A Incomplete Guide to Self-Editing for Authors

/in /by

I need to start with a disclaimer: I am the daughter of an English teacher and a copyeditor; I used editor’s marks, copying my mother, from a young age. I’m the kind of person who reads a published book or a news article and wants to fix a bad sentence or cut the extra words. I’m annoying, I know — honestly, I annoy myself. So take my saltiness about editing with a grain of salt.

Not every author has a strong grasp on editing, nor do you need one. However, becoming a better author requires more than writing down a lot of words, then handing it off to an editor to “fix.” (Notice how I put the period inside the quote mark? Always do that.)

I rigorously edit my own work; I consider it part of the writing process. That spot on page 52 that didn’t feel quite right but I couldn’t think of a better way to say it? Maybe on the third or fourth (or fiftieth) pass, I’ll see how I can fix it. I’ve also recently been doing editing gigs for other writers, which has been illuminating. It has raised questions like, Did this person read over their manuscript before they turned it in for editing? Did they do any fact-checking?

So here’s my pitch for editing your manuscript before you turn it in, along with some editing tips from a salty bitch who knows when to use were instead of was.

Why should authors edit their manuscripts when they could pay someone to do it?

So, you’ve written a book. Yay you! The next question is what to do with it. You could show it to a few friends, pat yourself on the back a dozen times, and take yourself out for drinks to celebrate.

But you don’t want that. Your words are important. Your story moved you and you want to share it with the world.

At this point, many new authors go looking for an editor to tell them what to do next. That’s not a terrible idea, especially if you have some money to invest in your project. A developmental editor could help you shape the story better. A line editor can clean up your messy sentences. A proofreader can catch the typos. If writing a book was a one-off for you, this might be where you get off the writing train and onto the publishing train.

But outsourcing all the revisions probably won’t do much to make you a better writer. And you could easily spend several thousand dollars for editing a full-length manuscript — more if it’s a big old mess. And professional editors will do their best to make your work readable, but it’s not their job to ensure that your vision shines through. No one but you can make sure that happens.

If you want to be a professional writer —if you think that, maybe, you have more than one book in you (or if you’re just short on cash) — editing yourself will make you a better writer.

Tips for editing your own work

I understand that the pressure of publishing deadlines, and if you self-publish, the pressure to get your work out there and start making sales, isn’t always compatible with thorough self-editing. Honestly, I’m trying to be less perfectionist and not trip if every sentence doesn’t sparkle. Plot, character, swoon (if you write romance, like me), and tension are more important to readers than whether you wrote “different than” instead of “different from.” No one — other than me — has ever DNF’d a book because of bad grammar.

So maybe you don’t have time to polish your prose to a high shine. Do give it at least a light dusting, though. Your readers and editors will thank you.

Contract your verbs

I thought this was just me until I started editing other people’s work and found it is it’s common: I write my first draft as if I never heard of a contraction. Real people say, “It’s hot out,” not, “It is hot out.” If none of your to be verbs are contracted, your language will sound stilted, especially when it’s coming out of your characters’ mouths.

There are exceptions to this, of course. A character for whom English is a second language or someone who’s stiff and formal might not use contractions. If your narration and the rest of your characters do, that character who doesn’t will stand out; the way they use language becomes part of the story of who they are and makes your book richer.

You might also skip the contraction for emphasis: “He was not at the scene of the crime.”

A first step in a self-edit might be a contraction check: where do you want to make your language flow and where do you want to stop the reader for emphasis or to show character?

That isn’t all that

It’s a fact that you can cut “that” out of many of the sentences where you want to use it. I can usually shorten a manuscript by hundreds if not thousands of words simply by removing unnecessary “thats.”

The same applies to other unnecessary words. “She looked across the room and saw movement behind the curtain” is better as “She saw movement behind the curtain.”

It’s okay to write a loooong book but make sure the story justifies this. I don’t need to read dozens of extra pages of all the garbage words you didn’t bother to edit out.

Pick out those pesky tics 

I’m sure some writers don’t have tics — turns of phrase they overuse when they’re drafting. Maybe Stephen King spits out perfect first drafts, but I don’t and I doubt many authors do.

My most annoying tic is “she heard him say.” If he’s speaking, of course she heard him. I do this all the time and I have to expunge it when I edit myself.

Some of those tics might come from how we speak. I recently edited an author who liked to insert “some” where it didn’t belong, as in, “Some 300 people…” I shaved a couple of pages off the manuscript just getting rid of unneeded “somes” and a few other tics. That author might speak that way and it might be part of his character. On the page, those extra words become a barricade the reader has to climb over to get to the meat of the story. Don’t make them make that climb.

Passive voice should be used sparingly by authors

Oh. My. God. I hate this. I’ve seen authors tie sentences in knots just to avoid telling me who the eff is doing the effing action. Passive voice often requires extra words and extra mental gymnastics of your readers. I’m not saying to never use it — scratch that: Do. Not. Use. Passive. Voice. Period.

What is passive voice and how will I know when I see it? Glad you asked. Here are some examples, in passive and rewritten into active voice.

  • There stood three trees at the crossroads for a hundred years.
  • Three trees had stood at the crossroads for a hundred years.
  • She was given a new dress by her aunt.
  • Her aunt gave her a new dress. — This puts the emphasis on the aunt.
  • She wore the new dress her aunt gave her. — The dress is more important in this sentence.

The active voice is like a fresh spring breeze. Aah.

There are a few instances where you can use the passive voice. For example, sometimes you don’t know who did the thing. But mostly keep your sentences active. Nothing marks you as an amateur more than the overuse of the passive voice.

Check your facts; no one else will

When I’m writing a first draft, I just want to get the words down. If I go down a research rabbit hole, I can totally derail my writing day. But when I edit, I check the names of places, the dates of real events, etc. If I don’t, an eagle-eyed reader is bound to call BS and then I’ve lost credibility with my readers.

Find your voice

We’ve all been told: voice, voice, voice. Publishers want authors with a distinctive voice. But how do you get there? You guessed it: self-editing.

My first drafts are alarmingly pedestrian. The jokes and character quirks don’t really emerge until subsequent drafts, as I find my voice in the particular story and find the characters’ voices.

Conversely, there is such a thing as too much voice. I’ve read some books where the author’s attempt to be funny or quirky was so over-the-top it got in the way of the story. I’m currently pondering whether to DNF a book because the voicey-ness is too cute by half and I’m slightly annoyed just a few pages in.

Editing your own work and really reading what you wrote gives you the opportunity to ask yourself if you’re relying too much on the voice. In one book I recently read, the plot had me turning the pages and I really liked the author’s voice. But then they added the voicey element to every other sentence and it wore me out.

Voice is like fudge. A moderate helping makes your story yummy, but too much will give you a tummy ache.

Use the effing spell check

If you can’t do anything else, at least run your manuscript through spellcheck, for the love of god.

Find the helpers: betas, writing groups, workshops

Some of you may be saying, But my mother wasn’t a copyeditor and no one in my family was an English teacher, so I can’t edit myself.

Luckily, there are lots of helpers. Even with my editorial upbringing, I needed a lot of help when I was starting out. I found that help in writer’s conferences, craft workshops, feedback from beta readers, and from other writers. I still need a lot of help. I’m very lucky to have published authors and my agent in my reader pool and they give me feedback that is, mwah, chef’s kiss — invaluable.

One of the best things I did was attend workshops where writers, agents, or editors gave feedback on first pages. In one workshop where I’d submitted pages, not only did I get valuable feedback on my work, but I got to hear the other critiques and compare what other writers were doing with my work.

I’ve also had writer’s groups and critique partners and gotten a lot out of both. Find your writing tribe. They’ll help you get where you want to go.

When to use a professional editor — and you should

I think self-editing is a necessary first step, but it’s not the end of your editing journey. One of my colleagues, with whom I collaborate on editing projects, told me, “You need a proofreader.” I can go over a manuscript a hundred times and still miss a typo.

Use professional editors of all levels to help you in your writing journey. If you can self-edit before you bring in a pro, you’ll get higher-level feedback and you might save some money. Plus, you’ll be on your way to becoming a better writer.

A final note: There might be some typos or awkward sentences in this very long article. Yep, I did almost no self-editing (I did run spellcheck; I’m not a monster). This is me, trying to be less perfectionist. I’ll save the self-editing for my fiction.

