Here’s me. Stumped before I even begin. The inspiration for my latest hero? Is this Joshua P. Redmond, the third, the runaway heir to a fortune whom everyone will meet in the fall of 2013? I just sent him off to my editor. Or is it Ramsey Miller, cold case detective, who’s been out on the streets since January? Maybe it’s, Grant Bishop, the guy I’m just getting to know. He’s got a handicapped older brother and control issues and I’m not sure what else, yet. What does latest mean?
My inspiration? This is going to be too hokey for words, but also the truth, so my only answer…my husband. It doesn’t matter if we call him Joshua, or Ramsey, or Grant. And it doesn’t matter what problems he has, or what kind of background he comes from or even what kind of personality he bears. The color of his hair is a moot point. For that matter, whether or not I’m mad at my husband is a moot point. My heroes are not all replicas of Tim. They aren’t all alike. I’m more in love with some than with others. More attracted to some than to others. But in every single hero I write, there lies a piece of my husband. It might be in something he knows, something he says, something he thinks, or something he does. It might be in a look he gives the heroine, or in the laughter I hear when she says something funny. He’s there. It’s not on purpose. By design. Or even something I notice. I usually don’t even find him there until the revision stage.
Beyond that…my heroes are my inspiration. They have stories to tell. They trust me to tell them. And I listen. I get to know them as they talk to me. I am not a plotter. I write by the seat of my pants. I don’t conjure my heroes up ahead of time, or take them from some pre-conceived notion, fantasy, picture I’ve seen, or movie I’ve watched. I just open my mind and let them tell me whatever it is they have to say. I quite enjoy all of them.
Maybe that’s why I don’t fantasize about other men.