My debut year has ended in December with publication of “The Heir,” a Regency romance involving—who would have thought?—a damsel, a swain, some struggles, some lovin’, some more struggles, some more lovin’, and a happily ever after. And I confess, though it’s lovely and a Wish Come True to see the book in print, there’s an element of post-partum depression about the whole experience. You write for several years, hoping, hoping, hoping, and cadging whatever wisdom and guidance you can from wherever you can find it. You sink money into conferences, craft books, workshops, paraphernalia, a decent computer, and another decent computer when the first one goes up in smoke at the exact worst moment. You make writing connections, maybe even writing buddies (yo, Robin). You scrape together all your courage (or in my case, a couple of White Russians) and tackle the much dreaded Pitch. You send off queries, quer...
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