Was it the octave spanning voice? Was it the cheekbones? Was it an utterly winning combination of the two? Whatever the reason his posters adorned my walls, I wore leather bands twisted round my wrists which tightened uncomfortably when they got wet, listened to the music over and over. And I wrote. Maths was confusing, boring, far more fun to spend double lessons writing a never ending saga in the back of my workbook starring myself, clad in a Dynastyesque red sparkly dress, split up to the thigh and Morten, debonaire in a tux, rakish in a leather jacket. Mostly I swept down grand staircases or rode in sports cars, I was a very innocent thirteen year old. But one thing I did know, you have to fall in love with your hero. And as a romance writer you need to make sure your readers love your hero just as much as you do.
And fall in love I did - with Mr Darcy, Captain Wentworth, Gilbert Blythe, a whole array of Heyer heroes from the boyish to the rakes.
Writing our own heroes and heroines is not so easy, Making our heroines real, likeable women, our heroes flawed yet sexy, men we can imagine running away with is harder than seems possible, especially on the third or fourth rewrite when all you want to do is lock them both in a big box and send it to the bottom of the sea. I know my latest hero and heroine, their childhoods, their dreams, aspirations, hopes, favourite food, hobbies, fears, I like her, I fancy him but so far no reader has met them, questioned their motives. They are untouched by the outside world. Exposing them to readers is a step neither I, nor them, are ready to take just yet.