Speaking of fiction, I’ve been very behind in writing this newsletter because I’ve been neck-deep in my novella, Resa Drops a Stitch. I hope to have it out by the end of May, but I’m nervous even writing that down because I’ve blown through a lot of self-imposed deadlines. I’m self-editing now and it’s going slowly but it’s going. I hope to have ARCs soon; subscribers to my newsletter get automatic ARC access, so please subscribe if you’d like to be an advance reader/reviewer.

In Defense of Historical Romance

/in /by

I didn’t study much history in school, and you won’t catch me reading a gazillion-page biography of Alexander Hamilton or anything, but I love learning about history through fiction (and by going to see the play, Hamilton). I think that’s one of the reasons I love historical romance: it gives me a glimpse of how people lived in another era.

Not that a romance written today is an accurate window into the lives and thoughts of Victorians, but seeing the past through the eyes of the present is part of the appeal. Some of my favorite romances offer delightfully revisionist versions of history.

I’ve been hearing for the past year or two that historical is dying and Harlequin shutting down its historical romance line seems to confirm that. But I don’t accept that historical romance is dead and I hope people keep writing it. So here’s my pitch for more, not less, historical romance.

A world unlike our own

My best guess as to why the market for historical romance is flagging, besides changing reader tastes, is that romantasy scratches the same itch. For readers who want to be transported to different worlds or times, romantasy is ready to fill that space.

But not all of us are into romantasy. When I want a world with different mores and struggles, I need rakish dukes and feisty proto-feminist ladies.

What the best historical romances do

As a writer, I’m very jealous of historical romance writers. Unlike contemporary writers, they don’t have to worry about whether the idioms they use will make their book feel dated two years from now. A good historical romance is evergreen.

As a reader, historical romances are my comfort food, with familiar obstacles and tropes — and sometimes the delightful subversion of those tropes. My favorite historicals reimagine history, with women who find ways to exercise power and agency in a world that tried to deny it to them.

Some favorite historical romances (a very incomplete list)

My favorite historical romance writer, and one of my favorite writers period, is Courtney Milan. Her Wedgeford Trials series imagines an English town where people of color live and thrive, where a half-Chinese duke does a bad job of keeping his identity secret, and quirky, inventive women rule. I’ve read all Milan’s books and they’re all great, but the ones set in Wedgeford are my favorites.

I read The Perks of Loving a Wallflower by Erica Ridley a while ago because it’s on a lot of queer romance lists. I liked it, but I didn’t realize it was part of a series until I picked up the book that preceded it. I read the whole series, including rereading the sapphic second book, and they’re better as a series. I love that Ridley has included characters with different experiences—different races, disabilities, and gender identity—in this delightful series. I recommend reading the series in order so there are no spoilers but I confess my favorite is Hot Earl Summer because Elizabeth Wynchester is hilariously bloodthirsty.

I’m a fan of Sarah Maclean, especially her bombshell series. Joanna Shupe explores the mores of Old New York, if you’re tired of England. I recently read some of Amanda Quick’s older books and they’re still great.

This just scratches the surface. Beverly Jenkins, India Holton, Vanessa Riley and many more authors have written wonderful historical romances.

What did I miss? I’d love your suggestions.

Queer representation in historical romance

In addition to The Perks of Loving a Wallflower, there’s a growing number of terrific books about queer love through history.

One of my favorite Courtney Milan books is The Pursuit of…, a prequel novella in her Worth Saga series. The main characters are a free Black man, traveling home from fighting in the Revolutionary War, which has just ended, and a White British soldier. Neither man is particularly safe traveling by foot through the newly formed country. Milan manages to inject humor without undercutting the gravity of their situation and the challenges they face.

Alexis Hall is one of my all-time favorite contemporary romcom authors. His historical novel, A Lady for a Duke, tells the story of a transgender woman who returns to the man who was once her best friend. The beauty of romance is that this is an uplifting story about the possibility for redemption and living as your true self when those who love you accept you, no matter what society says.

Most of Cat Sebastian’s historical novels are M/M romances set in the mid 1900s. They are wonderful, but my favorites of hers are her London Highwayman duo, The Queer Principles of Kit Webb and The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes. They are laugh-out-loud funny; I highly recommend them.

There are, happily, lots more queer historical romances. I look forward to discovering them. Recommendations welcome.

Bonus book: Naughty Nouns in Historical Romance

One of the members of my local romance writers group, Liz Adams, has recently released three books of historical words for romance writers. I don’t write historical romance, but I’ve been vastly enjoying Naughty Nouns in Historical Romance (it includes some verbs and includes more recent slang, too). Breasts might be referred to as “heavers” in 1674 and “bags” in 1770. For anyone looking for creative and historically accurate ways to write about sex, this is a great resource.

I’ve been in the writing trenches lately and getting behind on newsletters, but I hope to be more regular going forward, including some subscriber-only content I’m working on.

I started 2026 with grand plans to write a trope-heavy romance short story for subscribers every month and then everything changed, but not completely, for a variety of reasons. Which is a long-winded way of saying that I will offer special content to subscribers that will be completely awesome and you will be the first to know—but it’s going to take a bit longer to arrive than I originally expected.

Speaking of subscriptions, subscribing to my newsletter is one of the best ways to help me build my author platform, not only because you’ll get the latest information on what I’m writing, but also because it will make my first book (which is on submission now and it’s great, really, I’m not biased, you’re going to love it) more appealing to editors.

On Learning New Things and Being a Mess

/in /by

Boldly going where many other writers have gone before

I’ve been trying to provide romance book recommendations and romcom stories with this newsletter, but today I hope you’ll indulge me if I go off script.

The thing is, I made a decision at the end of last year to start putting my writing out into the world this year. To be less of a perfectionist and just publish, dammit! It felt great to get The 12 Tropes of Christmas into the hands of readers. I want more of that, please.

So I made a plan and mapped out the fiction projects I want to write and publish this year. I started working on cover art and outlines and…almost immediately doubled my goal. And guess what? It might be too much.

I am normally a very organized and driven person. It’s what’s allowed me to be self-employed for much of my life, and it’s what will make me a successful author. But I feel overwhelmed by all the information I need to absorb to become an indie author: new programs and platforms, marketing tips, workshops, and, most importantly, a new workflow. I don’t know what it looks like to go from draft to polished work to published work because I’ve never done that before. I’m sure I’m going to do it wrong the first time. And probably the second.

On top of this is the fact that I need to write the way sharks need to swim. I can’t sleep through the night when an idea is pushing its way out of my head. But writing mode is very different from publishing and promoting mode, and I haven’t yet figured out how to balance the two necessary parts of being an indie author.

The upshot of this is that I neglected my newsletter in January, stopped three-quarters of the way through revising a manuscript I want to get to beta readers, and haven’t finished the short novella I’d hoped to get out in January. And I’ve recognized I need to revise my timeline and what I plan to deliver.

Plus, I drafted a fascinating newsletter on bringing together characters across cultural divides several weeks ago, and I can’t find it anywhere. I’m trying not to take that as a sign my life is falling apart.

I still hope to deliver a trope short story each month for my newsletter subscribers. I had a great time interviewing Alyssa Jarrett, and I plan to do more author interviews this year, plus columns about what I’m reading. And I’ll have more news about where you can find my fiction.

Phew. Thank you. I needed that. Onward!

6 Stories * 12 Tropes * 6 Happy Endings

/in , /by

I’m making the first story in my holiday collection, The 12 Tropes of Christmas, available to all. The full collection of six holiday romcoms is free to my newsletter subscribers until the end of January.

Bonus: When you subscribe, you’ll get a new romcom story every month in 2026. Free subscribers get all the stories; paid subscribers get additional freebies and the knowledge that you knew me when I was just starting out. I won’t forget you!

The Eight Dates of Hanukkah

Tropes: Instalove, Hanukkah. M/F

The line to talk to Santa Claus snaked out of the tiny pocket park and around the corner. If the organizers had the line going the other way, Libby Kim could have been window shopping at the shoe store instead of shivering in the wind on a blustery December day in San Francisco.

A tug on her coat sleeve brought her back to the moment. She was here for Sarah, not shoe shopping. “Aunt Libby, why is Santa staring at you?”

The line had looped back so they were even with the spot where Santa sat, flanked by some kind of hyperactive elf. “I’m sure he’s not—” No, he totally was. Well. “I think he’s just looking at the line, sweetie.”

“He likes you. He likes you likes you.” Her niece was seven going on seventeen.

Libby said, “Impossible. He hasn’t even met me.” But now she was staring.

