My Books

Somone who shall remain nameless recently called my books "perverted'. The word choice took me aback and really got me to thinking. My books are about love, first and foremost. They are about growth, about journeys, about the myriad ways love can heal a wounded soul. True love is never perverted. I looked the word up in the dictionary. It means corrupt, to cause to turn away from what is morally good and right. Hmmmm. Methinks this person has never read any of my books.

Yes, my books have lovemaking in them. Sex. Some not a lot, some a bit more, but I don't think my writing would rate among the more "spicy" writers in my genre. I don't write erotica or romantica. When the characters in my books make love, that's exactly what they do. Sex as an expression of love between two people is never perverted, in my opinion.

I get letters from readers. Letters that say I lifted their spirits, made an illness seem less painful, inspired them. When I wrote Jewel's story in CRY OF THE WOLF, I got tons of email from women who'd been in an abusive relationship, thanking me for showing how a woman can regain herself and her strength. (Yes, I get other letters - people who don't like shape-shifters or something, even letter from people who wonder if the fictional characters I create are real, but everyone is entitled to their own opinion.)

But to use such a word - perverted? It makes me wonder what kind of person views love that way. Maybe the kind of person who doesn't know how to love.

If my work brings someone happiness and joy, then I've done my job. If my work shows someone what love can be like, should be like, then I'm happy.

Back to work!

Ronda Thompson

Wow. I learned Saturday that my friend Ronda is gone. Died ten days after being diagnosed with cancer. Tall, always grinning, vibrant Ronda. A friend, a fellow writer, and a damn cool Texan. I feel so bad for her husband Mike - she and I and my husband Lonnie gambled and partied together in Reno and they were such a cute couple. And her daughter Marley. And her son... and us all. What a loss. I was so upset that I couldn't go back to the RWA conference for the Rita ceremony.

Ronda with her panic attacks. Her heart as big as the Lone Star state. Every time I'd see her, she'd give me a hug. An amazing woman, a great friend, a terrific writer. Dead at only 51 years old.

I don't know if it was the smoking or not. My uncle Alex always used to say "When your number's called, you go." I guess it was her time to go. But she'll be missed by many. Especially this introverted writer who needed every big-hearted friend who came her way.

God bless, Ronda. I'll miss you.