M.J. Marino's Blog

What do you want in your MC Romance Novels

Hello lovely readers. I am reaching out to all of you to find out what it is that you like to read in your MC novels. Do you like alpha males? Should the female lead by strong or docile? Do you like MC mashups--MC security, MC alpha couples, MC shifters, etc.? Should MC romances be steamy or sweet? Do you like a bad biker boy or a biker hero, or damaged MC biker? What are the elements that you like to see in your MC romances, and what about those elements make the book for you? Give me your feedback and lets get a discussion going.

Inspiration for first Steamy Scene

Where did you get the inspiration for first Sex Scene in Book 1?

Sooooo…it’s a true story.

I got your attention, didn’t I?! Hehe.

I’ve been asked by several people where I got the inspiration to write the first sex scene, and of course, there’s a story behind it. You’ll find out quick with my writing, I draw inspiration from my own personal experiences or the personal experiences of people I know. This sex scene is from my own vault of goodies.

However, I was not one of the main characters involved—I was a spectator. Here’s my story.

I was around twenty or so and I would get up early to get my runs in before I would start my day. There was a specific park in the city I lived that consisted of woods, hills, trails, basically it had the works, which is exactly what cross country runners love. It isn’t unusual to see other early risers, but they are few and far between at five in the morning. It was summer and the weather was warm, meaning as a runner you go workout in less clothing. Pretty typical stuff.

I was cruising along this one stretch of trail in the far back of the park which is pretty secluded. In fact, if you aren’t familiar with the park, you wouldn’t even know it’s there. I’m running, minding my own business when, BAM, I’m slapped in the face with a visual that could not be erased.

There in front of me were two other runners rutting away against a tree with shorts around their ankles.

A million things were going through my mind in that moment, but the overwhelming thought was ‘where do I go?’ I’m already heading at them. If I turn around they’ll definitely see the movement. I can’t dive into the brush because they’ll hear that for sure. So what do you do?

Well, if you are me, you keep running past them and tip your hat. Bravo, kinky fuckers. I applaud you.

I finished up my run and called my girlfriend, Serena, and was like, “You’ll never believe what just happened to me on the trail.”

So for all of you contemplating having sex in public, pick your locations carefully, because us runners are everywhere.

Have a lovely day everyone!

M.J. Marino

Did Your Parents Read Your Book?

Did Your Parents Read Your Book?

OMGoodness! This question always makes me laugh out loud because the backstory is hilarious. The simple answer is yes and no—one did and one couldn’t.

First, I must mention that my parents are incredibly supportive of my writing career—completely embarrassed by my choice in genera—but very loyal. Anyone who has read the previous blogs of mine will understand that as a child I struggled with reading and writing, and my parents were the ones who worked with me tirelessly to break through my struggles. When I confessed I was publishing a book (finally) they were ecstatic, but the story of how it all unfolded is a little wonky.

I started writing my novel in September of 2019, with only my husband being aware of my self-publishing goal. By the beginning of October, I had completed my book and was working with my editor. My sister came for a visit and I had confessed my dirty secret to her over dinner at my parents’ house. I figured my family would find out at some point what I was up to so I decided to break the ice with her. “Hey, Sam. I should probably tell you I wrote a sensual romance and plan on self-publishing.” She was supportive, excited, and dying to read it. What I didn’t realize was my mom had overheard my confession.

After my sister’s visit, my parents bombarded me at my house, demanding to read my book. Gah! No, no, no. Please God, no. Every kid’s worst nightmare is having the sex talk with their parents—doesn’t matter that I’m a grown-ass woman, it’s still weird.

I carefully explained that it was an intense romance. Mom was like, “I love romance novels.” Yeah, not your typical dime-store paperback, mom. The more they pressed for details, the more I was forced to reveal about the books content. It got to the point I finally said, “It’s erotica. I wrote smut!” that my words finally sank in their heads. “Oh, well…we still want to read it.”

Fuck my life.

In December, I had come to the end of my editing process with Christa and my sister was hounding me for the book. I gave it to her and eagerly awaited her response. She loved it, wanted to read the next, like right now. Having my sister’s approval was important to me and I pressed forward with formatting and copyright. My parents had backed off asking for the book and I assumed I was out of the clear—well, I assumed wrong.

My sister apparently had called up my parents, bragging she had read my book and how much she liked it. That phone call ended and my mom called me up, announcing she was ready for me to send her my book. Shiiit!!! Sure, I’ll get right on it.

I hung up and immediately called up my sister. “Fuck. They want the book. What do I do? What if they start asking me questions?” Sam laughed her ass off, but ultimately convinced me to rip the band-aid off and get it over with. One way or another, they were going to read it, either by me giving it to them or waiting for it go up on Amazon.

