Oh, that title ought to drive Google crazy. But there it is. I had to just get it right out there in the open and share, because my book, His Mistress by Morning, was recently featured in an article, Why Foreplay for Women is a Novel Concept, in the Irish Independent newspaper. I think the funny part of the article is how shocked the author was to find, sex, yes sex, in the book a 64 year old granny was reading. My book, to be exact.

I like the idea of my book in Ireland, the land of my ancestors (O’Briens, Sampsons, and a load of other good, honest Irishmen), but I think I like it more that my book is being read—and enjoyed and well, enjoyed beyond the reading experience. I don’t think it should come as a shock to anyone that romance novels give a certain satisfaction. God knows doing the laundry, shopping and vacuuming aren’t cutting it. But one thing that I think this article misses as it explores how romance novels help women have more satisfying love lives and that the sales of romance novels are rising, despite the recession, is that when a woman sits down and reads, she is giving herself time and an excuse to put her feet up and be a bit selfish. No, not selfish in the bad way, but selfish in that she is taking care of herself.

I suppose there are worse things than being dubbed “Female Viagra” in the Irish press. Until they invent a man willing to do the carpooling, make the beds, change sheets, cook dinner and fill out endless forms for kids summer camps, then romance novels will continue to help those of us who do have to do those things get into a mood other than plotting a novel where ones husband mysteriously disappears and is replaced by Dirk the wonder pool boy. I’m not saying I’m plotting that . . . but there are days.