Am I getting older or are they getting younger?

Half a lifetime ago, I read Robert James Waller’s BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY.

It’s the story of a lonely 1960s housewife swept off her feet by a National Geographic photographer doing a photo essay on covered bridges. Stop reading now if you don’t want to know the book ends with the housewife halting her affair with the photographer and staying in a loveless marriage.

When I read it at 18, I was irritated the heroine had an affair in the first place.

When I read it again at 21 with a bit more life experience under my belt, I was irritated at her for staying with the douchebag husband instead of running off with the photographer.

When I read it again in my early 30s, I was just irritated by the writing.

Here is where you ask why the hell I kept rereading a book that irritated me, and I tell you that’s a very good question and offer you a drink so you don’t notice I failed to answer.

It’s an interesting thing to ponder though – not my poor reading habits, but the fact that we read books differently as we filter them through life experience and age.

A friend of mine is reading Diana Gabaldon’s OUTLANDER for the second time. It’s one of my very favorite books, and I asked what she thought of it on this round. She remarked that she never realized how young the swoon-worthy hero is. He’s 23 or 24, but since my friend was about that age when she first read it, his age never registered.

Now 31, she’s flummoxed to find herself lusting for a much younger man.

It’s a fascinating perspective, since OUTLANDER’s heroine is older than the hero anyway. Is the story more enthralling when you truly are the older woman? I’m curious.

Curious enough that I’ll probably read the book again just to find out. I was 27 the first time I read it, and though it made me delirious with lust back then, I’m intrigued by how I might respond now.

It also makes me wonder how my perspective as an author will evolve. I was 28 when I took my first stab at writing romance. I’m now 36, and I don’t think I’ve changed all that much. Some of my characters are older, and my writing has certainly improved, but I can’t pinpoint any earth-shattering changes in perspective.

Then again, give me 10 more years. At 46 I might look back at my younger author self and wonder, “what the hell were you thinking?”

Do you reread books from a different perspective with age or life experience as a filter? Do those things impact your writing? I’m intrigued by the idea, so please share.

I have to go hang a “do not disturb” sign on the door while I find my copy of OUTLANDER.

My crush on the guy with the big probe

Thanks to everyone who participated in my “favorite place to be kissed” poll the last two days. Want to know what that was all about? You’ll have to stop by The Debutante Ball and read this week’s post.

Now that we got that out of the way, I have some exciting news – I get to go to the dentist this morning.

This fills my heart with joy like composite resin in a decaying tooth. I’ve been going to the same dentist for about nine years, and I’m not ashamed to admit I have a small crush on him.

OK, maybe I’m a little ashamed to admit it. It’ll be just my luck he’ll visit my blog today and will promptly transfer my records to one of the other dentists.

Honestly, it’s a harmless thing. He’s happily married, I’m happily married, and our contact is limited to him shoving his gloved hands in my mouth once every six months. Hardly the basis for a romantic tryst.

I will confess right now that the second romance novel I ever wrote had a hero who bore a striking resemblance to my dentist. The story is one of my abysmal early attempts, so there’s little risk it will ever find its way to the bookstore shelves where my dentist – who, naturally, would be browsing the romance aisle – would stumble upon it and bellow, “wait a minute, that’s me!”

That’s true for pretty much any character I write. People often ask me if I base characters on real people. The short answer is, “of course!”

The long answer is that my characters – especially the male love interests – are almost always an amalgam of many different people. I’ll borrow eyes from a guy I pass on the street, arms from some sexy stud I spot on the internet, a smile from my high school boyfriend. I’ve told my husband before that he’s the inspiration for every hero I’ll ever write, and while that’s true, I mean it more in a big picture “you’re the reason I believe in true love” sort of way.

But I’d be lying if I pretended little parts (and not-so-little parts) of other men don’t help form those characters.

Especially my dentist.

When I had a cavity filled several years ago, he dosed me liberally with laughing gas (knowing my crippling needle phobia and the likelihood I’d punch anyone who came near me with the Novocain.)

The whole thing is a blur to me, except the faint memory that I was very, very happy for the duration of the procedure.

I walked home afterward, and was still a little loopy when I strolled through the front door with a big, drooly smile on my face.

“You’re baked out of your gourd, aren’t you?” Pythagoras asked.

I grinned. “Uh-huh. Nitrous Oxide. Good stuff.”

“Please tell me you didn’t hit on the dentist.”

Truly, I have no idea. That’s probably best.

Have you ever developed a harmless crush on your doctor, dentist, or the clerk at the adult video store? Do any traces of these people appear in your novels? Please share.

I have to go primp for the dentist.

How to measure the smut?

I told you last Friday that the most common question at the “librarian speed dating” event focused on what each book was about.

Want to know the second most common question?

It was always accompanied by a slight shift in the chair, maybe a glance to one side or the other, even a blush in one case.

Then the librarian would clear her throat. “How steamy is your book?”

The first time someone asked, I choked on the grape I was eating. Then I quietly gave myself the Heimlich maneuver while the other two authors at my table used words like “closed door” and “discreet.”

When it was my turn, I shrugged. “My debut, MAKING WAVES, includes the word ‘vibrator’ 17 times.”

The number was on the tip of my tongue because I’d counted the previous week to amuse myself. It’s true, but it doesn’t paint the whole picture. The book contains a fair amount of bawdy humor, but the hero and heroine don’t consummate their relationship until fairly late in the story. Technically, the scene fades to black before the actual “moment” occurs (depending, I suppose, on how you and Bill Clinton define “moment.”)