So after working myself up with some strong alcohol, I emailed it to them and stuck my head in the sand waiting for the apocalypse to rain down on me. That was on a Saturday. By Sunday morning my phone was ringing and it was my parents. I cringed away from my cell, dying a small death. My husband told me to woman up and take the call.

Now, I don’t know how you all have conversations with your parents on the phone, but my parents like to both be on speaker when talking to people—annoying as hell, especially when you want to talk to one without the other knowing what you’re talking about, but it’s their thing so I deal with it. The conversation went something like this…

Mom: So I read the book.

MJ: Really? You read the whole thing already? (She must have been up all night).

Mom: Mm-hm. It was good. Very graphic and lots of swearing, but it was a good story. I’m actually surprised you could write so well.

MJ: *roll eyes* Thanks for the backhanded complement, but I’ll take it.

Mom: I did find some grammar mistakes.

MJ: (Okay. Cool. I could totally roll with this. At least she was being professional and not going where I didn’t want to go.) *open laptop* Okay, where is the first correction?

Mom: Page 15, paragraph 2, second sentence, add a comma.

MJ: Mom, just read it to me. I’ll find it faster. Tablet format doesn’t line up with computer format.

Mom: *sighs heavily* Make her pussy vibrate.

Dad: Gah! *plugs ears* Stop talking, please!

MJ: *dying inside* Um, okay. Maybe dad should go in the other room?

Dad: *hear feet shuffling fast out of the room*

Mom: *trying to remain impassive* page 54, leaking precome.

Dad: *screams* I can still hear you!

MJ: *Head in hands* OMG!

Mom: Shut the damn door, Paul!

Dad: *slams door*

Mom: Your dad tried to read your book—he couldn’t get past the twitching dick reference on page three.

MJ: *bust out laughing*

Mom: *clears throat and goes through the rest of edits as seriously as she can*

*Silence*

Mom: How in God’s name do you know all this stuff?

And there it is, my worst nightmare coming true.

MJ: Mom, I had to do research for my book. (Please, sweet baby Jesus, don’t let her ask more).

Mom: *silent* What’s a frenum piercing?

MJ: (Fuck my life) Whatever you do, mom, don’t goggle it. Images are the first thing to pop up.

Mom: *fingers flying across a keyboard* Oh my God! *uses my full birth name like it’s a curse*

MJ: I told you not to goggle it!

Mom: Why would you include that? Why would someone get that? Does Matt have one?

(Meanwhile my husband is busting a gut because he’s listening in on our conversation).

MJ: Mom, research! Guys get that piercing to give their partner pleasure.

Mom: *silent* Her pleasure? Hmm… I think I’m going to be making a piercing appointment for your father.

MJ: *cringe* (worst sex talk ever) Glad the romance is alive and well, but please refrain from sharing.

Mom: What does rimming mean?

MJ: *slaps forehead repeatedly* (Ugh! Fuck you Sam! Rip the band-aid off, my ass! More like open Pandora’s Box) You know what, seeing as Sam is a medical professional, I think she can explain the ins and outs of this a lot better. You should definitely ask her.


And there you have it. The sex talk with my parents has not improved since I was teenager. Definitely ranks high on the list of seriously uncomfortable moments for me. But yes, my mom read my entire book and my dad…tried. Lol.

Birth of a Pen Name

Many people have asked me about my name—M.J. Marino. What does the M and the J stand for? Is that your real name? Are you male or female?

But my favorite question is from people who do know me. How did you come up with M.J. Marino?

Gah! It’s a cringe worthy story and it brings great joy to my family—especially my sister, Sam—that I now use it as my pseudonym, or Pen Name as some people refer to it.

So, no, M.J. Marino is not my legal name, but it is very much my real name. I’ll clarify that cryptic statement in a moment. But first let me tell you the story behind the infamous name, M.J. Marino.

When I was a baby, there was a Malt-O-Meal commercial where the father is trying to encourage his reluctant son to eat the hideous hot cereal garbage. The catch phrase for the commercial was, “Good stuff, Maynard.” I was a reluctant child, refusing to eat her equally horrible baby food. My grandma, Dorothy, was trying her best to make me gobble it up. She used the catch phrase, “Good stuff, Maynard,” while cramming my mouth full.

Well, let me tell you, that shit stuck to me like glue. Oh, my God! Everyone started calling me Maynard. And when I say everyone, I mean fucking everyone. No, that awful nickname wasn’t just reserved for the family to use—oh no, it was used by ALL. Pastors, neighbors, punk kids in the neighborhood, friends of the family, distant relatives, the mailman, random people I was introduced to.

Everyone called me Maynard—me, runt of the litter, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cute-as-a-button, GIRL was called Maynard! Worst nickname ever.