There wasn’t much to see other than his kind eyes and the way he leaned in and listened as each child sat on his lap and rattled off their wishlist while the elf pretended to take notes—no, the elf was really taking notes, then slyly handing the list to the adult when the child wasn’t looking. That elf was way too into his role.

The man playing Santa was obscured by the suit, fake beard, bushy eyebrows, and red hat. But there was something in his gaze—because Sarah was right, he really was staring at her—that grabbed Libby and wouldn’t let go.

“If Santa was your boyfriend, would you have to live at the North Pole?” Sarah had recently developed a poker face. She had to be joking. Didn’t she?

Libby bent down and whispered in her ear so the boy picking his nose ahead of them and the toddler in the stroller behind couldn’t hear. “You know Santa isn’t real, right?” She didn’t believe in letting children trust fairy tales.

Sarah’s face melted and her voice wobbled. “There’s no Santa? Noooo!” Libby’s heart dropped to her toes in the second before her niece grinned and said, “Psych!”

Deep breath out. “Okay, so if you don’t believe in Santa, why are we standing in this long line to talk to him?”

Sarah grinned and nodded toward the elf. “Because he’s going to give you a list of all the presents my parents won’t buy so you’ll know what to get for me.”

Libby put her hands on her hips, exasperated. “Just tell me.”

The girl shook her head. “This way it’s official and you can’t talk me out of it.”

This was Sarah’s way of getting Libby to buy gifts her moms had vetoed. “I’m not getting you that American Girl—”

Sarah put a hand up. “Plus, Santa wants to meet you.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Libby knew when she was beaten. She could never say no to Sarah. It was her job to spoil her niece. Plus, she had to be Sarah’s favorite aunt, and her other aunt owned a horse farm, so the competition was fierce.

She pulled out a bag of sugar cookies they’d bought at the patisserie down the block. “Want a snack?”

“I want the other one. The ruga…” She finished the word with a sound like she was hawking up a loogie.

“Rugelach.” Libby pulled a bag out of her other pocket. The new bakery that had opened a few months ago was going all-out for the holidays.

She tried to focus on the dense, cinnamony pastry and Sarah’s increasingly impossible questions about how buildings are built, but her attention kept getting pulled back to the man in the Santa suit. By the time they reached the front of the line, her heart was beating a jittery, uneven tattoo.

For no reason. She was focused on her career. Not interested in dating. She could hear her sister’s voice in her head, saying, Translation: you’ve given up on the dating scene. It was true and she didn’t regret it. There were only so many disappointing first and second and third dates a person could go on before she needed a break.

Plus, this guy could be anyone. He could be a criminal who’d steal all her…well, she didn’t own anything valuable. But she didn’t know him, so the flutters in her stomach were undoubtedly due to the rugelach.

“Ho ho ho. What’s your name, my dear?” Sarah sat on his lap, but Santa’s gaze was fixed on Libby. She looked at her shoes, not sure what to do with herself.

“Sarah.”

“Have you been naughty or nice, Sarah?” Libby looked up and heat arced between her and…Santa.

Ridiculous.

“Very, very nice.” Sarah leaned toward the elf and loudly recited her list, including the American Girl doll she was definitely not getting.

Then she cupped her hand and said something Libby couldn’t hear while Santa leaned in. Santa whispered to her and Sarah whispered back.

He hadn’t done that with any of the other kids.

Libby had always found fake Santas slightly creepy. What kid wants to sit on the lap of some strange man with bad breath? Her parents had taken her and Leah every year, thinking it was a treat. She’d pretended she needed to go to the bathroom to “accidentally” miss her turn.

Libby took a picture of Sarah with Santa and accepted the piece of paper the elf pushed into her hand as her niece slid off Santa’s lap. It was over.

She took Sarah’s hand and turned to go. She was slightly disappointed her staring contest with the man in the red suit was over.

A hand on her arm stopped her. The elf. “You’re next.” He gestured toward Santa, who held up a hand to stop a couple trying to hand him their toddler. He waved her up.

“I can’t. Santa is for kids.”

Sarah gave Libby her trademarked Sarah Stare. “Please. It would make me happy.”

Libby bent down. “I’m going to get you for this, kiddo.”

Sarah giggled and pushed her toward Santa. She climbed the step up to his chair and tried to perch at the edge of his lap. He put a firm hand on her waist and pulled her closer.

He didn’t have bad breath. In fact, he smelled like pine. She leaned back to look behind him.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a low voice. Different from the fake bluster of his Santa voice. Rumbly and pleasant and doing things to her insides.

“Looking for the Christmas tree air freshener.”

He laughed. A real belly laugh, looking right into her eyes. Then his gaze flicked to the line of expectant kids and he flipped into Santa mode. “Ho ho ho, young lady. What do you want for Christmas?”

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

He leaned close to her ear and spoke softly. “Sarah told me your name. Liebe.” That was her birth name. Liebe—love. But everyone called her Libby. She was surprised Sarah even knew this fact about her.

“Did she tell you I don’t celebrate Christmas? Because I’m Jewish.” This was her standard rebuff to all things Christian and it was half-true. Hers wasn’t a religious family, but oddly, though neither of her parents grew up celebrating Christmas, they were both very invested in the holiday for their daughters and now their granddaughter.

Santa’s eyes sparkled. He had nice hazel-brown eyes, sharp in the shadow of the fake eyebrows. “Can I tell you a secret? Me too.”

She drew back in surprise. “Santa is Jewish?”

He smiled, and even with the fake beard that didn’t move with his mouth, she liked his smile. “Like Jesus,” he said.

Ha. Santa made her laugh.

He leaned in again. “What I want for Christmas is—”

“To get out of here before you get peed on?” She finished his sentence for him.

He laughed. “Too late for that.” She bounced off his knee, and he pulled her back down. “Kidding. Kidding. What I want is to see you again. Tomorrow. Cinnamon Roll Bakery. Eight a.m.”

That should be creepy. Was it creepy? She was here with a kid. He could be hitting on a married woman.

As if he’d read her mind, Santa said, “Sarah told me you’re single.” This was all she needed—a seven-year-old yenta.

“Smile,” Sarah called out.

She turned toward Sarah, confused, as her niece took a photo of her in Santa’s lap. Embarrassing.

“I don’t know,” Libby said, slipping out of Santa’s grip. He grabbed her elbow when she forgot the step and almost fell, and then she was free and walking away and feeling all sorts of strange things she didn’t want to feel.

“Come on, Sarah. Let’s get a gift for your mom.”

She would definitely not go to the Cinnamon Roll Bakery tomorrow morning. Probably. Almost certainly.

Nathan Mendel didn’t believe in love at first sight. It was stupid.

But he thought a lot of things were stupid and still did them. For example, spending the day alternately sweating and freezing in a dumb Santa costume because his roommate Drake was insanely obsessed with Christmas. Nathan didn’t care about Christmas, but he cared about Drake, so here he was.

The procession of strange kids sitting on his lap, breathing on him with their milky, pasty breath, weirded him out, honestly. He imagined it was even stranger for them, but other than two criers and one fussy dad, things had gone smoothly all morning.

Then he saw her. She had straight, dark hair that fell in front of her face when she bent down to talk to the little girl. When she looked up, her face shone in the clear light of winter and it did something to him. Something he couldn’t explain or ignore.

The girl must have said something because she turned and caught him staring. He should have been embarrassed, looked away, pretended he wasn’t staring. He did none of that. He wanted her to know. He saw her. The way she straightened her spine as if preparing for battle, the intelligence in her thoughtful gaze, the way she met his eyes without flinching.

Nathan was in love. Well, not in love because he hadn’t technically met her yet. For all he knew, she was married. The girl she was with looked enough like her to be her daughter.

But would a woman who was in love with someone else look at him as if she were trying to develop X-ray vision so she could see under his Santa suit?

In a word, no.

Nathan Mendel was a man who went after what he wanted. The thought popped into his head out of the blue, but he immediately realized the rightness of it. He’d applied to grad school to be a social worker after two weeks of working in a high school as a VISTA volunteer, and he didn’t regret it. He’d decided to take Drake on as a roommate after chatting with him for five minutes, and he didn’t regret that. Most of the time.

His roommate poked him with the obnoxiously long pen he was using to write gift lists. “Hey, Santa, get your head out of the clouds.”

“Do not touch me, elf,” Nathan said, getting into his role as the boss of Christmas.

Drake straightened his cap and shot him an indignant look. Then he turned to the next child in line, his smile back. That was the thing about Drake—he didn’t stay mad. He was the happiest person Nathan had ever met, which could be wonderful or annoying, depending on the day.

