Yes, that was me yesterday on the PATH train: eating a chocolate truffle, listening to Donizetti’s “Elixir of Love” (can there be anything better than that opera—I’m totally obsessed with it—it’s so joyous!) and reading the new Eloisa James novel, Kiss Me, Annabel. "Eloisa" is a friend and colleague--hers are the only real romance novels I've tried--beyond some pretty tatsy chick-lit. But please don’t stage an intervention—I’m enjoying it too much. And, if you want an interesting diversion, head over to a group blog of romance writers. The tone is very welcoming—the ethos there seems to be the opposite of many so-called serious writers—not "stand back amazed at my intelligence," but "I’m a working mom, just like you. I love shoes! Here’s how I wrote my books. Give it a whirl."
I spare you the twists and turns of my cogitations, for no conclusion was found on the road to Headingly, and I ask you to suppose that I soon found out my mistake about the turning and retraced my steps to Fernham.
--Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own (1929)