CONFESSIONS OF A ROMANCE-WRITING GRANNY

Look, I’m not saying I have a lot going on, but if you ever see a woman speed-typing in her car while balancing a vanilla latte, wearing pajamas under a trench coat, and singing show tunes to distract a crying adult daughter in the backseat—wave. That’s me. Or at least, some version of me that hasn't been replaced by a hologram running purely on caffeine and plot twists.

Yes, I’m a granny.
Yes, I still work full time.
Yes, I write rom-coms. Yes, other storytellers wander through my caravan with their cozies, children’s tales, supernatural sagas, and even other romances (some comical, others historical; I love friendly competition!). The campfire never burns for just one kind of story from just one writer's voice.
And yes, twenty-three cats are travelling with the Caravan.

Let’s just say I don’t do “empty nest” the way Better Homes & Gardens imagined it.

A Life in High Heels (Metaphorically. I Wear Crocs.)

People often ask me—usually while I’m microwaving something beige and cheesy—“How on earth do you have time to write romance novels?”
To which I say: I don’t.

I steal time like a jewel thief with a hot flash. I write between loads of laundry, between doctor’s appointments, between crying in the shower, and pretending to meditate when I’m really just curled up in the recliner with snacks.

You see, I’ve got a full-time job (yes, still), a live-in disabled daughter who, once in a while, needs extra love and care (which she gets in abundance), and a few family members who seem to believe I’m some kind of benevolent ATM with excellent banana bread.

I schedule my days down to the second. I once tried to pencil in “have emotional breakdown” and had to bump it to the following Tuesday.

And Yet, I Write Rom-Coms…

Because while my real life feels like an unpaid sitcom sometimes, writing the quirky kind of romance that has you laughing hard one minute and crying the next is where I breathe. I dabble in other genres from time to time, but rom-coms are my passion. Literally!

I don’t need a yoga retreat in Bali. I need to write about two strangers stuck in an elevator who end up making out on floor seven.

I don’t need to sip smoothies on a beach. I need to plot a wedding between enemies who fall in love while co-parenting a pug.

One storyteller in the caravan has “A Bride Walks Into a Bar” series — and trust me, it’s exactly what it sounds like (and no, it’s not always tequila-related… but often is). I can't wait to get my hands on her “Sense-sational Series,” where each book flirts with one of the five senses.

Then I have one who writes sizzling standalones. Sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy, always full of sass. Kind of like me, minus the slow metabolism.

Let’s Talk About the Bulge, Shall We?

Ah yes, the battle of the bulge. Or, as I now refer to it: The Epic Saga of the 'Pinch an Inch or More' That Would Not Die. It’s been with me through thick and thin—mostly thick. I diet, I walk, I swear off sugar, I un-swear it around 3 p.m., and the scale mocks me like it’s auditioning for a Disney villain role. Am I 'fat'? No! Am I more of a 'fluffy'? Sure, let's go with that.

But in my books? Honey, my heroines can eat croissants slathered in cream cheese without consequence. They fall in love and fit into backless dresses. It’s fiction. I get to rewrite the laws of physics if I want.

The Cats? Oh, the Cats.

Let’s just say I didn’t mean to start a cat rescue. One stray led to two, then five, and now I’ve got more personalities in my backyard than a Bravo reunion special. There’s Marvin, who’s basically my editor. There’s Izzy, who prefers to nap on the keyboard then sends secret-coded messages when I'm out of the room. There's my one-eyed pirate cat named Percy. And a dozen + others who I swear are unionizing.

My wagon smells of Febreeze, kibble, and the faint whiff of surrender. But you know what? They purr. They stay. Some caravans travel with horses. Mine? With cats. They remind me daily that love — in all its messy, fur-shedding forms — is worth making space for. Even when it claws your curtains and hacks up hairballs on your favorite shoes.

Why I Really Do This

Because writing romance is hopeful.

It’s what gets me up at 5 a.m. before the chaos starts. It’s what keeps me company when everyone’s asleep and I’m sitting there with a story buzzing in my brain and three cats trying to get onto my lap.

Romance reminds me that no matter how messy life gets, there’s always space for love. Real, messy, sometimes awkward, often hilarious love. And who better to write it than someone who’s lived a full, fierce life and still believes in kisses under twinkle lights?

I may be tired. I may be behind on laundry. I may never find matching socks again. But I’ve got stories to tell. And as long as I’ve got breath in my lungs (and coffee in my mug), I’m gonna rom-com the heck out of this life.

So if you see a granny with a laptop, a latte, and a plot twist in her eyes—give her a high-five. She’s probably halfway through a scene where either the girl gets the guy, the guy gets the girl, or the cat gets a book deal.

And spoiler alert: here in the caravan, all my stories find their happily ever-whatever — even if it takes a crooked road, some ornery cats, and a few mismatched socks to get there.

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✨ Lantern’s out, kettle’s cooling, and the caravan sleeps. Every story waits in the next campfire glow. Walk with me when you’re ready. ✨ ~ The Genre Gypsy