I remember when I was a young girl, lying on my bed, with the oversized pink comforter, and reading.

Reading romance novels.

Novels that always began with a girl, to which I immediately identified myself, who was alone.

And out of nowhere, this mysterious, incredibly masculine, charming, and great looking man, would sweep into her life, and she would fall in love.

Most times she would not admit it, but rather, play hard to get, and misperceive some action of his in the wrong way and think him a pig, but still love him anyhow.

They ALWAYS ended , however, with everything working out and them both professing this larger than life love for each other, and THE END.

Ok so now I am all grown up... and life hasn't even slightly resembled any one of the novels I read.

And I guess after all this time it is easier not to believe....I mean after all...they were all fiction.

Where is the non-fiction romance section at the bookstore?...oh I know there isn't one.

Shame on all these authors for disillusioning me and so many other young girls.

And somewhere in my sick little mind...I am still searching for it...and think that quite possibly I may have found it...there is only one problem...my courage has been wore down after all these years and I fail to act.

Can I write a book about that?