Be My Valentine by Debbie Macomber Page A

Jo Ann who’d been writing and submitting manuscripts for more than three years. Personally, Bailey didn’t think it would take her that long to sell a book. For one thing, she had more time to write than her friend. Jo Ann was married, the mother of two school-age children, plus she worked full-time. Another reason Bailey felt assured of success was that she had a romantic heart. Nearly everyone in their writers’ group had said so. Not that it had done her any good when it came to finding a man of her own, but in the romance-writing business, a sensitive nature was clearly an asset.
    Bailey prayed that all her creative whimsy, all her romantic perceptions, would be brilliantly conveyed on the pages of Forever Yours. They were, too—except for Michael, who seemed bent on giving her problems.
    Men had always been an enigma to her, Bailey mused, so it was unreasonable to expect that to be any different now.
    â€œSomething else that might help you…” Jo Ann began thoughtfully.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWriters’ Input recently published a book on characterization. I read a review of it, and as I recall, the author claims the best way to learn is to observe. It sounded rather abstract at the time, but I’ve had a chance to think about it, and you know? It makes sense.”
    â€œIn other words,” Bailey mused aloud, “what I really need is a model.” She frowned. “I sometimes think I wouldn’t recognize a hero if one hit me over the head.”
    No sooner had the words left her mouth than a dull object smacked the side of her head.
    Bailey let out a sharp cry and rubbed the tender spot, twisting around to glare at the villain who was strolling casually past. She wasn’t hurt so much as surprised.
    â€œHey, watch it!” she cried.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” a man said crisply, continuing down the crowded aisle. He carried a briefcase in one hand, with his umbrella tucked under his arm. As far as Bailey could determine, the umbrella handle had been the culprit. She scowled after him. The least he could’ve done was inquire if she’d been hurt.
    â€œYou’re coming to the meeting tonight, aren’t you?” Jo Ann asked. The subway came to a stop, which lowered the noise level enough for them to continue their conversation without raising their voices. “Libby McDonald’s going to be there.” Libby had published several popular romances and was in the San Francisco area visiting relatives. Their romance writers’ group was honored that she’d agreed to speak.
    Bailey nodded eagerly. Meeting Jo Ann couldn’t have come at a better time. They’d found each other on the subway when Bailey noticed they were both reading the same romance, and began a conversation. She soon learned that they shared several interests; they began to meet regularly and struck up a friendship.
    A week or so after their first meeting, Bailey sheepishly admitted how much she wanted to write a romance novel herself, not telling Jo Ann she’d already finished and submitted a manuscript. It was then that Jo Ann revealed that she’d written two complete manuscripts and was working on her third historical romance.
    In the months since they’d met, Jo Ann’s friendship had been invaluable to Bailey. Her mentor had introduced her to the local writers’ group, and Bailey had discovered others all striving toward the same ultimate goal—publishing their stories. Since joining the group, Bailey had come to realize she’d made several mistakes, all typical of a novice writer, and had started the rewriting project. But unfortunately that hadn’t gone well, at least not according to Jo Ann.
    Bailey leafed through her manuscript, studying the notes her friend had made. What Jo Ann said made a lot of sense. “A romance hero is larger than life,” Jo Ann had written in bold red ink along one margin. “Unfortunately,