Guest blog by Shelli Rosewarne, author of Follow the White Rabbit
It’s wonderful to be here, and I’d like to talk a little about why I write in the genre I do. I write romance, but most of my stories will tend to have some aspect of fantasy or paranormal as well. I love the idea of magic, when I was a kid all the stories I loved most were about wizards, witches, fairies and other magical creatures. When I got older I moved onto fantasy books, sticking with the theme and I still love them today, along with ‘urban fantasy’. Although most of the books I write have some element of magic or paranormal they are generally set in the modern day world. After all, there’s something very appealing about the idea that there might be so much more to this world than we realise 🙂
I think that’s probably one of the things that attracts me to romance as well, both in reading and writing it — the fact that a love-story has its own special and unique kind of magic. It’s about two people fighting their own battles and their own inner demons in order to be able to find their ‘happy-after-after’. I’m always slightly baffled by people who seem to think that romance is not ‘deep’ enough. Love is surely something that everyone can relate to, that can connect people around the world who may have nothing else in common, that underpins everything in life. If we can’t find fairies at the bottom of the garden then we can find our own magic in the world around us.
If nothing else there’s surely magic in the opening of a book, the ability to be transported to another place, another time, another world. The chance to hear words from someone who we have never met, but can still feel a unique connection to. I know that I will probably never meet many of my favourite authors, yet they have touched my life in a hugely significant way through their words on the page. I have laughed and cried with them, I have felt for their characters every step of their journey, I have drifted away and escaped my own reality for a while. That for me is a kind of magic, and my greatest hope in my writing is that it can do that for someone else. What do you think, what’s your favourite thing about romance writing?
Shelli Rosewarne is a paranormal romance writer. She’s currently published with Breathless Press and lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, where she’s lucky enough to be able to see castles every day and be constantly inspired by Scottish folklore. You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter or at her blog:
Follow the White Rabbit Blurb:
In Wonderland the strange and magical is everyday, but when a woman who can’t remember her own name meets a shape-shifting cat, anything can happen.
Mary Ann doesn’t remember her life before she wandered into the Woods of Forgetfulness. She doesn’t remember who she was, where she came from, or even her real name—and she’s given up on anyone coming to look for her. Now, she works for the White Rabbit, and if she’s not deliriously happy at least her life is content.
Until, that is, she comes across a Cheshire Cat, a rare shape-shifter, who may be about to turn her life upside down.
In Wonderland, things are rarely what they seem.
He put a finger underneath her chin, his touch light but firm as he forced her head up to meet his gaze. Mary Ann shifted uncomfortably.
“I think so. I don’t really know,” she whispered, and when his brow rose in query, she added in a rush. “I lost my memory in the Woods of Forgetfulness, I don’t know who I am, or where I come from, or even what my real name is. Everything before I went in there is just a blank.”
His face softened suddenly. “Surely, someone is looking for you then?”
Mary Ann was embarrassed to feel tears burn her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. “If anyone was looking for me then they would have found me by now. Obviously no one cares.”
The silence stretched out, and she forced herself to open her eyes, needing to see his face, though half-expecting there to be disgust etched on it. She was pathetic; apparently she couldn’t even do a one-night stand without fucking it up before it even started. He was staring at her, but the look on his face was odd and unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just feel so alone sometimes, I think I’m going mad.”
A small smile curved his full lips. “We’re all mad here, little mouse.”
She found herself reluctantly smiling back. Perhaps he was right. His smile suddenly broadened into that wide grin.
“I think perhaps you need to see something strange and beautiful.”