Dana DeArmond

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Mila popped out in 1979—Chrysler Cordobas still prowled the streets and disco refused to die. Her first story came out at seven, scribbled in crayon, because rules looked better in pastels. Thirteen hard knocks later she earned a degree in modern languages, but language degrees paid squat, so she flipped them into science-fiction gigs for game studios and a couple short stories that slipped into anthologies nobody quotes yet. These days she writes the kind of explicit romance that still has swords and dragons, just fewer clothes. She lives next to an ancient hill in Hungary with a cat the same color as buttered popcorn and a husband who turns every comment into an innuendo. Both of them can cook, but she claims her pastries belong in a museum. One eye keeps straying back toward poetry—dusty sonnets she won't publish—while the other eye winks at whoever she just drafted into the latest late-night fantasy.

4.2M views

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