The long-standing myth about writers, especially romance writers, is we lie around dressed in silk on Victorian fainting couches eating chocolate bon bons, and dictating our novels to prim little secretaries whilst a hunk built like Gerard Butler in 300 fans us with a large ostrich feather fan. (Cue hysterical laughter from every author I know!) I hope this particular stereotype is old hat to most readers by now. In the interest of full disclosure, I am writing this dressed in my ratty old nightgown at my desk in a 30 year old mobile home in rural Alabama eating barbecue potato chips and the only males in the room are a snoring chihuahua and a flatulent basset hound.

Lets dispel a few other myths about romance writers while we’re at it.

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