This may seem unlikely…but I can’t pick a favorite out of the books I’ve written. Like children, some were easier to birth (terribly analogy. Birth is never easy), but even if I had more trouble in some stages of the creation, I like all my books. Really. I know this sounds ridiculous and braggy, but each story has a charm and pull of it’s own for me or I wouldn’t have written it.
An even bigger admission….when I read the books I wrote a dozen years ago, I even make myself laugh. Truth.
I just love words…and characters. Words drawn me in and seduce me. I’m kind of a drooling idiot in the presence of a well-crafted sentence. One of my favorite authors, Georgette Heyer (love to read her period romances, as well as her mysteries. Could never write either) has a wonderful line in the regency Arabella that I can actually quote. I love the structure of it and the rhythm.
I realize that there is no objective measure for something like this. Readers love different things. Some get caught up in the structure of stories and some don’t care about structure as long as something else about the story tickles their fancies. One of my critique partners write a whole series around an interfering mother. The mother character amused her, while I just wanted to strangle the character and slap her around a little.
That being said(all violence aside), I flesh out the characters in my stories and they become almost like real people with idiosyncrasies and blind spots. I feel them, if that makes sense, and I love them. They’re like really good friends.
I just had a new Twitter friend ask which of my books she should read first–which was my favorite. Sorry, can’t pick. I love them all.