Today it was wonderful. When he told Drake about his plan to meet Libby at the bakery the next morning, Drake was all in, even helping Nathan pick out the best pair of jeans and hoodie to wear—the only choices, since Nathan’s wardrobe consisted exclusively of jeans, t-shirts, and hoodies.

“And wear clean underwear.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Nathan said. “We’re going to breakfast. On our first date.” But he did put on his new black boxers and check himself out in the mirror before he left.

He arrived at the bakery 10 minutes early, which was fortunate because the place was already hopping. By 8 a.m., Nathan was waiting for the two women chatting over empty coffee cups or the student who had long ago polished off a plate of Russian teacakes to leave so he could snag a table. Five minutes later, when the women left, Libby still wasn’t there, but that was okay. It gave him time to wipe down the table and order an assortment of baked treats.

What if she didn’t like sweets? Should he have gotten something savory?

Nathan started to sweat. When another 10 minutes passed and Libby hadn’t shown up, relief mixed with disappointment.

Who was he kidding? Nathan Mendel wasn’t a man who knew what he wanted and boldly went after it. He was the fool who chased after the impossible woman and got smacked to the pavement for his troubles. Again.

He ate one of the nutty teacakes. It was possibly the best thing he’d ever eaten. “At least we have each other,” he said to the next teacake before popping it in his mouth.

“What?”

She was there. She’d come. And caught him talking to baked goods. Oy.

“I’d say sorry I’m late, but it’s more like lucky I’m here.” Libby sat primly in one of the bakery’s ornate vinyl and wrought iron chairs.

Nathan wanted to ask what she meant by lucky she was there. He wanted to say hello and I’m glad you’re here. But his mouth was full of cookie. He closed his lips and nodded at her.

He tried to swallow the rest of the cookie, but he’d put too much in at once when he thought she was a no show and there was no going back. He opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out.

Libby gave him a funny look then burst out laughing. She got up and left the table.

He was pretty sure he’d blown it.

But then she returned with two tiny cups of water. He took several sips and regained the power of speech, and the world turned right-side up again.

“Why am I lucky you came?”

“Why did you stare at me and ask me to sit in your lap yesterday?” She gave him a defiant look that made his heart speed up and his cock stand up.

“Because you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

She snorted. “How many women did you say that to? And how many times did you give out your number?”

“Only you and zero.”

She pulled a piece of paper out of her bag and handed it to him. It was one of the wish lists Drake had handed out. It was a list of toys like all the others, but at the bottom was his phone number with “Please call Santa!” written under it in his roommate’s fancy script.

He really, really liked Drake. The guy might be his best friend.

Nathan smiled. “I didn’t write that.”

“Okay, how many times did your elf give out your number?”

“I don’t know. Just one, I hope. Is that why you almost didn’t come?” Nathan reached across the table and slid his hand over hers. It was too soon, but he had the feeling he was running out of time to convince her to give him a chance. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else from Santa’s village to have my number. But I’m glad you do.”

She turned her hand palm up and wrapped her fingers around his. “Me too.”

He never wanted to let her hand go. He wondered if she could feel how fast his pulse was racing just being near her.

He barely knew Libby, but he adored the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, how she sat up straight when she felt challenged, how she talked with her hands when she was passionate about something. She was easy to talk to. He wanted to know everything about her.

They talked about where they’d grown up (Oakland, California, for Libby, Mystic, Connecticut, for Nathan), what they did (she was an architect—impressive—and she asked all the right questions about his social work career), and a hundred important and inconsequential things.

“What are you doing for the first night of Hanukkah?”

She looked surprised at the question. “Nothing? When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her now-empty water cup. A couple standing near the door eyed their table. Nathan ignored them. He wasn’t budging until Libby had to go. She said, “My mother is Jewish but not religious. My father is Korean. Also not religious. My family puts up a tree and gives gifts for Christmas, but that’s about it.”

“Come over. We’re lighting the menorah and having dinner with a few friends at my place. I’d love it if you’d join us.”

Libby pulled her hand away, withdrawing into herself again. “I’ll think about it. Can I let you know later?”

Nathan kicked himself. He was moving too fast. He couldn’t seem to slow down when it came to her. “Of course. No pressure.”

She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I need to get going. I’ve got a meeting I have to prep for at work.”

Nathan stood too. He wasn’t sure of the protocol. He wanted to hug her—he was a hugger—but he didn’t want to push her out of her comfort zone. He settled for a wave and stood inside the window of the bakery watching her walk down the street, wondering if he’d ever see her again.

“You should go.” Leah was being even more difficult than usual.

“I barely know him.” Libby focused on chopping lettuce for a salad. She was helping out while her sister’s wife, Betsy, was out of town. It was nice to have sister time and a chance to hang out with Sarah, but Leah knew how to push her buttons.

Leah pulled out condiments for the veggie burgers and tater tots they were having for dinner. Libby tried not to think about all the junk she’d eaten that day, starting with pastries for breakfast.

“Are you worried for your safety?”

Her physical safety? No, not really. Her heart was another story.

She hadn’t connected with someone romantically in the year-plus since her last breakup, and she was happy about that. She’d fallen hard and fast for Tyson and assumed they would have a happily ever after like Leah and Betsy. But as she got to know him better, everything about him started to irritate her. He was mostly interested in watching sports and hanging with his buddies; she was just arm candy. And he’d lost his shit when she told them they were through, which confirmed that she’d made the right decision.

No, she was going to be more careful this time. No rushing. If it felt like the most right thing in the world to hold his hand for almost an hour (!), well, that didn’t mean anything. What if he threw his dirty clothes on the floor and expected her to pick them up? What if—

Leah tapped her forehead with a wooden spoon. “What’s going on in there? No, don’t tell me.” She touched the spoon to her own forehead and closed her eyes as if receiving a message from the spirit world. “What if he leaves the toilet seat up? He might be a beer drinker or a Dungeons and Dragons player. I’d better not find out, in case he’s not perfect.”

Libby took the spoon and smacked her sister lightly on the backside. “I don’t care if he drinks beer and I’ve been meaning to learn how to play Dungeons and Dragons.” Leah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, I have a concept of a thought about learning to play.” Libby sighed. “You think I was too hard on Tyson.”

“God no. Tyson was an asswipe. Betsy and I did a happy dance when you called to tell me you’d left him. But I don’t think you should use that as a reason not to get to know new people.”

“What lesson should I take from my relationship with Tyson?”

“Never date a man named after chicken,” Leah deadpanned. “But seriously, this is a chance to learn about a part of our heritage you don’t know much about. I’d love to go to a Hanukkah party.”

“You would?”

Leah shrugged. “Sure. It would be good for Sarah, too.”

“Perfect. You’re coming with me.”

As much as he wanted Libby to come to the party, he’d been dreading this moment.

“This is…interesting,” Libby said as he took coats from her, her sister, and her niece.

“I know.  It looks like Christmas ate a bad cookie and threw up in our apartment. There are Hanukkah decorations in the kitchen, I promise.” Drake’s job at a Christmas store had supercharged his over-the-top Christmas spirit. The apartment door was outlined in holly boughs threaded with twinkling lights. There were icicle lights dripping from the mouldings in every room, snow globes and ornaments on every table and shelf, and a huge tree so weighted down with lights and decorations, Nathan was expecting its imminent collapse.

“I like it,” Sarah said. She turned to Leah. “Mom, can we do this at our house?”

“It’s festive.” Libby’s sister was clearly older, and her hair was cut into a cute bob, but other than that, they could have been twins. “But no.”

Sarah pouted for a few seconds until Drake came out of the kitchen with a plate of cookies. Then all was forgotten.

Nathan wasn’t sure if it was a good sign Libby had brought her sister and niece to the party or if it meant he’d been firmly friend-zoned. Watching her explore his home—even in its current gaudy state—gave him a warm, almost giddy feeling.

Tamp it down, Nathan. Don’t scare her off.

“The Hanukkah decorations are just as over the top, you’ll see.” He ushered them into the kitchen, where Drake and a few friends were making latkes and playing dreidel on the kitchen table.

“This is cool,” Libby said, spinning around to take it all in. Nathan’s chest swelled with pride. The room was decked out in blue and white Hanukkah decorations, which matched the tile and cabinets. The kitchen was Nathan’s favorite room in the apartment, with its retro fixtures and well-worn floor. It was a space that held decades of living. Seeing Libby here made him feel all sorts of things he was scared to examine too closely.

