Let’s go back to a time when my life was a little more crowded and my office was a kitchen table.

Before the high-rise offices and the sprawling family sagas of Firebrook Valley, my husband, our three kids, and I lived in an 850-square-foot house. Calling the small patch of floor in front of our sink and refrigerator a "kitchen" was generous, and calling that table my "office" was even more so. It was loud, it was chaotic, and looking back, it was a time I’ll always miss—even if the fatigue was very, very real.

The Great Escape

Sometimes, the chaos won. Maybe the roof was being fixed, or maybe everyone was home at once, but on this particular day, I needed to hit a deadline. I grabbed my laptop and headed to our local library.

Between writing in my car during my oldest daughter's cheerleading practices or on park benches, I was a pro at writing anywhere. I found a spot, put my headphones on, and completely fell into the story. I was having one of those rare, furiously productive days where the words just flow.

The "Private Room" Offer

I was deep in the zone when a librarian approached me. She asked if I wanted a private room. I pulled back my headphones, looked around at the relatively quiet library, and gave her a polite smile.

"No, I’m perfectly fine writing right here, thank you," I said.

She paused, then asked, "Then I wonder if you would like to write somewhere else?"

That’s when it hit me. She wasn’t offering me a quiet place to focus; she was asking me to go anywhere else but there. My hands went up to my face and I realized my cheeks were soaking wet. The scene I was writing was so emotional that I was sitting in the middle of a public library, sobbing my heart out.

The Giraffe and the Zoo

I was tempted to tell her that I was a New York Times Bestselling author and that libraries are where we belong—it’s like asking a giraffe not to be at the zoo! But then I looked at the quiet, overtly curious people around me and realized I had very publicly lived out the scene in my head.

Mortified, I stuffed my laptop into my bag and practically ran for my car.

The Magic in the Middle

That was the last time I wrote in a library, though I’ve continued to write in cars, at cheer events, and in fields while my daughter rides our horse. I just choose my locations more carefully now, places where if I start laughing because my characters are hilarious or crying because they’re suffering, and nobody cares.

I share this because it was one of my most embarrassing moments, but also because it shows how real these stories are to me. When my characters are falling in love, I’m falling in love right along with them. When they are sad, I am sitting in that space with them.

People say the journey is more incredible than the destination, and that encapsulates writing for me. Reaching "The End" is incredible, and the blank page is scary, but the magic that happens in the middle? I wouldn't want to miss a moment of it.

I am, and have always been, a character-driven romance author. People often ask me how I keep a world of over 50 books interconnected and alive, and the answer is simple: it always starts with the people.

Before I can write a new series like Firebrook Valley, I have to imagine who lives there. I might have a vague idea of a location or a plot, but before a single word of the story hits the page, I fill notebooks with what motivates a character.

I knew the entire backstory of Gabe Holliston—his relationship with his ex-wife, his parents, and exactly how he interacts with his children—long before I wrote the first scene. I know what is strong in him and what is broken. As I imagine him raising his children, I look at them through both his eyes and theirs. What were their challenges? Who would they have been to each other?

Then, I ask the most important question: What do these characters yearn for?

When I imagined the Burkes, I spent just as much time getting to know their history and their failures. I need to know what they are proud of and what they are ashamed of. Who are they in their best moments, and who are they in their worst?

Once I know them, I look for the match. Why do these two people, out of everyone I could imagine, belong together? Do they bring out the best in each other? Only when I have that answer do I set the notes aside and create the "plot" for them to work through.

By the time the "magic" starts, they are real to me. When they struggle, I’m rooting for them. When they cry during a scene, I’m crying right along with them. And when I finally write the words "The End" on a happily-ever-after, I’m smiling in exactly the way I hope you are.

That reminds me, I should post about the time I was asked to leave a library . . .

Grab your favorite mug, settle into your coziest chair, and let me tell you a story from my early days in the romance industry. It’s a tale of innocence, a shot for courage, and the ultimate last-minute betrayal.

I’m laughing just typing this, but for those of you who were there—or those who never blogged about it—remember: history belongs to those who take the time to record it. Since I don’t believe a video exists (thankfully!), we’re going to rely on my memory of that wild day back in 2014.

The Set-Up

There I was, unwinding after a long book signing with several of my good author friends. I had literally just stepped off the phone with my husband, telling him how exhausting and "crazy" the work of a book signing is. I was the picture of a dedicated professional.

Then, one of the authors turned to me and asked, "Have you ever been to a Coyote Ugly?"

I hadn't. So, naturally, the whole group—authors and readers alike—decided that was exactly where we needed to be. The atmosphere was fun, not too crowded, and we were all having a blast.

The "we’re all in" Betrayal

We were standing there looking up at the famous bar when someone suggested, "Let's go up and dance!"

In my head, it was an "we’re all in" moment. I started to climb up, thinking my fellow authors were right behind me. But the moment my feet hit the wood, I realized I had been "lured." They scrambled away, leaving me standing on the bar all by myself. . . well, me and a group of readers who were all significantly younger than I was!

But I’m a brave romance author, right? So, there I stood in my sneakers and Capri pants, and I danced. I gave it my all while my "friends" cheered (and laughed) and took photos from the safety of the floor.

The "Working Hard" Text

The best part? As we were leaving the bar and walking down the street, total strangers started stopping me. "Hey! I just saw a post of you dancing at Coyote Ugly!"

My heart dropped. If strangers were seeing it, that meant the internet was seeing it. Seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my husband:

"Looks like you sure are working hard."

I burst out laughing. Thankfully, my husband has an incredible sense of humor. We don’t worry about each other—honestly, he’s more worried I’ll come home with another horse than that I’d ever sneak around and do anything. He knew I didn’t really drink (well normally) and I am certainly not a dancer, so the mental image of me in my sneakers on that bar was something he just wished he’d seen in person.

The Moral of the Story

We have laughed about that night so many times over the years. It’s one of those "magic" memories that only happens when you’re out on the road with readers and fellow authors who become family.

But I did walk away with one very important life lesson: When someone says, "Let's dance on the bar," you always let them go first.