As this is my first post for NLV, I figured you’d want to know who this person is that’s taken over. No need to run for cover—yet—I’m mostly sane. Call me Avril, I’ll be your server tonight. Now, now. No need to look so scared, this will be quick.
Painless? Heck no.
Let us take a trip into the mind of an erotic romance writer. More specifically, into the mind of this erotic romance writer. Yes, I hear voices. Yes, those buggers talk back and yes, they do have wild, crazy sex in the old noggin.
I shrug it off. Par for the course is what that is. Doesn’t phase me. Phases you? Well, then you aren’t cut out for this. Me? I was born to do this.
Clichéd, but hell, it works.
Why erotic? Because I’m a voyeur. I like to watch, feel, taste, smell. This ain’t your momma’s romance where the door closes softly in the readers’ faces, where the camera pans to the ceiling. Let me see that sweat bead trickle, hear those moans. Give me all of it. I don’t like the soft and pink, so I don’t write it. If you’re looking for that, I’m not the one. Before I call myself a writer, I’m a reader. I remain a fan of anyone who takes me out of my world and into theirs. It’s a tall order, though, I remain stubbornly hard to please.
I write romance because despite my corrupted mind, I believe in love. In all it’s forms. In the freedom that love brings to allow one to explore boundaries, step over them and continue going. I still want the happy endings, the ever afters. You’ll find them in my work. Yours don’t have a HEA/HFN? I’m not reading.
What? Warned you, didn’t I? I’m a Brooklyn girl, we speak plainly, punctuated with lots of curse words. Of course.
The holiday season is here, full of giving and sharing, and all the other things. Perfect time for romance. For me it’s all about the food. I don’t play that sharing crap. Stay away from my food, especially the black, rum cake and we’re good. Quickest way to ensure my wrath is to mess with my food, but I digress. Where was I?
Ah yes, my crazy mind.