After they said the prayers and lit the first candle, the night passed quickly. Sarah became a dreidel expert and won the bulk of the Hanukkah gelt. Leah was funny and outgoing and got along with Nathan’s friends. Libby was quieter than her sister but seemed to be having a good time.

Nathan tried to be a good host, even though there was only one guest he cared about.

When Leah announced it was past Sarah’s bedtime, Libby got up too.

“You can stay,” Leah said. “I can take Sarah home.”

“No, I’ll go with you. Just let me say goodbye to Nathan.”

That was Leah’s cue to give them a moment alone in his bedroom, where they’d left the coats, and she took it.

Libby turned to him. “I had a wonderful time. Your friends are great. Thanks for including my family.”

He took her hands in his. “I loved meeting them. I’m glad you could all come.” He took a beat, decided it was now or never, and said, “When can I see you again?”

“You move fast, Nathan.” She was teasing him, but there was a seriousness beneath it.

“Not usually,” he said. “Only with you.”

She thought for a moment. “I can see you tomorrow, and the day after and the day after. Eight dates for the eight nights of Hanukkah. At the end—we’ll see where we are.”

“This was a date?” Nathan wanted to dance across the rooftops.

Libby laughed. “That’s what you took from that? Where to tomorrow?”

He didn’t have to think. “We start here every night and light the candles.” She nodded her assent. “Tomorrow we go on a picnic.”

She shivered. “A picnic in December. That sounds fun.”

“We don’t have to—”

“No. I’m in. Surprise me.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Nathan wrapped his arms around her, trying not to be too obvious as he inhaled the tropical scent of her shampoo. “Tomorrow.”

“This is crazy.” After lighting candles at Nathan’s house, it had taken them three buses plus several blocks of walking up a very steep hill to reach their destination. He didn’t have a car and refused to let Libby drive, saying, “There’s no parking where we’re going.”

He extended a hand, his cheeks red with the chill, a smile lighting his features. “The best adventures start a bit crazy.” They turned off the street into a small park and he led her up a set of stairs (thank goodness for stairs!). “Ta-da!”

They stood at the top of a concrete slide next to a sign saying it closed at sunset, which was hours ago. Nathan grabbed two pieces of cardboard from a pile next to the slide and handed one to her. “Sit on that. It makes it easier to slide on cement.”

“But the park is closed.”

He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. No screaming. No one will know we were here.”

“I thought we were going on a picnic.” Nathan carried a big backpack, which he now set down.

“We are. This is just a sidetrip.”

Libby tried to resist, but his joy was infectious. They went down the twin slides side by side, holding hands and it was—magical. In a life that was work, family, and eating chips on the couch while she binge-watched murder mysteries, the cold night air, the whoosh of the cardboard on the smooth concrete, the way her stomach flipped at the steep drop made Libby feel more alive than she had in a long time. She’d been missing this and she didn’t even know it.

After, he led her past a community garden and into a larger green area.

“I could totally have parked here,” she said, looking at the empty spots on the street.

“Then we would have missed the slide and I wouldn’t have had all that time to talk with you on the bus.”

Really, he was adorable.

Libby quashed that thought. Adorable men were trouble.

“Welcome to Kite Hill. One of the best views of the city.” He pulled her to his side, directing her gaze to Market Street, which pointed like an arrow toward downtown.

The Castro Theater marquee glowed. A thousand little lights winked at her from homes, streetlights, holiday displays. “It’s another display of lights.”

“Exactly.” He looked at her like she was a star pupil, and her heart glowed.

“Why not there?” She gestured toward Sutro Tower, perched on top of Twin Peaks on the other side of Market Street.

Nathan laid out a blanket and started pulling food containers from his backpack. “Too many people. And it’s not the same view. It’s a good view, just not the same.”

“You are strange.”

He grinned. “So I’m told.”

He’d brought a second blanket to throw across their shoulders while they ate potato salad, cheese sandwiches, and tender Satsuma mandarins. Silences flowed as easily as conversation and Libby was surprised how comfortable she felt with Nathan.

“Like an old shoe,” Libby said. The words just lipped out. This was the danger of being too comfortable.

“What?”

Well, that was awkward. “I was just thinking…I like being around you.”

He nodded, pretending to look severe. “You were comparing my company to wearing a pair of shoes you’ve broken in.”

Her face heated. “Not exactly.”

He leaned in. “I’m flattered. It’s a high compliment. I’ll be your old shoe anytime.”

That was it. She put a hand on his cheek and turned his face toward hers. Libby inhaled the fresh scent of his aftershave. That was why Santa had smelled like pine.

Nathan let her lead, and she didn’t hold back, seeking him out with her lips, sure of her desire, at least for the moment.

He kissed her back, matching her intensity, pulling her closer, stroking into her with his tongue.

Perfect. Everything about this moment was perfect. The scratch of his unshaved face as he planted kisses down her neck. The cold bite of the wind and the warmth they created under the blanket. The hungry way they roamed each other’s bodies with their hands.

If she wasn’t careful, she would fall too hard and too fast. Again.

She pulled back, trying to tamp down the fire rushing through her veins. They packed the picnic and made their way down the hill, touching now. The bus rides back were sweet and cozy, with Libby nestled against Nathan’s chest.

A girl could get used to this.

Over the next five days, Libby and Nathan visited Grant Street in Chinatown, browsing every single souvenir store and coming home with many good luck cats; walked all over downtown to see Let’s Glow, a projected art exhibit; walked the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral—Nathan insisted this was a nondenominational activity; got tipsy at After Dark at the Exploratorium; and attended a Hanukkah party one of Nathan’s friends threw on Friday.

Before he could tell her the plan for Saturday, Libby said, “Let me take you somewhere.” Nathan had lamented the Jewish culture he’d grown up with on the East Coast. She wanted to show him he could find it here.

She knew she’d done the right thing the minute they walked into Saul’s Deli in Berkeley. Nathan’s eyes grew big. “I want to order everything on the menu,” he said.

“Then we will,” she said, grinning.

They ate borsht, Libby tried gefilte fish for the first time—it looked terrible but tasted good—and the latkes were to die for, according to Nathan, the latke expert.

At the end of each date, they’d kissed, their makeout sessions growing more heated each day until Libby was ready to jump out of her skin. This night, instead of dropping him at his house, she pulled up in front of her apartment.

“Where are we?” Nathan asked when she stopped the car.

“My place.” Her mouth was dry and her breathing felt labored. “Would you like to come up?” Her voice rose to a squeak and she put a hand over her mouth, mortified.

For the first time since she’d met him, Nathan looked uncertain. Was she being too forward? She should never have listened to Leah.

She turned the car back on. “It’s late. I can take you home.”

If Nathan believed in hell, this would have been it. He’d spent most of the week wearing his one long sweater to cover his raging hard-on. He was dying to get Libby naked and find all her pleasure points. He’d found a few already—she had a sensitive spot behind her left ear—and it made him greedy for more.

But he had promised himself he’d move slowly. His heart was charging forward, but she’d made it clear she wasn’t ready, no matter what her little moans and gasps told him when they kissed. He didn’t want to scare her off.

Her hurt look when she thought he was rejecting her told him what he needed to do. He put his hand over hers on the steering wheel. “No. Please. I’d like to see your place.”

“Sure.” The word was sharp and her movements stiff as she got out of the car and put her key in the lock of her Victorian flat. He’d said the wrong thing. Damn damn damn.

Libby hung her coat on a peg inside the door and slipped off her shoes, motioning for Nathan to do the same. She gave him a brief tour, waving a hand at the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, her back to him the whole time.

She was mad. Nathan’s heart pounded wildly. He had to be honest with her.

Before he could speak, Libby spun around. “What do you want with me?”

He’d been wrong. She wasn’t mad; she was furious.

He blew out a long breath. “The truth?”

“Of course, the truth.” If she could have spit fire from her eyes, he would have been dead.

“I want to marry you.”

Anger turned to shock. “What?”

“Not right away. In the future. When we’re both ready.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Libby, do you believe in love at first sight?”

“No.”

He took her hands in his. “Me either. But the moment I saw you—it was like a tsunami rolled over me. I had to meet you. And you…you are more than I could have imagined.”

She made a frustrated noise. “Then why don’t you want to have sex with me?”

Nathan laughed. “Want to have sex with you? I’d donate my left testicle to have sex with you.” He lifted his sweater, showing her the unmistakable bulge underneath, and her eyes grew wide, which was a gratifying reaction. “I’ve spent this whole week with a three-alarm fire in my pants.”

