solid. But, hey, if someone puts me down I always have the perfect comeback . Tough luck if it’s an hour, a day, or a week too late. Click to read the rest of Susan’s blog and to leave a comment. Visit FreshFiction.com to learn more about books and authors.