Laboring through my parents’ lilac bushes with a bow saw in one hand and a wicked-looking clipper in the other, not a single thought was spared yesterday for the late 18th century love practices of my fictitious folk.
However, as I was warring with myself as to whether whacking a bush off at its shaggy, uncooperative ankles would be paramount to murder in Mother Nature’s eyes, I did decide to give this whole Women’s Fiction genre a go with my new book.
It won’t be so much a complete change of concept from Historical Romance, after all. It will simply be a refocusing of point of view.
I can do it.
Heck, it’s got to be easier than bush-dressing.