Men flock to me.
I’m serious.
Well, my heroes, anyhow. They come to me
at night when I’m in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and
sleep. This is how all my stories are born—with my heroes' appearances. And they've all been dramatic in their own way.
For some writers, it’s the nub of a thought,
or a snippet of an overheard conversation, or something read in a newspaper or
magazine that sparks a “what if” idea.
Not for me, though.
For me, it’s the men.
One night, a couple years ago, a man
sauntered into our bedroom wearing nothing but a black Stetson and a pair of
cowboy boots. I glanced over at Calvin, who was snoring away and then at our handsome
intruder. His sneer was intimidating. The man was clearly aggravated, while I
was spellbound. He took off his hat and placed it in a more strategic location.
“Ever notice how the full moon brings out the madness in people?”
I couldn’t respond--I mean, I thought I was near mad, myself. I just left Storm
talk about the blue-eyed woman he’d been dreaming of while I drooled onto my pillow.
Several months later, I was writing a
romantic suspense set in Paris. My hero was a French government agent and my
heroine an older American school teacher. Things were going fairly well for
this pantser. After all, writing a story set in the City of Light was like
revisiting the jewel along the Seine. I was enjoying the process.
After we’d gone to sleep one night,
someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up in the bed. Wh…what was that? I glanced at Calvin,
who hadn’t so much as shifted at the sound of that door slam. I must be dreaming.
I’d just dropped back to sleep when the
door banged shut again. This time I saw who the culprit was—Niko, my French
government agent. “What? What do you want?”
He pointed to me and issued an order. “Watch.”
And so I did. He stormed down a hallway,
fluorescent lights humming overhead. His hands were clenched in fists. As soon
as he opened a door, I saw my heroine tied to a chair in an interrogation room.
She was blindfolded. Niko slammed the door and she jumped. Then the vision faded.
“That’s it? You woke me up for that
piddlin’ little bit? Why is Alyson tied up? Why are you angry?” Oh, I was not happy.
It took me four chapters to set-up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room.
Another night, a man roared into our
bedroom on a Harley. Niko and I were still arguing. Seems he didn’t think he
needed to wear his Kevlar vest. Frenchmen and their egos—go figure. So, really,
the absolute last thing I wanted in my crowded mind was another man. I grunted
and rolled against Calvin’s back.
Mr.-Harley-Man started circling our bed, slow
and easy just the way my youngest boy resorted to when he wanted to get on my last nerve. Finally, I
couldn’t take it anymore. I flopped onto my back. “What? What is it?” He got
off his bike, took off his helmet, and adjusted his prosthesis. Somehow I knew
he’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. “My name’s Win, short for Sherwin. Would you
write my story?” Well, he was so polite with that Texas twang. I mean, what
else could I do?
Not all the men who come into my bedroom
late at night are grown. Eli, a golden-haired three-year-old threw a tantrum on
my bedroom carpet one night. His chubby little hands were clenched in someone’s
blue calico skirt. “Mine. Mine.” I had no clue what to make of him. Then a tumbleweed
blew into our room with a piece of matching blue calico tied to it. And Tumbleweed Letters was born.
Nearly a year ago, I had a cancerous
cyst removed from my saliva gland. A couple months into the healing process,
two small golden orbs started shining in the back of my mind. Brain tumors, I
thought. When I finally worked up the courage to call the doctor, the golden
orbs blinked. Eyes? Were they eyes? They kept a steady blinking rhythm as they
silently watched and waited. I was losing my mind, I thought. No doubt you're thinking the same thing.
Then one night the golden eyes glowed
bright and moved from the back of my mind into the body of a bear. He stood at
the foot of my bed. “Sorry,” I yawned. “You’ve got the wrong house. I don’t write
children’s books.” The bear shook his head. “What? You’re not from a children’s
story?” The bear shifted into a Scottish man in a kilt. Once more I quickly
looked at Calvin, wondering if I should nudge him awake—I mean, really, the man does miss the most interesting stuff.
Deciding to keep the man in a kilt to myself, I ditched that idea and turned my gaze on his plaid. “I don’t write paranormal.”
He swaggered toward me and stood. “Aye, lassie, ye do and ye will.” He lifted the covers and
slipped into the bed. Calvin snorted. “Me name is Creighton. Let me
tell ye the story of how bears came to be extinct in Scotland.”
I’m telling you, ladies, the men just
won’t leave me alone… I'm a romance writer and I LOVE my job.
One lucky commenter will be chosen at random to win a copy of Storm's Interlude. Paperback or eBook, your choice. All you have to do is tell me what kind of dreams you have about men...well, the PG parts, anyhow.
