LUCIA MARIN

For all Trory and Lit fans:

Because words are beautiful, because everyone deserves to own a private little fantasy, because everyone should scream it to the world. It takes better form there in technicolor. Read on.

You'll like it. Like Chad Michael Murray's torso. Or Milo Ventimiglia's mouth. I promise.

Enjoy,

Luce

This, for all the people who've been here with me since the beginning or come along the way as ships changed, who've read me since '99, who've offered me so much encouragement:

My courage has been flagging for so long that even though I write and write, I've all but given up hope that i'll be published soon. The old themse, love, are all there is on this earth. Mostly I think I want to write YA novels, because for teenagers, it's still ok to dream, to obsess, to want, to crush, to fantasize non-pornographically (sometimes).
I just wanted to thank everyone who's left a kind word or constructive, encouraging review for the last six, seven years. I don't think you all realize how much you've shaped me as a writer, and I should've given you the credit long before this.
You will always be remembered fondly. Sometimes I have these weird dreams that some of the intuitive readers (whose reviews I've always kept a hopeful eye out for and whom I respect as writers) will all be living in New York, and we'll somehow randomly stumble accross each other, and form a writing group in some basement bar/coffeehouse where we can rave about intelligent romance and sexy sex and brilliant smut and bad boys with brains and writing, writing, writing, nothing but writing.
You were crucially formative, for lighting that hope and starting that dream, exposing me to the world of 'publishing' and helping me to understand what the reader longs for when they read a love story.

So for that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Someday I hope to pen a serious love story -still using the name Lucia Marin - that you'll want to take home and keep and re-read - as a tribute to all of you. It might have a good girl in a plaid school skirt mouthing off in it.

Yours,
luce