Who's YOUR daddy? by Mackenzie Crowne

If you’re an avid romance junkie like me, you know heroes come in many yummy delicious packages. We all have our favorites. Mine is the darkly sexy brooder - dear Lord, be still my heart. Seriously. Even as a teenager, my ideal had dark hair and a five o’clock shadow. In fact, the only poster I ever put on my wall was this life-sized pic of Clark Gable.

Who’s your daddy, baby? Mmm mmmm. So hot.

That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the other types. I mean, who among us can resist the charming and playful blond? And hey, a mature hero with a smooth skull can be incredibly sexy. (I know this first hand. Mr. C. has been follicly challenged for years.)

Then there is the hulking Scot whose auburn waves bring sighs to many. While I love a man with a little fire in his hair, I avoid them for my own stories. My youngest son is a handsome, six-foot-four ginger and the idea of imagining certain sexy scenarios with a red headed hero is....

Well, you understand. *shudder*

My baby boy also has a full beard which, for some reason, is currently a wildly popular look that does nothing for me - other than make me think of the Smith Brothers – and that makes me cough.

(If you’re old enough to understand this reference, you probably agree a mature hero with a smooth skull is a total HOTTIE!)

As an author, my heroes are each distinct in my mind and on the page. I tend to lean toward the dark-haired type like Jake, Max, and Sam, but if you ask Tuck and Wyatt, the two remaining hotties from my Players series, they’ll no doubt tell you it’s true that blonds have more fun. As a reader, however, it doesn’t really matter what the author’s description tells me when it comes to the hero. The moment I become engrossed in a story, my mind provides its own picture of my current book boyfriend. Surprise, surprise. He inevitably resembles a certain dreamy movie star of old.

What about you? What type is your favorite and does your mind rewrite his image in your head to match your ideal?

When Mac isn’t imagining scenarios for her non-red-headed heroes, she’s providing happily-ever-afters for her lucky heroines like Sophie Taylor, heroine of Mac's RONE Award winning 

A SONG FOR SOPHIE 

What Makes a Hero? by Mackenzie Crowne

Like many authors, I write what I know and I have solid ideas about what makes a hero. At the top of my list of hero characteristics is strength, or perhaps a better word would be toughness. Not that that trait doesn’t have its drawbacks. Believe me, it’s not always comfortable to be attracted to a tough guy. I know this because I will have been married to one for 34 years next week, but hey, tough guys do it for me. 

If my father were still alive, he’d tell you he always knew I’d marry one. I know this because he told me so as we waited in the vestibule of that church 34 years ago just before Dad walked me down the isle. He wasn't a tough guy by anyone's standards, but he was a strong man, witnessed by the day he picked up a baseball bat and attempted to track down the guy who attacked me in a town park when I was thirteen. Thank God we didn't find him that day, because I have no doubt my fun-loving father, who never lifted a violent hand, would have crushed the cretin’s skull for preying on his little girl if we had.

That’s what strong men do. They act when action is required and they fight for those they love. It’s in their genes. Some women like their men that way. It’s in their genes. I’m one of them. As a strong woman who knows her worth, I need a strong man who won’t crumble beneath my confidence. I appreciate a man who sees my feminine confidence as a strength rather than a symptom of PMS. And I like a man who is willing to go after something he wants, especially when that something is me. I like a man who is willing to stand up for what he believes. A man who speaks his mind and is willing to die for me, even if I don’t deserve it.

The man I’m describing has faults, as do I. He gets angry, like me, but when the dust settles, he apologizes if he’s in the wrong. Sure, he has definite beliefs and isn’t afraid to voice them, but he also listens. He’s a guy. He’s quite often wrong, but he’ll never let you down when you really need him. That’s the man I married. Not perfect, certainly, but dependable as a Timex. I’d trust him with my life, and do.

I write what I know and because I want my heroines as happy as I have been all these years, I give them similar heroes. Unfortunately, an occasional reviewer disagrees. I recall one who trashed one of my heroes as a scary violent guy because he was pissed at the heroine and said so. Mind you, I don’t do violence in my romances, so I can't help wondering what this particular reviewer’s perfect hero looks like. For that matter, what type of men is she dealing with in her life? Are they so perfect, or docile, they never have a moment of anger? If so, she should probably watch out. Either they’re in love with their sister, haven’t come out of the closet yet, or they’re conning her royally. I have yet to meet a man, or woman for that matter, who doesn’t lash out in anger in times of conflict, and if you’re reading a romance…hello, conflict is essential.

