I’ve tried to write romance. In fact, many of my books have some form of happily ever after in them as a natural evolution of the characters who come to me and demand I tell their stories. Because love happens, doesn’t it? So, I should be able to write a romance novel, right?

Right?

Why then do they always seem to evolve into murder, chaos and mayhem? The second I think, “Hey! Here’s a lovely voice who has a delicious love story to tell,” there’s suddenly at least one body, infidelity, blackmail and other criminal activities that turn the romantic into the mischievous, the murderous and often the hilarious all in about twenty-four to forty chapters (depending on the chattiness of the character).

I did manage to write one lonely romance novel once. Once.

Let’s not talk about it, okay?

But I worry, you know. Does that mean I’m not romantic? I’m afraid that’s the case. In fact, I’m about the least romantic person I know. The fact I introduce myself to strangers as a serial killer? That I’d rather receive something practical over something pretty as a gift? (Money works, in case you’re wondering) Or that my idea of a great night out has nothing to do with a dinner for two but is, instead, rife with hot curry, tequila and a dancefloor?

Fifty-two and still looking for my romantic side. It’s murder, I tell you.

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