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Tale of an Introvert in a Rockstar World.

Updated: Jul 18, 2019

Today I did a thing. And now I have a confession. Here it goes.


I love pizza. I hate calling for it.

Answering the door when it’s delivered? Yep, also not a fan.


All that interaction makes me sweaty. Right between my boobs and in the bottom of my arm pits where nice girls wanna inch, but shouldn’t.




I’m not a recluse. I don’t have pasty, albino skin that’s never seen the light, or a lack of general social skills. If you met me in the grocery store line, you’d think I was that disheveled, friendly lady who insisted on stuffing a week’s worth of groceries into the small cart, because it’s easier to get around the store.


I go out into the world and talk to people; I’m just an introvert who fakes it.


To some folks that word introvert means—she enjoys being by herself. Ironically though, I don’t really like being alone. There’s a line from the movie Clerks, “I hate people, but I love gatherings.” That’s me.

So, as you can imagine, the idea of stepping into “Author World” and putting myself out there on a grand scale, pretty much makes me want to throw up inside my mouth. It probably falls, on the list of things I’m not excited about, somewhere right below schedule an annual pap smear.

I’m not good at self-promotion. Talking about myself? I’d prefer self-deprecation every time.


I’m an introverted, self-deprecator, hereby jumping into a world of romance authors who all seem bubbly and happy and infinitely comfortable with talking about themselves, their characters and the last fifteen times they hit the NYT Best Seller List.

I’m the kid at the microphone on karaoke night, saying, “Tap, tap, tap. Is this thing even on,” while praying the audience doesn’t laugh and throw tomatoes. Meanwhile, everyone around me seems like Taylor Swift with red lipstick expertly applied and trained backup dancers ready to perform in standing-room-only stadiums.



I look around this great big world of successful authors and feel like there is no room left at the inn. But then, there’s another guy, who once upon a time, couldn’t get space at the inn and I’ve been praying to him every night that I don’t fall flat on my face.

So here it goes. Please God, don’t let me trip.

My name is Harlow Cole. I’ve written a story I’m about to share with the world.


It’s about a boy and a girl who fall in love. They have baggage and heart break and first times and second chances. Like we all experience in real life, they break each other down and build each other up. Their story unfolds across two books, because love needs to bend and break and mend and burn. At the end of it all there is sunlight. I promise. Because real life doesn’t always give us a happy ending, but romance novels always should…


I hope you’ll come on this journey with me.

Let’s fake it like rockstars. We can dance and cry and laugh and sing off key.

Maybe, along the way, I’ll learn how to put on my big girl panties and will invite you over for pizza.

I’ll let you call in the order…

With deep gratitude, – Harlow C.


PS – If you’ve made it this far and wanna hit LIKE on my author page: www.facebook.com/harlowcolebooks I’d even pitch in for breadsticks.

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