Robyn Peterman wonders HOW HARD CAN IT BE?

From time to to time, I feature the books of author friends on my blog. I especially enjoy this when they are releasing their first ever books. Today it's my pleasure to feature Robyn Peterman, author of HOW HARD CAN IT BE? 

Robyn's website

I was lucky enough to beta read an early version of this title, but I've also pre-ordered my finished copy. The book is hilarious, and maybe a little too realistic for me because it's about a woman who decides to write a romance. 

Another blogger commented that the hot cop in the book makes you want to get arrested. I'll second that sentiment for sure. I especially liked the initial kissing scene between Rena and Jack. . . anyway--where was I? Oh yeah. . .

Let's just say I'm never revealing which one of Robyn's romance writer characters I most relate to or fear being, but since you all know my work best, you're free to comment if you want. 

WARNING: future romance authors beware. There are OMG moments galore in this book and multiple bathroom trips in your future from laughing so hard while reading it. 

Look at you, Robyn. You're a published author now! I'm so proud of you!

What reviewers are saying

"How Hard Can it Be? is outrageous, profane, hilarious, sexy, and all kinds of wacky. For a good time, read Robyn Peterman!"   ~ MICHELLE ROWEN, national bestselling author

"A zany over-the-top rompfest."   ~ LEXI GEORGE, author of Demon Hunting in a Dive Bar

Buy it at Amazon!

Book description

What happens when an accountant decides to grab life by the horns and try something new? Apparently a pirate named Dave, a lot of pastel fleece, and blackmail—just to start with... Visualize and succeed, Oprah said. I was sure as hell trying, even if my campaign to score a job as the local weather girl had ended in a restraining order. Okay, TV was not my strength. But a lack of talent has never stopped me before. Which is why I’ve embarked on a writing career. I mean, how hard can it be to come up with a sexy romance?
     
Leave it to me to wind up in a group of porno writing grannies who discuss sex toys and apple cobbler in the same breath. Also leave it to me to leak an outlandish plot idea to a bestselling author with the morals of a rabid squirrel. And only I could get arrested for a jewelry heist I didn’t commit—by a hunky cop whose handcuffs just might tempt me to sign up for a life of crime. Maybe I’ve found my calling after all...
 
Mini-interview with the author 
(I asked Robyn to answer just a couple of questions for me)

Donna:  So Robyn, how hard was it writing a romance? Come on, tell us the truth. 

Robyn:  Actually, since romance novels are what I’m obsessed with, it wasn’t all that hard. . .it was kind of soft. Kidding. I adore happily ever afters, a hot hero, a strong heroine, a viciously evil bad guy and a gaggle of porno writing grannies. Soooo, in my warped mind it made sense for me to spew out a romance. You’ll probably have to read the book to figure out what in the hell I’m talking about!!

Donna:  What's next for you creatively? Got another book coming out?

Robyn:  God, I hope so! Actually, I have a sexy, funny paranormal coming out in April called FASHIONABLY DEAD and the sequel to HOW HARD CAN IT BE? tentatively called SHE LIKES THEM BIG AND HAIRY! comes out in June.

Excerpt from HOW HARD CAN IT BE?

“If you handcuff a woman to a headboard, you need to use fur-covered cuffs. Otherwise you’ll rub all the skin off of her wrists during rough sex, and she’ll bleed like a motherf---er. Blood is just not sexy unless you’re writing paranormal.” The gal with the lesbian haircut delivered that little nugget with gusto.

What in the hell am I doing here? I’m going to kill Oprah. Does anybody actually listen to her ‘if you can visualize it you can do it’ crap other than me? Becoming a famous romance novel writer had sounded like such a good idea the other day. The simple fact that I couldn’t really write had seemed beside the point...
          
My best friend and roommate, Kristy, accused me of pulling a Sunshine Weather Girl again, referring to my embarrassing and very recent attempt to become a meteorologist. Kristy’s reminder was a low blow. I didn’t like to think about that. Clearly showing up at the news station for a month straight wasn’t the way to become the new weather girl. It had resulted in a restraining order, six hours in the pokey, and a feature story on the six o’clock news. My mother told all her friends I was adopted...I wasn’t.          

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So here I stood, in the poorly lit back meeting room of the downtown public library, with ten or so women who looked like seventy-year-old church ladies. Why do women in the Midwest think that really short hair shaved up at the back of the neck is a good look? I found out the bondage gal’s name was Sue, but she went by Shoshanna LeHump. Quite the little fireball, she was dressed entirely in lavender fleece. She explained her husband had threatened to divorce her if she continued to write that garbage under her real name. Her words, not mine. I didn’t know if I was more shocked by her pen name or the fact that she was married.
         
 I glanced around the room hoping to spot Evangeline O’Hara, the famous New York Times best-selling author. She wrote a mean bodice ripper and was the main reason I’d joined this group. I hoped she’d like my ideas and mentor me to stardom. Of course, ideas were a slight problem at this point, but I would continue visualizing like hell.
         
 I was looking forward to discussing Evangeline’s books with her, until Kristy, not unkindly, had reminded me I hadn’t read any of them.
         
 “Turkey Noodle Dooda Surprise served with Tater Tot Casserole can really get your amorous juices flowing,” the one who called herself Nancy gushed. Her floral caftan reminded me of Hawaii. The quintessential grandma had no last name. Apparently she had legally changed her name to Nancy...you know, like Cher or Beyoncé or Gaga.
          

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“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I thought this was a romance writers meeting.” My insides clenched. This couldn’t be right. I must be in the wrong room, or hopefully the wrong building.
         
 “It is,” Shoshanna LeHump said. “Nancy writes romantic cookbooks!”
         
 “Oh, aren’t you a lovely thing.” Nancy smiled and squeezed my hands. “Are you a cover model?”
         
 “Um, no. I’m actually a, um...writer,” I white lied. I do write things. I’m a CPA, for God’s sake. I just happen to write numbers instead of words.
         
 “Shoshanna,” Nancy called out to the handcuff-loving porno granny, “we have a new writer!”