Libby covered her mouth, laughing. “Me too, actually.”

He pulled her closer. “The thing is, I’m serious about you. About us. I don’t want to rush you or scare you off.”

She laughed again. “You just told me you want to marry me. That’s a lot scarier than sex.”

“I don’t want to have sex with you. I want to make love.”

She put his hand over her heart. “This is—you are—a lot. I’m…overwhelmed. But I haven’t run out the door. So you’re good. We’re good.”

She pulled off her sweater, revealing a form-fitting undershirt, which showed off her luscious curves. She didn’t take her eyes off him as she reached for the hem of the undershirt and pulled it over her head.

She was wearing a red bra. Red and lacy. Crap.

“Libby,” Nathan said, moving toward her powered by some caveman impulse he wasn’t used to, “I want to go slow and savor you, soon, but right now—” His fingers trembled as he traced the pattern of the lace over her nipples.

Her breath hitched. “Stop talking, Nathan. Just stop talking.”

One the eighth night of Hanukkah, Nathan had another party at his place. He asked Libby to invite Leah, Sarah, and Betsy, which was sweet, though she wanted him all to herself. She’d woken up that morning with his arms around her and an emotional swamp in her belly that was equal parts excitement and terror. She wasn’t ready to hear what Leah would have to say about her new…boyfriend?

Sarah marched through Nathan’s front door, saying, “I want to play dreidel.”

Libby rolled her eyes.

“It’s because she won last time,” Leah told Betsy.

“What did she win?”

“Chocolate.”

“Aha.” Betsy nodded. She knew her daughter.

Libby hadn’t decided whether she wanted to play it cool around her family and his friends, but Nathan burst out of his bedroom with an enthusiastic greeting for them and then pulled her into a heart-stopping kiss in front of everyone.

So that was that.

Leah gave her a we’ll talk later look but didn’t say anything. Through the candle lighting, games, and food, Nathan held her hand or draped an arm around her, planting little kisses on her shoulder and squeezing her hand, silent communication that he was thinking of her and glad she was there.

Libby was glad, too.

The party broke up early. When her family got ready to leave, Nathan pulled her aside. “Stay here tonight?”

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

He grinned. “We’ll have to do something about that next time. Stay anyway?” He pressed her into an alcove that had probably once held a telephone and kissed her and…how could she say no?

“I’m staying,” she told Leah.

“Is Nathan going to be my uncle?” Sarah asked.

Libby was going to say it was too soon for that, but Nathan popped in. “Could I? I’d like to be your uncle, Sarah. Because you’re the best at dreidel.”

“Okay,” Sarah said, holding out her hand to shake.

If Leah’s eyebrows could have left her face, they would have. “Changed your mind about moving fast?”

Libby shrugged. “It just happened.”

“Nothing just happens. Lunch. Tomorrow. You will tell me everything.” Leah leaned in for a goodbye hug and whispered in Libby’s ear, “The hot dog is way better than the chicken.”

“Hot dog?” Libby looked from Lean to Nathan then burst out laughing. “See you tomorrow.”

Libby hugged and kissed everyone goodbye, then turned to Nathan.

“What would you like?” he asked.

If this new thing was going to have any chance of working, Libby knew she had to be completely honest. “Leftover latkes in bed?”

He smiled and pulled her close. “You’re perfect,” he said.

And she was.

Want more? Subscribe and download before the end of January to get a free ebook of the whole collection.

Introducing the 12 Tropes of Christmas

/in /by

Six free romcom short stories for my subscribers!

Happy Holidays, romcom lovers! I’m rolling out a holiday special just for you: 12 beloved holiday tropes in six delicious, funny romcom short stories centered on one magical (fictional) block in San Francisco.

All you need to do is subscribe to my newsletter, Rom-Com Ratatouille. Your subscription is free. I send newsletters once a week-ish with romance book reviews and hot takes. In 2026, I’ll be starting my trope-of-the-month club with a fresh story for readers, based on your favorite tropes.

Sign up now so you don’t miss a thing!

Delicious romcom bonbons of holiday delight

What happens when…

…Jewish Santa meets the woman of his dreams—and has eight dates to convince her to be his girlfriend?

…two rival bakers turn up the heat for Christmas?

…a disaffected billionaire goes undercover as a barista for the holidays and meets an artist who turns his world inside out?

…a fake marriage that ends on Christmas Day has turned real for both women—but they don’t know how to tell each other?

…a grumpy Christmas shop owner hires the holiday’s biggest fan to work with her?

These stories are less spicy than my longer work (not enough room to do the intimate scenes justice in a short story). They include gay, sapphic, and male/female love stories.

Subscribe for free to get all these, plus a bonus epilogue with one more happy ending in a second chance, rock star romantic story.

How to get all the stories

It’s easy: enter your email and click the subscribe button below. You can unsubscribe at any time.

By subscribing to my newsletter, you’re helping me build my career as an author, making it more likely that publishers will want my books, and helping others find my writing.

If you like 12 Tropes of Christmas, please share this with a friend. Thank you for spreading the word!

12 Holiday Romcoms to Watch Every Year

/in /by

Holiday romcoms that have turned into perennial favorites.

About a dozen years ago, I tried to watch every available holiday romcom in the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was a big task then and impossible now, but I still have a holiday romcom festival this time of year. Watching these movies was what got me back into reading and writing romance, and I love them for that, so this week I’m taking a break from book reviews to recommend movies.

I watch these holiday romcoms every year, if I can, while ingesting many more sugary holiday movie treats of dubious quality. Here are 12 movies and series that never fail to please.

All-time favorite: 12 Dates of Christmas

Amy Smart is delightful in this take on Groundhog Day. She has to relive the same Christmas Eve until she gets over her hangups—and falls for the right guy.

Close second: Love Hard

A newer addition to my pantheon, this Netflix movie starts with catfishing but ends up being about what we gain when we stop chasing what we think we’re supposed to have, in life and relationships, and go for what works. That’s pretty standard, but the characters get there with a wonderful dose of snark and sass that lifts this one above the bland, cloying sweetness of too many holiday movies (that I will watch anyway because I’m a sucker for gooey sweet holiday romance, but still).

Not just Christmas: Holidate

This romance takes place over a longer period of time as the main characters accompany each other to holiday gatherings as a no-strings date. Of course, they fall in love, but they have a lot of fun along the way, and Christen Chenowith does a delightful turn as the randy aunt who also gets the guy.

Series: Dash and Lily

This limited series, based on the book Dash & Lily’s Book of Dares, links two NYC teens through a notebook where they send each other on adventures, each showing the other what they love about New York. I love New York, especially at Christmas, and the adaptation is a delightful romp through familiar and new places with two young people who think too much.

Bring on the kitsch: The Princess Switch

I am always down for a silly holiday romcom, and no one does it better than Vanessa Hudgens. She stars as the princess of a fictional European country and her American doppelganger. The two sequels are even better, because Hudgens adds a third identical but evil character and that’s delicious.

There are several other prince/princess holiday movies and I like them all, but The Princess Switch is my favorite.

Foreign entry: Christmas Flow

Another limited series, this three-part French movie pairs a feminist journalist with a rapper in trouble for some misogynistic lyrics. I love this one for its sincere heart, a mouthy grandma telling off the rapper for being sexist, and the wildly feminist characters who are much more radical than the women we generally see get to see happy endings in US movies.

Best reboot of favorite actors: A Castle for Christmas

A typical holiday romcom but with higher production values and a lovely Scottish setting, this one is worth watching for Brook Shields and Cary Elway, getting a second wind at taking a star turn and acing it.

Serious chemistry: The Noel Diary

This is the only movie on this list that isn’t a comedy, but this story of two people who go on a road trip together when they find a diary that links their pasts is heartfelt and real in a way that makes it stick out from the crowd.

Sweet among the sweets: The Holiday Calendar

This movie falls into the very large category of gently sweet stories sprinkled with holiday magic—in this case, a magical Advent calendar. I keep coming back to it because like the characters and the story.

It has an HEA, so…: Elf

Yes, Elf isn’t technically a romance, but there is a romance in it. This is the movie that made me like Will Ferrell, against my better judgment. I can’t go through a revolving door or ride an escalator without thinking about Buddy’s first time discovering them. Plus, it includes the late, great Bob Newhart as Papa Elf.

