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First, let me say I’m a man, and I write romances. I also read them—a lot. I love nothing better than a great love story with a happy ending. My little sister calls me a helpless romantic. One step down, I suppose, from a hopeless romantic.  Unfortunately (or some might say fortunately), there aren’t many of us guys writing romance, and I think I may have an inkling why.

Writing stories is a gift. It’s a calling and a joy. It comes complete with characters and problems, conflict and excitement. It may slowly wind itself through your subconscious until a story is fully formed. Or, it may crash into your head then stubbornly wait for you to pry the particulars out and find the prize in the recesses of your soul.

Candy Cane and Cookie Crumb attended my high school in suburban Pennsylvania. The girls spelled their names with more flourish than the letters I used here, and Candy’s legal name was Candice, but the consequences of their too-sweet identities remained the same—no one took them seriously.