When I was twenty years old, I accepted the Lord as my personal savior. A half-century later, I know I haven’t personally carried this message of peace to others – except through my novels.
My work conforms to the romance restrictions inherent in the genre. I know the technical terms for various physical parts, but my fictional characters’ bed scenes resemble old-time movies, where intimacies were handled by innuendo. A shade was pulled, a cigarette smoked, or a scene of bliss the next morning showed the necessary consummation of events.
The happy endings of romance and thoroughly solved mysteries have always been a source of legitimate pleasure for me.
I’m given to nightmares after reading harrowing stories of mayhem or violence. I hardly want that result for any of my readers.