You might not agree that after a lifetime of pulling teeth, becoming a romance writer is the perfect second profession, but hear me out. How often during an appointment after the dentist has wedged sharp pointing things into your mouth do they ask you a question? There is no way to answer safely without your tongue being thrashed by the mini jackhammer. I was never that kind of dentist. Sure, I used torturous weapons to improve your teeth, but I never asked questions. Why would I when I had a captive audience forced to listen to my stories? In retirement, I have lost my trapped listeners, so now I convert my orations to books.

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After 12 years of catholic education, where the nuns told me because I couldn’t spell and my handwriting was terrible, I wouldn’t amount to anything in the arts, instead I concentrated on science subjects. Did they push me into a different career? Who knows, but now many years later I have found my way back to writing.

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The trigger was a slow day at work where, between patients, I wrote a two-page synopsis for a story loosely based around a friend’s work place. Everyone would get a happy ending after a few laughs and some tears. On a whim I sent it to my friend, who insisted I turn it into a book. Encouraged, I took the big step in teaching myself the art of novel writing and now I hope you enjoy my outpourings.