Meta holiday romcom: A Christmas Movie Christmas

Two sisters find themselves magically transported into a Christmas movie like the ones they like to watch. Many jokes on Christmas movie tropes ensue and I am totally there for it. My only beef is that one of the love interests is a Christmas movie stereotype to the point of being slightly creepy. This is a Christmas romcom fans of the genre will love.

Best classic: Christmas in Connecticut

No, not White Christmas, even though my boyfriend Danny Kaye was in that one because—racism. I like Christmas in Connecticut better anyway. A fast-talking Barbara Stanwyck writes a homemaking column for the paper, even though she doesn’t cook, isn’t married, and doesn’t have a child. When she’s asked to host a returning soldier for Christmas, she has to come up with all three pronto. It’s a delightful romp where the stuffed shirts get their comeuppance and we get to see a woman choosing to live her best life on her terms.

There are lots of other fun holiday movies out there. I intend to discover many more this year.

One note: I’m keenly aware of the lack of queer representation on my list. I haven’t seen all the queer holiday romcoms that have come out in the last few years, but the ones I have seen don’t make the cut, and that makes me sad. I’ll keep looking.

What are your favorite holiday romances, book or movie? Bonus points for queer representation.

Programming note

I’m cooking something special up just for subscribers. It’s holiday-themed and spicy and coming soon! You can subscribe for free to get the bonus content—and I hope you will.

11 Reasons I’m Grateful for Romance Novels

/in /by

Reading isn’t a solitary act.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate—and happy Thursday to everyone else! Here’s a note of thanks for some of the things I gain from being a romance reader all year long.

Something for every taste

How many romance titles are available for my reading pleasure? Exactly fifty gazillion, with more coming out every day. I can pluck a new title off the internet and discover a new author any day. Whether you want dark romance with villainous love interests who get it on in inappropriate places or small-town sweethearts who never mention the idea of having sex, there are enough romance novels to satisfy even the most voracious reader.

Cultural representation

I’m not here to say that romance has solved all its diversity issues, but among the gazillions of books out there is a growing number of books by writers of color, writers with different abilities, and writers of diverse gender and sexual preferences. I love the window into different experiences and forms of sexual expression I get from the books I read. I’ve learned what ACE and ARO mean, spent time inside the head of neuroatypical characters, and gotten a window into the worlds of people whose lived experience is vastly different from mine. The tension of a romantic relationship is a fantastic way to illuminate those differences.

Exploring new and old worlds

Beyond different human experiences, romance and romantasy take us to alien planets—and explore alien sex. The romance community has created shared universes like the Omegaverse (don’t ask me to explain—I’m just figuring it out myself), tropes like reverse harem (one she, several hes) and love stories involving vampires, witches, fairies, and more.

Historical romance brings bits of real or fictional history to life while reimagining women’s roles and exploring the agency women could have during a time when Western culture limited our autonomy. I’m here for that.

Smut with heart

Okay, it’s not all about the sex. Except it kind of is all about the sex. Because, in addition to being sexy, intimate scenes pull at my heartstrings the hardest.

Ebooks and audiobooks

I live in a small condo without a lot of room for bookshelves. I love taking a stack of books to read on vacation in my phone and always having a book with me wherever I go.

Delicious movie adaptations

There’s nothing like seeing a favorite book brought to life or discovering a book by seeing the movie first. The Hating Game, Red, White & Royal Blue, and The Bridgertons come to mind. Plus every adaptation of a Jane Austen novel (especially the BBC Pride and Prejudice—10/10, no notes). I’m sure there are many more and more to come.

Reader communities

I need an extra 20 hours in a day (and steady income from the sky so I don’t have to work) to read all the wonderful book suggestions from Instagram, r/romancebooks, Facebook reader groups, and other wonderful reader communities. Keep those suggestions coming!

Book hangovers

Yes, I’m tired after staying up till 3 a.m. because I had to find out how the MCs get back together, but I get to spend the day in the haze of an HEA, not an alcohol headache.

Book boyfriends and girlfriends

I love my wife. I would say she’s the love of my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m not crushed out on a cute and salty heroine or a fiercely loyal hero. Yum.

The library

I have a serious romance reading habit that would bankrupt me (and overflow the aforementioned tiny condo) if I had to purchase all the books I read. I love that my library includes lots of romance titles, including many from indie authors. It’s a great way to discover new authors. And don’t feel bad: by reading books from the library, you’re also supporting authors (libraries pay more for books than we do) and supporting a critical cultural institution that’s been increasingly under attack.

HEA

The happily ever after—a guarantee for every romance novel and what defines the genre—is everything. I love a happy ending and I believe in them. We don’t always get them in life, but I can always turn to a romance for a hard-fought and well-deserved HEA.

NaNoWriMo Is Dead—Long Live NaNoWriMo

I’ve been sporadic this month because a) work has been busy, b) I appear to be training for some kind of swim tournament (really just swimming more to lower my blood sugar—and it’s working), and c) NaNoWriMo. The nonprofit that ran the annual November novel writing challenge is defunct, for good reasons, but the communities of writers who love the challenge is alive and well.

For the last three years, I’ve written 50,000 words or more during the month of November. This year, I’ve managed to write every day, but without a single project to complete during the month and with a busy schedule, I’ve struggled with word count. I have almost 9,000 words to go. But I’m competitive AF, so I’m going to get there, dammit.

See you in December!

Books that Won’t let Me Go

/in /by

Deep End by Ali Hazelwood

I did not expect to write about Ali Hazelwood again so soon, but then I read Deep End and, well—I went off the deep end, metaphorically speaking. In the author’s note at the beginning, she says it’s her favorite book she’s written, and by the end, it was my favorite book of hers as well. And not just because of the fun callbacks to Olive and Adam from The Love Hypothesis, who are the main characters’ professors at Stanford.

I was recently hijacked by another book that was totally unexpected: I Got Abducted by Aliens and Now I’m Trapped in a Rom-Com by Kimberly Lemming.

Here’s my review of these two books and a list of other romances I can’t stop obsessing over.

Books I wasn’t done with after the last page

When I finish a romance novel—or movie, for that matter—I often go back to my favorite scenes before starting a new book. For me, that tends to be the third-act breakup and the reunion after it, their first kiss/getting together, or other pivotal scenes that move the love story forward.

How much rereading I feel compelled to do is part of my personal rating system for a book. If it was just meh, I might be done when I read the last page. Most of the time, though, I’ll go back to two or three scenes I want to savor again. But if a book has me by the throat and I simply don’t want it to end, I’ll go farther and farther back in the story, reading and rereading favorite scenes, savoring dialogue, spending more time with characters I can’t get enough of, and putting off starting the next book because I want to stay in this book’s world. It’s like having a great taste in my mouth after eating a dish that was perfectly seasoned; I’m sad when the next meal overrides the lovely flavor.

Some other books on my obsessive reread list:

Movies I keep rewatching:

  • What’s Up, Doc?
  • Clueless
  • French Kiss
  • 12 Dates of Christmas
  • Holidate
  • Love Hard
  • Many others, too numerous to name—mostly holiday romcoms because I am a sucker for them.

Deep End grabbed me and wouldn’t let go

In many ways, Deep End is a typical Ali Hazelwood romance: socially awkward heroine meets tall, handsome man of few words who’s totally smitten with her. In Hazelwood’s expert hands, the formula works and I’m here for it, but there was more in this book for me.

Scarlett Vandermeer is an elite-level platform diver who was injured by a bad dive the year before the action starts. She still can’t do the type of dive—inward—that she was doing when she got hurt. Although she’s physically fine, she struggles with a mental block. And, for me, I think this was the particular hook because I’ve been struggling with a mental block about a physical activity I love (riding a bike) and slowly working my way back to feeling comfortable doing something I used to do with ease and joy. So I was right there with Scarlett the whole way.

Another thing that hooked me was the slow, intense burn of Scarlett’s budding relationship with Lukas. They explore BDSM, a long-time desire and first for both of them. But what makes the sex so mesmerizing is the emotional heft of it, the way Scarlett describes being pulled apart and reconstructed by it, and feeling truly seen, the trust and care they give each other.

Add in Hazelwood’s humor and vibrant supporting characters, and this is a book I’ll savor for a long time.

  • Humor level: low-key funny and serious by turns
  • Spice level: super spicy
  • Tropes: sub/dom power play, overcoming mental challenges, elite athletes, STEM

My first alien: I Got Abducted by Aliens and Now I’m Trapped in a Rom-Com by Kimberly Lemming

When my romance writer friends start talking about reader preferences and where readers will or will not follow a writer, I’m baffled. I’m not like that, I say. I read and enjoy MM, MF, FF, and trans/nonbinary love stories. I read authors of different races and cultures. I’m broad in my tastes.

