I was told, by an unassuming and well-meaning author early in my efforts to write professionally, that I’d make a good romance writer. As a female author, I’d make enough money writing love scenes, dreaming up those handsome hunks with six-packs who a female character would pine-over, that I could feed my daughter as a single-mother. Something about that bugged me. I wasn’t sure at first what irked me so much about the suggestion, but after sitting with the thought, I figured that it hit the epi-genetic trauma button. I didn’t want to play by the rules, even if it meant the potential for more money. I didn’t want to compromise my art. I didn’t want to exploit the female voice to gain a monetary prize.