Hello, My name is Sarah Chapman. And I...am an addict. I have held on to this secret and let it fester inside of me for far too long. No longer will I hide my authentic self. I will not be embarrassed and ashamed of what I read. I am addicted to romantic thrillers.
It all started so innocently. Who as a child didn't enjoy Nancy Drew? Encyclopedia Brown? Trixie Belden? Oh, they seemed so harmless, those young, fresh-faced detectives. The stories that wrapped themselves up in flashy paper and a shiny bow. Happy endings and justice for all brought to you courtesy of our faithful, ever friendly and straight-laced hero or heroine.
But somewhere along the way I got lost. I suppose I could blame my mother,
a lifelong mystery lover, who may have left a stray Kay Hooper novel lying
about. Or certain friends, bad seeds who raided their mothers' romance
collections and shared the bounty during spring break beach weeks. But the
truth is much more complex.
I am pretty sure that I spent a past life as the heroine in a thriller
novel. Once upon a time I was that brave yet vulnerable, feminine but tough
gal. I would have been in my early thirties or late twenties, not a
textbook beauty but undeniably alluring, perhaps with my spunky, precocious
child as my sidekick. Running from my troubled history, up against the odds
and constantly in peril (that often came in the form of an IBM -
Internationally Bad Man). And I'm never sure if I can trust the agenda of
the other guy in my life, the OEDPEIBURH (often ex-military, damaged,
possibly evil-intentioned but unable to resist hottie). He usually turns
out ok, though. Oh, and I may have paranormal powers. Sometimes I do, at
least.
But I digress.
Yes, some well-intentioned souls have tried to save me. My father-in-law
has supplied me with a constant stream of PD James and Elizabeth George. My
friends have made feeble attempts at interventions, often poorly camouflaged
as invitations to join "book clubs". And I have tried to save myself. My
bed side table is covered with good intentions. Sue Monk Kidd. Middlesex.
Richard Russo. C.S. Lewis. Last ditch efforts in a battle for my literary
soul.
And I've tried, I've really tried. But a simple trip down the cookie aisle
in my grocery store...and what's that? Iris Johanson has a new book out?? In
paperback??? AND 40% OFF, NO LESS????? How can I battle these demons when I
just have to find out if Joe Quinn can finally see the ghost of Bonnie, Eve
Duncan's long-murdered daughter who has been the inspiration for her entire
career as a forensic sculptor?
So instead I have chosen to revel in my illness. Nora (or J.D.!). Sandra.
Lisa Gardner, Catherine Coulter. Iris. Karin Slaughter. You will no longer
be stacked under a Token Literary Work in my book shelf. And I proudly
march to join you now, no longer in the shadows.
You know why? Because I don't just read thrillers anymore. I've decided to
write them.