But I’m a big liar. Because the truth is, there are more romance subgenres I don’t read than ones I do. I DNF’d my first Colleen Hoover on page two because it was too violent for me. I only pick up books with magic in them by accident and I’ve never read a romantasy. Mafia, why choose, and reverse harem are tropes I know about in theory but haven’t read.

And I need to get over myself. Because when I accidentally read a romance with witches, I like it. And I also liked Kimerly Lemming’s sci-fi romp, I Got Abducted by Aliens and Now I’m Trapped in a Rom-Com.

I only picked up the book because the title made me laugh and the cover art, reminiscent of a B-movie poster from the 50s, also made me laugh. And then I read the book and it really made me laugh—and reconsider my narrow reading preferences.

Lemming’s novel, a delightful take on The Wizard of Oz, has Dorothy whisked away by aliens to a terraformed planet. Only, the aliens didn’t have much time to study Earth (budget cuts), and they’ve gotten a lot wrong.

Dorothy’s love interests are horned, hooved aliens, Lok and Sol, who bicker for her affection and attention as the trio becomes more bonded. So I guess I’ve read my first why choose romance? Look at me being all open-minded!

The book includes a talking lion, talking owls, a pink dinosaur, and much more mayhem. I loved it. It stayed with me and I’d recommend it, no matter what kind of romances you think you like.

  • Humor level: one of the funniest romcoms I’ve read in a long time
  • Spice level: lots of 3-way spicy human/alien sex, including one sexual encounter that ends in one of the funniest scenes in the book
  • Tropes: Wizard of Oz retelling, sci-fi, why choose

Author Interview: Alyssa Jarrett Puts the “Com” in Rom-Com

/in , /by

Plus her new holiday novella, Love Me Merrily

If you, like me, are a fan of romantic comedy with an emphasis on the comedy, you’ll love Alyssa Jarrett’s Glam Fam series. Centered on a group of friends in the entourage of a wealthy influencer, the books are peppered with spicy observations about Bay Area culture, the tech world, and family relations. Her tagline, “Romcom with extra com,” is spot on.

I recently spoke with Alyssa about her books, her choice to be fully herself as an author and through her characters, and what’s next for the Glam Fam.

I’ve summarized some of our conversation below, but you should watch the full interview to hear what Alyssa has to say (and ignore me — I clearly have a lot to learn about being on video). You’ll want to hear her articulate, funny, and irreverent take on being an indie author, sharing her Armenian heritage, and writing about an elite rock climber when she’s a “self-described bougie bitch.”

What would it be like to be them?

Alyssa Jarrett has published three full-length novels: Love Apptually, Love on the Rocks, and Love and Paklava. But it turns out the first book she wrote will be the last one in the series: the love story of Alex, a daughter of wealth turned influencer who’s the center of the eclectic group of stylists who call themselves the Glam Fam.

The origin story for the series starts over a decade ago, when Jarrett was going through a breakup with her high school sweetheart and wondered what it would be like to be famous and have the whole world watch you walk through that. In the end, though, “I saved Alex’s story for last because a millionaire heiress wasn’t the most relatable,” she says.

In Love on the Rocks, Jarrett asked herself a similar question after watching Free Solo and wondering what it would be like to be the girlfriend of an elite athlete so focused on his sport. The result is a funny and tender collision of two very different worlds, along with some very detailed advice on rock climbing.

In her other two books, however, she explores more personal themes.

Paying homage to her community

When asked whether the Bay Area-centric humor poking fun at tech culture in Love Apptually will translate to readers who aren’t local, Jarrett says, “As for the inside baseball of it all, I know there are some elements that people may not understand.” But, she adds, “I set out to write a book that I knew the people around me would appreciate, and I think I did that.”

Paying homage to her community is important to Jarrett. “Am I going to be Colleen Hoover famous? Probably not,” she says. Telling stories that are authentic to her is more important.

With Love and Paklava, she gets even more personal, building a love story around an Armenian baker from Fresno, where she grew up. It wasn’t until she went to college in Santa Cruz that she realized most people don’t know much about Armenia or the Armenian genocide, which preceded the Holocaust of World War II and was one of the events that emboldened Hitler. “[The Armenian genocide] continues to have a ripple effect even now,” she says.

But Jarrett wanted to show “modern-day resilience and love and joy” in her community through her rom-com, and she succeeds. Bonus: the book includes the hero’s scene-stealing grandmother, Queenie, based on Jarrett’s real-life grandfather and the source of very funny interjections into the romance between the baker and the punk-rocking aesthetician.

Love Me Merrily: A holiday novella that turns up the heat

Jarrett wrote the holiday romance Love Me Merrily because, she says, “I wanted to see Summer [a side character from Love on the Rocks] have a happy ending.” Also, “I wanted to talk about grief as it relates to the holidays.”

The love interest in this novella, set in a wintry Yosemite National Park, is the brother of one of the Glam Fam. As in her other books, Jarrett deals thoughtfully with trauma, loss, and anxiety, while also delivering a big dose of humor and a lot of spice.

When asked why an out-and-proud atheist would write a holiday romance, Jarrett said that adding a little punk rock to the season was a way to reclaim a time of year that’s not her favorite — on her own terms.

  • Humor: Without the funny asides of the full-length books, but still spiked with wit.
  • Spice level: Steamy.
  • Tropes: love after loss, winter in Yosemite,  getting snowed in, hating the holidays, dry humping, elder emos, atheist Christmas, mental health issues/anxiety/agoraphobia

Watch the full video interview on my Substack.

Subscribe to my Substack to get a column in your inbox every week — plus subscriber-only goodies. It’s free!

In Defense of the Third-Act Breakup

/in /by

A breakup with a purpose

I think there’s a trend bubbling up in the romance world. I’ve started to see “no third act breakup” as one of the selling points for new books. So I’m guessing some people don’t like the third-act breakup and are looking for books without them?

And I’m here to say, what’s up with that? The third-act breakup rules!

The rules of romance

From my years of reading romance and, more explicitly, when I started studying and writing romance, there is only one hard and fast rule: the main characters must be happily together at the end of the book, either happily ever after (HEA) or happy for now (HFN). They can start out as friends, enemies, or strangers; the spice level can range from steamy, on-page sex to a chaste kiss on the last page; and the action can revolve around the characters’ battle to overcome their own or each other’s resistance, an external challenge, or both. They can be m/f, m/m, f/f, a reverse harem, aliens with humans, fairies, tentacled—whatever a romance author can imagine.

But there are a couple of other things that, while not unbreakable rules, are essential to a good romance. First, the characters must have a reason for not being together—otherwise the book will be very short. She’s been burned one time too many and has given up on relationships. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of love. They’re in love with someone forbidden to them, by their own or society’s rules, and they must overcome that baggage to find happiness. And that’s why the third-act breakup is practically essential.

The magic of the third-act breakup

Romances on the page tend to happen in a shorter time than romances in real life. In the real world, sane people probably want to date for at least a few months before they decide they’re serious about someone. The falling in love action is compressed on the page, often to a few weeks or even a few days.

The third-act breakup serves as proof of concept, both for the characters and the reader. Sure, she thinks she’s in love with him, but her misery after she pushes him away because his high-born, Victorian family won’t accept him marrying a bluestocking shows us that her feelings are real.

The third-act breakup also serves to push the characters to where they need to be to get together. She isn’t willing to admit that she’d be happy moving to her girlfriend’s ranch and leaving the city behind until she realizes how empty her city life is without the woman she loves. He rushes to the airport to catch her before she gets on that plane or plans a grand gesture to show her how much he loves her.

Characters face their fears and uncertainties in the third act. It’s the “will they or won’t they?” moment when the lovers step out of their bubble of infatuation and are forced to decide if this is a love that can last long-term. It’s when they make the hard choices that they need to carry them to their HEA.

Can a romance be good without a third-act breakup?

The joy of any rule or trope is in subverting it. I have read very few romances without a third-act breakup, but I haven’t disliked them. In fact, I was somewhat in awe as I got to the end of Icebreaker by Hannah Grace and realized that the main couple had stayed steady from when they got together to the end of the book, and it had held my attention.

Maybe there’s a move to break out of the binds of the third-act breakup, and perhaps that will shake up the genre. I, however, will continue to pine for the moment when the lovers pine for each other.

Let’s Connect