Oh, but it gets better. Why stop at one nickname?

You got it. My parents decided to tack on another nickname on top of it. In my family, the more rambunctious females have Jo tacked on to the end of their name. Mary Jo, Kathy Jo—hey! Why not add a Maynard Jo to spice things up?

That’s right—I am Maynard Jo. As if giving your cute little girl one awful boy nickname was bad enough, lets double dose it with a second boy name?!

But why would your parents give you such a sweet little girl a horrible nickname? Great fucking question and I don't have an answer. I can only speculate my family is cruel. No, I'm kidding, they just like to relentlessly torment out of love.

I really hated that name and I grew up with it. By the time I reached school age, my parents freaked out that I would attend school not knowing my real name like my sister did (a story for another day). My parents started to use my real name but everyone else kept on using Maynard Jo—like I said above, that shit stuck. I hated it and cried when my friends at school would ask if I had another sibling named Maynard Jo, or better yet, if my family knew my name wasn’t Maynard Jo.

The solution? My parents shortened my nickname to M.J. which did absolutely nothing to stop my friends from asking why my family called me M.J. FYI—my real name has no M or J in it, making M.J. pointless in covering up Maynard Jo.

Man, that shit was awful growing up with. Over the years, my family started to use my real name—all, except for my sister. See, Sam had sadistic side (I know she is going to give me hell for this later BAHAHA) that refused to relinquish my childhood nickname. She may have converted to M.J. but she gave my name her own twist. When I would refuse to answer when she’d holler M.J., she would start singing at the top of her lungs M.J. Marinooooo.

I can laugh about it all now and I swear I don’t have a complex about it. I actually smile when I hear someone use my nickname and get a warm, fuzzy nostalgic feeling.

When I decided to write my novel, my sister was one of my driving forces. I was going back and forth on whether to use a pen name or not. My brother-in-law and my dad were pretty insistent I use a pseudonym. I did it out of respect for my family even though I really could care less who knew I wrote erotic, intense romances. My husband was cool with it. My oldest son was cool with it. And my younger sons were just excited their mom was going to be an author. But sometimes family can be protective of you and your privacy.

With the decision to use a pen name, I needed to come up with one. I was throwing ideas around with my husband when he suggested I ask my sister, mom, and close girlfriends what they thought of the options. I wrote up my list in a group chat.

My sister was the first to respond. “Where is Maynard Jo?”

Fuuuck. “It was taken.” It was taken, but I didn’t want her throwing out any other Maynard name suggestions.

She wouldn’t let it go. “What about Jo Maynard?”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna stick with initials—like J.K. Rowling. Readers seem to like unisex authors.”

I thought it was the end, but I was wrong. “What about M.J. Marino?”

Ding, Ding, Ding. We have a winner!

And that was it. Everyone responded back with a vote for M.J. Marino. Traitorous bitches.

So, not my name, but really is my name—at thirty-eight years old, I wear my childhood nickname like a badge of honor. Actually, I think it's growing on me.

The Beginning

When I was younger, I hated reading—like really hated it. I had a difficult time staying focused while reading through a story and sounding out words. My parents would work with me every day, going over flashcards, working on spelling, and reading everything under the sun. But even with all my parents’ efforts, I still struggled with reading. Because of my inability to read, I fell behind my peers and I grew to resent all things related to language arts.

I was classified by my first grade teacher, Mrs. Gustafson, as Not-Reading ready, meaning I was not at a functional level to comprehend and learn literary skills. And I truly wasn't. Mrs. Gustafson said there was nothing wrong with me, that I just needed more time. My parents were distraught with what to do. They could push me through to the next grade level, but I would always be struggling. Or they could hold me back and give me a fighting chance. My parents made the hard decision to hold me back.

I was devastated. I would not be advancing in school with my friends. I would be forced to complete first grade all over again. I was bullied and teased because of a learning impairment that was not my fault. I grew depressed, believing that I had to be stupid just like all my peers said I was, because why else could I not understand what was so easy for all my other classmates?

But I was not stupid. I did well with math, science, history, and many other subjects—my only struggle was with reading and writing. I repeated the first grade, but was still in the lowest reading level. I had to take summer school to help me maintain the little knowledge I had in language arts, as well as my daily routine of practicing reading and writing with my parents.

In the fifth grade, my whole reading world changed. I was still in the lowest reading level of my grade, but I had a teacher that did something that made all the difference—he gave me a choice. Mr. Stanke gave my reading group two novel options, either The Call of the Wild or The Secret Garden. I remember thinking how bizarre and radical it was to choose my own required reading for a class assignment. It was unheard of—teachers gave you the required book to read; options were never given.

