You Can't Go Home

You Can’t Go Home

A writer friend of mine and I were talking recently about our first romance books. I loved Kathleen E. Woodiwiss and would read and reread her stories. I remember  reading ASHES IN THE WIND so many times, the pages fell out. I recently went out and got another copy of it because I hated that the one I had was held together by elastics.

We talked about THE WOLF AND THE DOVE and THE FLAME AND THE FLOWER and she asked when was the last time I had read one of KEW’s books. I said I hadn’t read one in years. Probably not since I started writing.

She said, “Don’t! It’ll never be the same.”

The more I thought about it, the more I think she’s right. Before I learned more about the craft of writing, I think I was a happier reader. Now I go back and look at my earlier books (SURPRISE and TAKE YOUR MEDICINE were the first books I EVER wrote) and absolutely CRINGE at what I read.

It’s kind of like when you look through your photo album from high school and you see the terrible hair and the awful boyfriend you thought was “It”. Cringeworthy indeed. (Hey, I grew up in the 80’s you have no idea how bad those pictures are.)

I still have all my KEW books, but I doubt I’ll read them again. I don’t want to ruin the good memories I had reading those books on snow days or on the beach when my biggest worry was whether I’d have a date for the prom… or if I had enough hair spray. . .