I’d been working as a Romance editor for six months, and by then, I’d thought I read it all. Westerns, vampires, medievals, boss-secretary stories, and sheik romances. My brain was filled with love stories, and I steeled myself against all emotion. Then it happened. Coffee, desk, morning enthusiasm, a quiet office…and a really good story that made me feel something.
By the afternoon, I was weeping. The heroine had gone through so much. Ravaged, deflowered in the worst way and her own castle, suddenly orphaned, nearly lifeless (but still beautiful). When the hero came along, she didn’t much care. Of course, she couldn’t avoid him either since he was in her castle. By the end, she was still frozen until he kept insisting that no matter how badly she felt, they were still connected. I lost my marbles and carried the tome to my boss, who was so consoling and sympathetic.
In the end, I didn’t get to work on the book, but I’m happy that it found its way into reader’s hands. Fifteen years later, I still remember that moment when I forgot to be so critical and FELT. Such is a writer’s gift.