Around and 'round and 'round and 'round. Dizzy, giggling, breathless. Another pass and whoosh! Your hands unclasp your best friend's and there you are, tumbling into a helpless heap on the huge pile of spicy, crackling, jewel-colored leaves that your father has just raked. Autumn has come and with it an emotional warmth descends to rival all the halcyon pleasures of sun-soaked summer.

I do not know if it is the fact that October is the usher to such extravaganzas as Thanksgiving and Christmas, or if it is because I was born in the fall and my first recollections of life and being loved are mingled with the tang of autumn air. Perhaps it is the fact that I cannot look up at a vivid October sky, ringed round and made all that much more brilliant by the tree-topped hues of red, gold and orange, without remembering that the first boy that I fell in love with had eyes of this precise color. It could be that I like the feeling of contented serenity that comes as I pull a cinnamon-scented apple pie out of the oven as my children return from school all breathless and full of life. Whatever the reason, October seems to contain a quality of voluptuous opulence that borders on the embarrassing.

It is the time of the year for my most satisfying indulgence. Night descends early now, and by the time that supper is over and my boys are settled, no matter how reluctantly, to their homework, my husband and I bundle ourselves up and go out for a walk. I think that I must still feel much younger than I really am, because I still find it so exciting to be out after dark. The streets are nearly deserted and leaves crunch under our feet. We have the world to ourselves. Sometimes we talk, often we remain silent, hands clasped, our cheeks and noses feeling the chill. Even when we are in the midst of an argument, we cannot help but feel, well, companionable.

Bluestocking that I am, I have an inordinate fondness for libraries and this is where we often go on our excursions. Even as a student at Cortland State, I happily burrowed into my home away from home. Coburn Free Library in Owego, which is my current literary haunt, has a cornerstone engraved '1910' and its edifice is in keeping with the much more formal decorum associated with the era in which it was conceived. Inside are the "library ladies." I hope that they will forgive me that I do not know all of their names, but I can assure them that they are all thought of fondly. Generally, my husband will peruse the classical music CD's while I hunt for novels. I hope that it can be appreciated that it took many years of maturing to feel comfortable enough to say that my main passion in reading these days (its that Puritanical streak of mine, I'm sure) is romance novels. Not ten years ago I think I would have died rather than admit it.

Actually, to be perfectly honest - and to hide any residual embarrassment that might be lurking - I really didn't read much of them until I started writing them. There was really a lot more to it than I had imagined. So began my quest to know all there was to know about the craft, which meant reading every romance novel I could get my hands on. It is, on the whole, very pleasant research.

After I've loaded myself down sufficiently with booty and my husband has either been pleasantly surprised or mildly disappointed by the CD collection, we tramp home.

Once we've established that our teen-aged sons haven't killed each other or done irreparable damage to the house in our absence, I do a disappearing act into my sanctuary - the most beloved place of all mothers (even though, contrary to what Calgon would have you believe, you can still hear fighting, phones, and they WILL find you in there) - the bathroom. It has a door that locks. And, I am in love with my bathtub. It is perfect. The slant of the back is just right for oozing down into a mound of bubbles. This is especially delicious after you've chilled yourself completely in the cold night air.

Ahh. Sinfully delicious. A romance novel. A hot, steaming tub. Tchaikovsky on the CD player. What more could a woman want? My husband doing dishes while I soak perhaps ;(it does happen sometimes). Or maybe that the hero of my novel will have eyes the color of an October blue sky. By any account, I am at that moment blessed.