You’ve probably heard the saying “Drummers do it with rhythm” — or some variation thereof. A quick search of Google revealed “Geologists do it in the dirt,” “Writers do it until their hands cramp” T-shirts and other products emblazoned with “Ham radio operators do it with frequency” and “editors do it with style.”

I’d like to add one to the list: Romance writers do it in fabulous shoes.

I didn’t go to RWA Nationals last week, but I saw plenty of pictures — and great shoes figured in many of them. Bestselling author Cherry Adair and Fellow Starcatcher (the 2011 Golden Heart class) Kimberly Kincaid are known for fabulous footwear. And just ask any of the Rubies about their shoe collections.

Naturally, when I prepped to have my official author photo taken this week, I had to dig out my own pair.

Gorgeous, right? The Boyfriend sure likes them … even if they make me taller than him.

Problem is, I can’t walk in the darn things.

I’m tall — 5 feet, 10 inches — so in heels I top 6 feet. And I’ve never liked being taller than all the girls and most guys in a room.

Consequently, I’ve never bothered to learn how to walk in high heels. I live in sneakers and flats.

It’s not that I don’t love pretty shoes, because I do. I have countless pairs of sandals and boots in my closet, in pretty  much every color of the rainbow.

And I can drool over Manolos with the best shoe horses in the stable … although I doubt I’d ever drop that much cash on anything that didn’t come with an electrical cord. Gadgets are allowed to cost most of a paycheck, not shoes.

On the rare occasions I do wear heels, my ankles wobble like a kid playing dress-up with Grandma’s clothes. Worse, I live in constant fear of falling flat on my face, breaking an ankle and/or exposing my underwear to the world.

Thank goodness none of those misfortunes befell me Tuesday. Maybe that’s because I actually wore flip-flops to our photo spot, then changed into the pumps when it came time to take the pictures. When we traipsed across the parking lot to a different location, on went the flip-flops again.

Now that I’m on the verge of — cough — romance superstardom, I probably ought to start practicing walking in sky-high heels. (Save the cards and letters. I know selling one manuscript does not a superstar make … but a girl can dream.)

My feet in their natural habitat. High heels need not apply.

Or maybe I can start a new trend. I hear Bedazzled flip-flops are all the rage … somewhere. Out there. At least in the unexplored corners of my mind.

Who’s with me?

Vive la comfy footwear revolution!