As I write this, I’m a week away from seeing my first novel, “April in Paris in June,” in print. I’ll come right out and say it’s a romance. I’m proud of the book, but I also know that people make fun of romance novels and their readers as being silly and out of touch with reality. Society likes to make fun of things women enjoy: vision boards, The Real Housewives, pumpkin spice lattes.
I wrote the first draft during lockdown when I needed a place to go in my imagination because I couldn’t leave the house. I thought it was pretty good, so I tried the conventional steps toward getting it published, like querying agents, taking workshops, and trying to network. The glacial pace was frustrating, and I wasn’t getting anywhere. So, the manuscript sat in my Google drive, giving me a pang of disappointment when I thought about it.
The morning after Election Day this past November, I woke up feeling like the world had changed. I was sad and disconnected from the majority of Americans who had such a different picture of what a fair and functioning society looks like. I was frightened for all the vulnerable people who would lose rights and protections and for all the women and girls who no longer controlled their own bodies. Most of all, I was angry. As I stomped around making coffee, I was struck by a crystal clear thought: I will self-publish my novel.
Why did my brain go there? The world’s problems were overwhelming — who cares about my little project? First of all, I was defiant. I didn’t want to be the good girl doing the right thing and not getting anywhere. Something in the world had shifted, and I had to adapt in a way that was true to my ethics or get left behind.
Sending my novel out into the world was also a protest. My little story about 40-somethings reunited 20 years after a perfect kiss on the Eiffel Tower shows a world where women and their pleasure is important. Romance novels model communication and mutual respect between people, which is the foundation of a just, equitable, and happy world. Maybe that’s why people make fun of the genre. By putting it down, they send the message that a society that values women is a dumb idea.
I became a woman on a mission. I set a release date of Jan. 31, 2025, less than three months ahead. This was totally ridiculous since publishing a book usually takes a year or two. I edited furiously, researched the ins and outs of book production, hired a cover designer, and only had a minor meltdown when the book proof had no Chapter 13 and two Chapter 15s. The whole time I was nervous, but strangely calm. The gift of publishing in middle age was that I trusted my instincts.
To quote Gen X’s favorite musical “Rent,” “The opposite of war isn’t peace. It’s creation.” I’m not calming my fears for the next four years. I’m telling a story with a happy ending. This is the world as I want it to be, and I’m sending my novel out into the world to share that with you. With Valentine’s Day coming up, let’s remember that real romance is less about roses and chocolates and more about connection and optimism.