On revisiting older work, writing to market, and trusting the
quieter parts of a story.

When I first wrote Arizona Dreams and Déjà Vu Dreams, I made a choice that felt practical at the time. I included on-page intimacy because I believed that was what the market expected. I wasn’t uncomfortable with romance itself—I’ve always been drawn to love stories, especially later-in-
life ones—but I assumed that writing “properly” for the genre meant including scenes I didn’t naturally gravitate toward.

For a long time, I didn’t question that assumption.

But years—and many books—have a way of clarifying things.

As I continued writing, I noticed a pattern in the parts of stories that mattered most to me: quiet moments, emotional connection, memory, longing, the slow unfolding of trust. The scenes I returned to weren’t the ones built around physical intimacy, but the ones shaped by conversation,
shared history, and the feeling that two people had finally found their way to each other.

When I revisited these earlier books, that realization became impossible to ignore.

The heart of these stories was never in the sex scenes. It was in the characters themselves—in Sharon finding her footing again after loss, in Joseph’s steadiness, in the way love can feel both familiar and surprising later in life. Removing on-page intimacy didn’t hollow the stories out. If
anything, it gave the emotional core more room to breathe.

So I made a quiet decision.

I refreshed these books as clean, closed-door romances—not to erase what came before, and not because there’s anything wrong with writing explicit scenes, but because this version reflects the writer I actually am. It aligns the story on the page with the story I intended to tell all along.

I’ve come to believe that writing isn’t just about learning the market. It’s about listening—to your characters, to your instincts, and to the kind of stories that feel true when you sit down at the keyboard.

These books feel truer to me now.

And if you’re someone who reads for emotional connection, reflection, and second chances rather than on-page heat, I think they may feel truer to you as well.

I’m glad to have the chance to return to them—this time, without pretending to be someone else.

Have you ever returned to something you made years ago and realized it wanted to be slightly different than you first imagined?