August 2021

Dear Reader,

I fell in love with romance novels when I was 11 years old, on a family vacation with my cousins—one of whom had smuggled two very risqué (to my thinking) novels along in her bag and offered them to me for sneaky reading long after lights out: Wishes by Jude Deveraux and My Darling Melissa by Linda Lael Miller. (Thank you, cuz.)

After that, there was no keeping me from romances, not even by stern-faced librarian Martha. Week after week each summer, she would eye my stack of paperbacks from the shelf along the back wall—the spines stamped with heart stickers underneath their lamination—and make a disapproving noise in the back of her throat…but she never stopped me from checking them out and sliding them into my backpack before I hopped on my bike for home. (Thank you, Martha.)

In my sophomore year of college, struggling with what I now know to be anxiety from post-traumatic stress, a friend on my dorm floor found me under the covers, skipping class and uninterested in anything but sleep. After dragging me to the cafeteria, she tucked me back into bed, made me a cup of tea, and brought me her copy of Romancing Mr. Bridgerton by Julia Quinn. It was the first romance novel I’d read in a couple of years, and I’d forgotten what it was like to get lost in a book with a guaranteed happily ever after. After I devoured it in one night, this friend brought me more “happy books,” and in doing so helped me begin to crawl out of the dark. (Thank you, friend.)

That was when I learned to use romance novels as a means of healing. Whenever I felt myself slipping, I’d spend a few hours—or days—lost in romance. I remember the first time a romance novel made me laugh out loud in the quiet of a tiny (and haunted, I swear) apartment: Kresley Cole’s Wicked Deeds on a Winter’s Night; I still read it about once a year, for over a decade now. I found Julie James’ Practice Makes Perfect. I eventually lost (and found) myself in the Psy-Changeling series by Nalini Singh, to the point where I named my dog for one of her characters in the series. I’ve reread both Scandal in Spring and Love in the Afternoon by Lisa Kleypas so often the glue holding the mass-market covers in place disintegrated—same with Loretta Chase’s Mr. Impossible. Lucy Parker’s Act Like It and Pretty Face repeatedly transported me when I was trapped in place. Shadowdance by Kristen Callihan made my heart squeeze; Meredith Duran’s Wicked Becomes You made me want to sing again; About Last Night by Ruthie Knox knocked me on my heels; Model Behavior by Tamara Morgan kept me smiling for days afterward; Cara McKenna’s Curio, Alisha Rai’s Hot as Hades, Charlotte Stein’s Beyond Repair, Tessa Bailey’s Worked Up; The Chocolate Kiss by Laura Florand, The Kraken King by Meljean Brook, Mating the Huntress by Talia Hibbert, A Rake’s Guide to Seduction by Caroline Linden, Three Nights with a Scoundrel by Tessa Dare—I may have lost track of the number of books I’ve read, but I never forget the books that reached beneath my sternum and lodged there, like anchors. (Thank you, authors.)

Then, at age 23, I became a published romance author: first with Berkley (Penguin Random House), then Samhain (a now-shuttered digital publisher), then as an indie, and then with Harlequin (HarperCollins). I had seven fascinating years writing historical romance, contemporary romance, and romantic suspense novels, before realizing I wasn’t able to manage a fast-paced corporate job alongside a publishing schedule. Cue my author “sabbatical.”

Several years passed where I fully believed my sabbatical would be temporary, but in early 2021 I made the decision to work through the rights-reversion process. It is with mixed emotions that I share I have now pulled all of my standalone works from publication and distribution, with no intent to republish them in the future.

Thank you to those who read Caro and Vaughn (“Shameless”), Moira and Del (Wild Burn), Claudia and Gaspard (The Comte), Fiona and Declan (Stripped), Sadie and Ryan (Sparked), Beth and Vick (Blamed), Chandler and Tobias (Ripped), and Ilda and Casey (Crazed). Thank you to the editors who made me a better writer, to the publishers who took a shot on the experiment that was my authorial career in romance, and, most vitally, to the family and friends who helped me pick up the pieces in the past few years so I could reach this place and bid adieu to the Edie Harris chapter of my writing journey.

That said…there’s a second act for me as an author, I know it. Let’s simply consider the retirement of this pen name a mere “intermission” in what I hope will be a lifelong writing career.

Romance novels are literary wonders. They can awaken you, challenge you, show you what a healthy (or unhealthy) relationship looks like, promise you hope and love on the other side of pain and loss; they can even save your life. I believe this with my whole heart. When I’m a crotchety old lady, and the sun finally sets on my life, I hope I pass with a stack of romances on my bedside table—pages dog-eared and spines cracked, of course…I’m not perfect.

xoxo,
Edie