Apparently Cowboys Were the Cure

At some point over the last few years, I got really good at one thing: starting over.

A new project every other month. A new shiny idea. A new cast of characters talking in the back of my head just loud enough to convince me this one was the one, right up until the next idea came along and I left another half-finished story in the dust.

For a while, I told myself maybe I’d forgotten how to tell a good story. But the truth was a lot less dramatic and a lot more frustrating. I hadn’t forgotten how to write. I’d just fallen into the habit of not finishing. Fear has a funny way of messing with your head. Add in a world that feels a little crazier than usual lately, it was a lot easier to disappear into books I was reading than face what happened when I finally finished something.

Then somewhere in the glorious clarity of my forties, something in me finally snapped in the best possible way.

I stopped worrying about whether the story was the “right” one, whether anyone would want to read it, whether it would be judged, whether I’d somehow lost whatever magic used to make this easier, and basically landed on, f**k it, just finish the damn book.

What I did not expect was for the book that pulled me out of that spiral to come along wearing cowboy boots.

It started with an image the heroine climbing out a window and coming face-chest with a man in a cowboy hat, and they did not like each other. If you’ve read enough of my books you’ve probably picked up on my love for the enemies to lovers trope.

It took exactly sixty seconds to fall for Trick, and another minute to piece together the perfect woman to bring him to his knees. And then suddenly there was Meadow’s Edge, a whole town of country roads, small town secrets, stubborn heroines, and heroes who feel like trouble until they fall hard.

And just like that, I remembered that storytelling is still the thing I love to do most in this world. Maybe even more than reading, which is saying something.

More than anything, I’ve missed sharing the people in my head with readers who want to escape into their adventures too. Because if one of these new stories lets you disappear for a little while and feel what I felt while writing it, that’s the only magic that counts.

Love, Sydney