I went to my bookshelf to find a paranormal romance. My next story I think is going to be a romance. Other stuff happens, of course. They get slammed with a spell that takes them back into the past and my main character, Miranda has to figure out how to save them and to do that she has to strengthen her own magic, that she has mostly ignored for years, and they have to figure out the bad guy and why the trap was set, but ...
But that's not the main point of this story. At least not the point I'm going for. The point is making time with a guy she's had a crush on for the last ten years. So I went to look for a paranormal romance so I can read it looking at how it is done. How the romance is the main point, but all the other stuff happens too. How the danger they're in drives the romance instead of the other way around. A suspense romance would probably work too.
So I look for a book to read how someone else has done it and I realize....
I have a lot of books. A LOT of books.
These are next to my chair, in the living room.
The kid's books.
The books in my sewing/writing room. (These really are mostly sewing or writing books, at least.)
The main bookshelf in the study. Don't tell Hubby that they're double-stacked where ever double-stacking will fit. He'd probably guess if he ever really looked at the bookshelf, but he hates double-stacking so we both just pretend they're all normal. The neatly organized white bookshelf to the left is his shelf of gaming books. I'm not allowed to touch that one. My books DO NOT go there.
Is it time for the admitting I might have a problem?