So I was researching, looking for a hottie to add to the Sex Symbol section when I stumbled upon Hugh Clapperton. I like to spread the love across the disciplines, but something about the idea of an explorer had a warm fire uncurling in my belly.
Playing a quick mental word association, I realized explorer = Clive Owen (as Sir Walter Raleigh)
So then, I fell into a daydream about Clive Owen and all the reasons I heart him and he gives me that warm tingling feeling.
Which then had me laughing.
It also made me think about how I have modeled a hero after Clive Owen…among other assorted crushes.
Its one of the reasons I love romance novels. Not for the naughty bits (or as my husband likes to call it “lady porn”)…for the falling in love bit.
If that sounds obvious–well it is, but it also has the skin of a onion–lots of layers.
I came out of the womb a fan of love. My mom called it “boy-crazy.” My friends called it “randy.” My college sweetheart called my collection of “boyfriends” funny. My husband, when I tell him about my current infatuation, just rolls his eyes and laughs.
I fall in love all the time. I am a true love pluralist. Actors, musicians, friends, acquaintances, random men on the street are all fair game for my fantasy digressions. They are often fleeting, usually violently passionate, and are the basis for my heroes and villians.
Because, as I reflected on Clive Owen today, I realized its the story that I am in love with. The story I weave in my mind about the way they would act and how that would inform my behavior, my dress, my world…its just delicious!
This week, AMC has been running Spaghetti Westerns. I have always been a fan of Clint Eastwood as an actor and director. But after a little prolonged exposure to A Fist Full of Dollars, I was having the HOTS for Clint Eastwood.
I confessed this to my husband who smiled fondly at me and then shrugged. “He was pretty bad a**,” he agreed. Meanwhile, I was casting my own personal movie starring a sassy heroine and a stoic, lanky heartthrob with the steel eyes of Clint. I imagined his smell of sweat, leather, and stale cigars, and the texture of his skin (stubbly and dry). A man of few words, here was a hero who could make a girl melt with just a subtle nod.
Heck, he was just another version of the skaters I had dogged in high school—way too into their own thing to pay much mind. But the idea that you could be the one to capture their attention–sizzling!
So I wondered, do other authors have a similar process?
I hope so. Because there is nothing like a daydream about Clive Owen to put you in the mood for romance.