All the boys chose The Call of the Wild, but I had no interest in reading a guy book as the boys referred to it. I looked at the second option. The Secret Garden was a BIG book—it was close to fifty pages more than option one and would be by far the longest book I would have read at that time. Something about it made want to pick the bigger book. I was a competitive kid, and I saw the book as a challenge that I would win.

So I picked it, sat down at my desk, and read for the duration of the class. I went home after school and retreated to my room to read some more. I had to dedicate more time to reading in order to keep up with my assignment because I really was a slow reader at that time. Words that I came across that I did not understand, I would look up in the dictionary. Historical references that I had no knowledge of, I would ask my dad about because he was a history teacher. It was important to me that I not only read the book, but understood it.

That was the first novel I read from front to back by myself. And it changed everything for me. I began to challenge myself in all of my language arts classes after that. I became a dedicated and fast reader of all books. I began to excel and surpass my peers. Reading was no longer a problem for me.

By the end of my Freshman year in high school, I asked my English teacher if she thought I was smart enough to advance in the Honors English classes. Miss Hammel said out of all her students, I was the one she had hoped would choose to advance. She signed her consent on the form without hesitation.

Sophomore Honors English at my school was brutal. Lots of kids chose to be taken out of the advance class before the start of the year, some switched at semester to regular English, and some dropped it for the following year if they were lucky enough to survive Sophomore Honors English. There were two teachers who taught it, and of course I got the hardest one. Instead of freaking out, I looked at it like I looked at The Secret Garden—it was a challenge I would win.

Fred Jonas was an incredible English teacher—hard but fair. I was required to read many great American classics and at the end of the year write an argumentative paper based on a character of my choosing from all the works. I did all my assignments dutifully, came in to talk with my teacher if things were unclear, had him read over everything I would write before handing in, and accept every challenge he threw at me. I was in Mr. Jonas’ class so often, I may as well have moved in.

At the end of the year, I handed in my argumentative paper and waited anxiously for my grade. When he handed it back to me, I nearly burst into tears of joy—A-. It wasn't highest grade in the class, but it was far from the lowest. I may have had to work twice as hard as everyone in that class to earn that grade, but I had no regrets. Because of Fred and his constant challenges, I aced every single paper I wrote in high school and college in all subjects.

The man taught me how to write—there are no words to describe how grateful I am to him.

Writing a book and becoming a published author was always a distant dream to me. Yeah, I wanted that, but really, the odds were against me. I may be a very prolific reader and can write a story, but who would ever want to read what I write?

I looked at it as a challenge. I started writing young adult novels and tried going the traditional publishing route, but I was rejected over forty times by over forty different publishing companies. Too long, too wordy, too different—basically, too fucking bad.

It crushed me and my dreams of becoming a published author were put on the shelf. I resigned myself to my production chemist job and decided I must not be good enough to be an author. And I continued to feel that way for over ten years.

So what changed? Not a whole lot other than I decided to go the self-publishing route this time around, and I slapped myself figuratively any time negativity tried to creep into my mind.

I was looking for stress relief and decided to go back to the third book I had written. I was making changes to it when my husband suggested that I really should try to self-publish my novels. Like any good chemist, I decided to do my qualitative and quantitative research and gather data on what books do well in the self-publishing world. Romance writing seemed to be the heavy hitter.

Problem was, I was not a romance writer—I wrote young adult. I had never even read a romance novel at this point. Would I like romance novels? Could I even write a romance novel?

Only one way to find out. I needed to do my research.

I got myself Kindle Unlimited and started reading romance novels. I probably read over a hundred romance novels, in various romance categories, within a month. To my delight, I loved romance, and equally as important was that I felt I could write a romance novel. I knew I enjoyed contemporary intense romances with strong alphas male characters and equally as strong-willed female characters. The plot came easy to me. I sat my ass down and within a month, Josephine and Maceo’s love journey began with my first novel.

The self-publishing route has presented challenges, but I tackle those as I go. I learned a lot through my editor about how to make my writing and story better. I learned a lot from the several authors I reached out to for direction. I learned how to format my own books, copyright, set up social media accounts for my readers, marketing ads, etc.

Basically, I am learning a lot—all the time.

But as I think back over all the challenges I have overcome, from the sad not-reading ready six year old I was, to the self-published author I am today, I would not change a thing—well, maybe I would have changed how long it took me to finally take the leap into self-publishing, but overall, I still am pleased with the results.

If I have anyone to thank for molding me into who I am today as a writer, it would be all those I mentioned above—my parents, Holly Gustafson, Jerry Stanke, Maddie Hammel, Fred Jonas, and my husband. They pushed and challenged me, and yes, I am still competitive and will do my damnedest to win at any challenge.

To think my beginning started with a book...