Guilt has been my companion lately. Having been a "serious" journalist at one point in my life, crafting a romance novel seems a low-road preoccupation. What difference does my writing make when people are fighting for democracy in Egypt or suffering from bizarre weather events due to climate change? Pushes the periscope down a few clicks.
And it's not as if I'm devoid of social consciousness. Prior to and including yesterday, I'd say I've overcompensated for the questionable merit (my spin) of writing romance. I give to charity, parent full-throttle, teach ethically and believe in the worth and dignity of all people, especially on a small planet. So, I need to get over it.
A supportive writer told me, "God loves stories, tell them." If I believed in God.