Back when I first started writing, I daydreamed of getting a Publisher’s Weekly review (the good kind–not the ones that make authors rethink their career choices), so when my publisher wrote me to let me know the review was in on Lies Jane Austen Told Me, it took me a long time to get up the guts to read the actual review. And then I cried when I finally did read it–not because the review was bad but because it was good and because I’m like that.
“Wright does contemporary romance right in this diverting novel with just enough heft.”
“Employing her own deliciously dry sense of wit, Wright deftly pays homage to the inherent romantic wisdom found in Austen’s classic novels in this delightfully fun and refreshingly sweet contemporary romance.”
“Modern, clever, and funny, Wright’s novel is a smart remix of tropes from Austen’s work. Lies Jane Austen Told Me is a satisfying and sweet contemporary romance that knits together romantic classics with modern manners.”
These reviews are humbling to me in so many ways. They don’t mention the journey it took to get me here. They don’t say anything about the stupid books I’ve written or the rejection letters of my past. They don’t give a play by play on all the writing classes I’ve taken or books on writing I’ve read. Much like a diploma that declares a student adept at their chosen field of studies without showing the frustration of late nights and hours and hours of study and practice, these reviews feel like a graduation for me. This “diploma” was hard-earned and totally worth it.