The truth is, as in real life, no hero or heroine is perfect, but we all have our tastes. What qualities are necessary in your perfect hero and are there ever deal-breaker traits that make you toss the book aside, or worse, trash the book in a review?

When Mac isn’t hissing at stupid reviewers, she spends her time weaving HEAs for her tough guy heroes and their ladies, like Wyatt and Piper, the hero and heroine of To Win Her Smile, the last in her Players series from Kensington releasing 7/18/17 

Let’s Talk Heroes…And a Giveaway by Jannine Gallant

What makes a hero a hero? I mean besides the hot factor. We all know that’s pretty much a given. So far in my Who’s Watching Now series, my heroes have been pretty stereotypical as far as careers and temperament go. In Every Move She Makes, Kane is a police detective hell bent on protecting the heroine and her daughters from a stalker. In Every Step She Takes, Travis is an ex-Navy SEAL who owns a Security and Investigations company. He gets to save the heroine by thwarting an assassin. In other words, these guys are bad-ass. Nothing wrong with that!

Then there’s Jed, my hero in Every Vow She Breaks. In the winter he gives backcountry Nordic ski tours. In the summer, he ran (past tense) a family wilderness camp until it shut down. So Jed is unemployed and doesn’t really care. He owns a two room cabin in the mountains and spends all his time traveling, hiking and basically having fun. Too much fun…or so the heroine thinks. She can’t imagine Jed (who hasn’t changed much since she knew him when he was ten years old) will ever settle down and become a responsible adult. Then there’s the “protect” aspect of the hero’s job description. When Claire starts getting strange notes and gifts, does Jed jump into protection mode like a good hero should? Uh, no, he shrugs it off at first. Although he is intrigued with the idea of figuring out whom the culprit might be, kind of like a who-dun-it game. Hmm, not very hero-like. At least not in the traditional sense. So, does a hero have to be a bad-ass responsible adult, or can he be a sexy, fun-loving guy with a positive attitude and a few other redeeming qualities?

If you want to know if Jed starts acting more hero-like, gets his act together and finds meaningful employment, or saves Claire from the creep who’s watching her, you just might have to buy the book. Or, if you’re lucky, you can win one! An e-copy of Every Vow She Breaks in your choice of formats is up for grabs! Just leave a comment with your thoughts on heroes (along with your email address if I don’t already have it), and I’ll pick a winner. Good luck!

For more information on all my books, visit my website, or follow me on Facebook and Twitter.

Saluting Heroes

By Betsy Ashton

July is a great month to remember and salute heroes in our society. We use the Fourth to celebrate America's birth. We honor our troops throughout the year. We have parades at other holidays for our veterans. No one marches for the heroes I have in mind. They fly under the radar screen. They deserve recognition.

My heroes are those grandparents and great-grandparents who have stepped out of retirement and back into full- or part-time child raising. At a time when their peers are doing crossword puzzles, these men and women are doing homework. These are the folks who opened their hearts and homes to grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Some of the kids are caught in abusive prior home environments. Some are trapped between warring parents who use them in a game of tug-of-war. Some have parents who are drug addicts, alcoholics or are incarcerated. None of them deserve anything but a supportive, loving environment to grow healthy minds and bodies.

I've been lucky enough to sit in with support groups who struggle with balancing their needs with those of their grands. One woman had ten, that's right, ten grands and great-grands in house. At nearly seventy, she's the only responsible adult to help. Another has her in-laws living next door and three pre-school grands in her house. Her husband works 60 hours a week. She cares for her in-laws who need to be in assisted living but no money to pay for it. Her grands came to courtesy for the US military. Both parents are deployed overseas. She has the grands. Like an AA member, she takes one day at a time.

These heroes are tired. Bone-weary tired, yet I've not heard one complain. They do what they have to do. They get up everyday and cope with the uncope-able.

I wrote about these heroes in my novel, Mad Max Unintended Consequences. One of my personal unintended consequences was meeting these heroes, getting to know their issues, standing by them in spirit.

Not all heroes wear uniforms. Mine wear spit-up, baby food, grass stains. Next time you meet one of these heroes, recognize what they do. Maybe give them a bit of respite by staying with the kids on afternoon a month. Take the grandmom out for a hair cut. Take the granddad out for a round of golf. Let them have date night and a movie by sitting one evening. You'll feel better. You'll never how much such small gestures mean.

All hail my silent heroes.

The Men Won't Leave Me Alone -- by Vonnie Davis

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.