Today, I'm thinking about one reason why I write historical romance--my Mom. She put books in my hands, and she loved history. Her own family history fascinated her. Her father left England as a boy for Canada and then California. Her mother's Irish ancestors also made their way to California. Her great-grandfather on her mother's side was in a stage-coach hold up near Sacramento. He held a dying man in his arms, and the man gave my great-great grandfather a blood-stained mine claim.
It was my mother's English relatives she desperately wanted to meet as she grew up and as a World War consumed them. She wrote regularly to those cousins until she was able for the first time to visit them in 1965. She found her grandmother's house, pictured below, and in the days before TSA, she smuggled home in her carry on, a tie iron, a not insignificant piece of ironmongery, from this house. I have it on my hearth. Recently she and I used Google Earth to find the house again.
Today, Mom's with the angels, while her children and grandchildren tell the stories she left us as a legacy. Her tiniest great-grandchild, on seeing her for the last time, said, "Angel, Heaven."
And in the last phone call of a long day, my first born whispered to me that my mother's next great-grandchild is on the way. My mother's story is like the one's we love best and the one's we want to share with our readers--full of love, laughter, and adventure.
"Let it not be a death but completeness."--Rabindranath Tagore