My Space

I have a problem with sharing. Everyone I have ever known can vouch for this. When I was thirteen, I had to share a bed with my nine-year-old sister when we were living in a rental house in Florida. We both agree it was the most challenging phase of our sisterhood. I have found it to be much easier to share a bed with my husband…and our three full-grown labs (thank you good, sweet Lord for the creation of the king-size mattress). We unfortunately have to share a bathroom, however. I say this is unfortunate because we are both mirror-hogs. We have given up trying to shower together to save time: for me, the water temperature must be at least scalding hot; for the freak I fell in love with, it must be ice cold. Early in our relationship, he bought a two-seater kayak and we drove each other crazy for hours negotiating—or, more accurately, arguing—over who should be in charge of steering.

Fortunately, the freak—I call him Jacob or honey, depending on what I want—soon discovered after I moved in with him that I would have to have my own space to work. He immediately went to work carving out a section of our humble abode (where, alas, space is limited) just for me. This space has just enough room for my filing cabinet, a small desk, a cushy, rolling chair, and a large bookcase my forever-helpful honey built.

I share my space with a stackable washer/dryer. There is no door to separate it from the rest of the house so there is no way to shut out noise when we have visitors. And visitors are many when you live right next door to your in-laws and your spouse is the second youngest of six—my God, the nieces and nephews are endless! Thankfully, all I have to do to tune out the noise is fire up the washer/dryer and pretend to ignore everyone. As an added bonus, I get the laundry done while I’m at it! It just never gets folded and put away where it belongs.
In my space, I have created my own little personal world. My collection of Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks books is close by if I need a distraction. In my space, John Mayer is always there in my Windows Media Player when I need him to serenade me. In my space, there is a window that overlooks a flowerbed where my four rose bushes grow—in spring and summer months, my honey brings me blooms so the fragrance is always there for me to enjoy. In my space, motivational quotes and pictures of loved ones surround me. In my space, there is most often a sweet, trusty dog—or two…or three—sleeping at my feet and keeping them warm.

In my space, there is a printer that has become the bane of my existence. In my space, a feud breaks out between me and technology whenever this particular piece of machinery decides to have an attitude. In my space, I spend hours spilling my imagination into the pages of Microsoft Word documents. In my space, I worship the small area of my desk where my laptop computer hums productively every day, rain or shine, ready to work.
I feel I must tell you about this personal, miniscule corner of the world because, if not for my honey’s reverential foresight in making it for me, I think I would have mentally cracked by now. I have nothing against the man I call my husband or the family members that continuously march in and out of our home as they please. But I must cite the great Ms. Roberts to help me explain: “Writers, at least this writer, can be moody, self-absorbed, absentminded, and inexplicably cranky.” There are times I must be separated from the people I love not just for the sake of my own sanity but for their personal safety as well. Without this tiny space for me to go to be these ugly things—and, yes, sometimes it does get ugly—I would have become the fanatical lunatic I fear everyone already thinks I am.

Thus, I—and, for all the doubtful spouses out there, my husband—highly recommend a personal space—even a wee one—for every writer to go for those times we feel we must simply get away.

My space is the greatest gift the man I love has ever given me.

*This article was featured in GCCRWA's June 2007 Silken Sands newsletter

What's in a Man?

 As romance writers, we have the undeniable pleasure of bringing the men of our dreams to life. This is what drew me to writing love stories to begin with. I wanted to bring my daydreams as close to live and living color as possible. Wouldn’t it be fun? How hard could it be?
I knew from the start my heroes would have to be as irresistible as fiction’s favorites. Historically, my heroes would be competing with the likes of Jane Austen’s deliciously broody Mr. Darcy and Margaret Mitchell’s simply irresistible Rhett Butler. In the contemporary world of romance, my boys would have to go up against the unswerving devotion of Nicholas Sparks’ Noah Calhoun and Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb’s most insurmountable and fascinating leading man, Roarke—for me, this name is synonymous to perfection.
My first hero, a young, World War II Air Force lieutenant named Charles Tyler was too much of a boy. He was almost too wimpy, and I quickly grew tired of him. I had to revise the entire book just to give him some “meat”—a tasty term for muscle as well as grit and fortitude. My second attempt, an Italian man named Alex Cappollo, was far too moody and complicated. As the heroine became increasingly exasperated with him, my own consternation began to churn.
Third time’s the charm, they say. For me, this was fortunately right on the mark. I was writing a contemporary romance about two wronged jewel thieves who form an unlikely partnership and eventually end up falling hopelessly for each other. This brought me face-to-face with Todd Orso.
Todd has all the ingredients for “dreamy.” He’s from Texas, and his yummy accent just can’t be beat. I’m not referring to George W. Bush twang here. It’s more rugged and sophisticated than that. Not only is my heroine, Celestia, melting on the spot; I’m getting pretty hyped up just writing the dialogue! The voice is just one of the delectable things about Todd. He has a penchant for worn jeans and whiskey and has a striking resemblance to Brad Pitt. (“Coincidence? I think not!”)
It’s pretty much love at first sight for Celestia…and me. I know she’s a goner because I am. It’s a good thing this man is fiction because he might give my husband a good run for his money if he showed up on my real welcome mat.
Since I finished my third novel, I’ve found it easier to create several different intriguing heroes. Cole Savitt, a haunted cop in search of solace. Gerald Leighton, a British writer on a quest for the perfect muse. Mark Welles, a burned-out bodyguard determined to protect a hunted woman. Brock Sullivan, an Alabama boy who does everything he can to wrangle the heart of a stubborn, childhood sweetheart. They get better and better every time. They are a joy to write. They are one of the main reasons I eagerly sit down at my desk every morning and stay there as long as I possibly can—on lucky days, that’s until after midnight!
I believe that a writer can only make readers love his/her characters if he/she truly does. A writer’s affection for his/her protagonists shows. When I entered Lt. Charles Tyler’s revised story into a summer contest, a judge commented on my score sheet, “I see your heart in it, so please keep at it!”
Love your characters. Have fun writing them. I can guarantee, when they finally do get the recognition they deserve, the reward will be all the sweeter because of it.