Finding Your Genre: Grief, a Pandemic, and a Blind Date by Rosemarie Dillon

Once upon a time, I wrote fantasy.

My mind gave birth to gorgeous characters and creatures…until eventually, the daunting task of world building brought those journeys to an irreverent halt. You see, I’d never been much of a plotter. I sat squarely in the center of the plotter/pantser venn diagram—not quite able to control my characters’ actions. Somewhere down the line, I’d lose interest in the middle of the hero’s journey. I hadn’t the patience for hurtling a block, and the story just sort of fizzled out.

It wasn’t until I was in the darkest moments of my life that I discovered just why my writing had stalled. I wasn’t writing in the right genre. Throughout my early life as a reader, I’d strictly been drawn to fantasy. Usually, thanks to my OCD and fear of change, once I pick a lane, I typically stay in it. It wasn’t until one day, while in the throes of grief, that I took a chance.

I had just suffered pregnancy loss and quite honestly, struggled to find the joy in anything. I often turned to my longtime comfort, books. My local bookstore had been hosting a “blind date with a book” event. Romance novels were wrapped in brown paper, with nothing but a brief description. It wasn’t my usual choice for reading, but the description did something I hadn’t done genuinely in some time. It made me smile. So, I bought it, ripped open the package, and came face to face with the first of hundreds of contemporary romance novels I’d read.

It was a fun ride, making me giggle, and blush. I ate up the words in mere hours. I put the book on my shelf with a satisfied plunk and went about my business. I found it remarkable that words on paper could help pull my head above water for a moment of peace. Of course, grief is a curious beast and I was soon back in the murky depths. Then the world was graced with a global pandemic and we were forced to shelter in place. It hadn’t helped my depression, and I found myself floundering for a momentary escape. Dusting off the months-worth of neglect, I re-cracked the spine of the contemporary romance. Then I bought another, and another, and another, until I was utterly hooked.

To my great shock, contemporary romance not only gave a reader butterflies, but the stories often tackled themes like mental health, death, and drug abuse. Characters were fully fleshed and had individual flaws that they would work on amidst their romantic adventures. It spoke to the very real pain that hid in my heart. But the best part? The romance genre guarantees a happy ending. It was a balm for the rawness in my heart.

It gave me the itch to write again. I hadn’t written in years and to have the tiniest bit of sunshine find me in the darkness had me desperately grabbing hold. So, I wrote a contemporary romance. And laughed. And smiled again. The words hadn’t dried up in my brain. Countless new ideas flooded me, unlike the wall I’d hit writing fantasy. At first, writing romance was just for me. To send a lifeboat out to the sinking ship that was my soul. But then I shifted. I thought about all the people who were struggling. Whether it was mental health or loss, I wanted to send my little lifeboat out to them too. Writing and reading romance made me happy. And I finally understood that I deserved that much. If my writing could help another feel a ray of sun touch their heart, then I could count that as a success. It took loss, a worldwide pandemic, and a blind date to show me my path. And I’ll never look back.

Rosemarie Dillon lives in New York with her family. When she isn’t working her nine to five, she’s writing in her closet office, reading under her pile of children, or actively keeping her toddler from jumping off the highest ledge he can find. She has written and illustrated two children’s books with adult novels in the works. To stay updated on Rosemarie’s current projects, visit her website https://www.rosemariedillon.com/.