That differs a bit from the second book in my contract, BELIEVE IT OR NOT. Though it may change if my editor requests it, the “moment” in that book lasts for nearly 20 pages and actually made me blush once on a read-through.

Both books are packed with a lot of risqué humor that might not resonate with all library patrons, and there’s a helluva lot of sexual tension in both. But steaminess? I’m not sure how to define that.

I did have to laugh when one of the librarians described an elderly patron returning to the library with a romance novel that had been recommended.

“This is the filthiest book I’ve ever read!” she declared as she thrust it at the librarian.

“Um,” said the librarian, fumbling for words.

“Where can I find more?”

How do you judge the steaminess quotient in a book? How do you measure the smut? Is it risqué language, sexual tension, the duration or graphic nature of actual love scenes, or something else entirely?

More importantly, does it matter?

In case it maters how many times the word “lust” is used, that would be 10 times for MAKING WAVES, 14 times in BELIEVE IT OR NOT, and 6 times in LET IT BREATHE.

Just thought you should know.

Let's get it on: overcoming performance anxiety

There are some authors who dread writing love scenes. I am not one of them.

Big shocker, I know.

I seldom give them much thought beforehand, and when I do, I regard them like a good crème brûlée – something to anticipate near the end of a meal.

From the start of LET IT BREATHE, I knew I’d do something a bit different. I don’t mean that in the handcuffs-and-tub-of-mayonnaise way. Without giving too much away, I’ll say these characters have a history, and the final love scene isn’t their first. There’s some significance in how things unfold, a little more to it than, “we’ve overcome obstacles, and speaking of coming…”

That said, I don’t like assigning too much deep meaning to a love scene. It’s a pet peeve of mine as a reader. At the top of my list of things I could never write is a heroine who’s sexually naïve until the big, manly hero arrives and brings meaning to her life by showing her how to batter-dip the corndog. While many authors use that device and many readers enjoy it, it makes me want to scrub my brain with steel wool.

So now that I’ve yammered on for five paragraphs about the final love scene in LET IT BREATHE, I’ve illustrated the problem I had yesterday when I sat down to write it:

It’s been built up too much.

That’s a line from a well-known movie (can anyone name it?) and one Pythagoras and I quote whenever we’ve discussed something to the point that we no longer wish to do it.

I can’t be the first writer who’s stalled out on the brink of a climactic (snicker) scene, so maybe these tips will prove handy for others who’ll come (snicker) after me:

Set the mood. It’s crucial for all scenes, but for love scenes especially. I got lucky yesterday when Pandora.com kindly hit me over the head with a song that was the perfect vibe for the scene. I promptly downloaded it and set it to repeat.

Give yourself a deadline. Some writers don’t work as well under pressure, but I had to force myself into action yesterday. I saw a couple authors kicking off a #1k1hr on Twitter, and invited myself to join. At the end of my hour, I had 1,500 words and the motivation I needed to keep going for another hour.

Get lubed up. Though I’ve touted the benefits of occasionally sipping an adult beverage to get creative juices flowing, I don’t drink when I’m writing a love scene. I like to stay sharp so I don’t miss the little nuances and gestures important in a scene like that, but I made an exception yesterday and poured a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Like magic, I loosened right up.

I know when I open the document later this morning, it won’t be perfect. I have a sneaking suspicion I gave my hero three hands and the ability to lick the heroine’s neck from three feet away, but I did get words on the page. Editing is a lot easier than staring at a blank screen two days in a row.

So that’s how I got over the hump (snicker). What do you do? Have you encountered a situation where a scene has been built up too much? What do you do?

Downward dog never looked so good

As I hit the home stretch in this manuscript and my brain loses the ability to tell time, I keep missing my regular yoga class and ending up in a more intense one.

It’s one of those classes – the kind where the instructor has to stop frequently to mop sweat off the floor, and I have to stop frequently to see if she’s kidding when she suggests I stand on one leg and put an ankle behind my head.

But there’s a key advantage to this class – it draws a lot of men.

A lot of shirtless men.

A lot of shirtless men with toned bodies who – if I’m very lucky – might park their yoga mat in front of mine and provide enough visual stimulation to distract me from the fact that I’m contorting myself into positions a Barbie doll couldn’t manage without removing a limb.

I was pleased to have one of these shirtless specimens in front of me yesterday, and I’ve gotta say – I’d never miss another class if someone could assure me he’d always be there.

Since he showed up late when we were all face down contemplating our spleen chakras, I didn’t see his face. All I could see for the entire hour of class was that dark, rumpled hair, those muscular legs, that broad expanse of naked back.

I silently thanked the instructor every time she ordered us into crescent lunge because I got to watch those shoulders flex.

I said some additional silent thank yous I couldn’t see his face.

I know that might seem odd, but it’s something I consider each time I write a love interest in one of my novels.

One reason I love reading so much more than movies or television is that I get to use my imagination to decide what people look like. I usually get a starting point like hair and eye color, but it’s up to me to fill in the blanks.

And I do love filling in those blanks.

It’s something I’m aware of in my own writing as well. How much physical description should I provide about my characters? How much should I leave to the imagination?

I’ll admit I’ve straddled the fence on this. The hero in LET IT BREATHE – the third book in my contract – has brown hair and eyes, with broad shoulders, great hands, and a mysterious tattoo.

Beyond that, I’m not providing a ton of detail.

This differs from the second book in my contract – BELIEVE IT OR NOT – in which the hero bears a strong resemblance to John Cusack.

Which do you prefer as a reader? As a writer? Do you like knowing exactly what a character looks like, or do you prefer having it left to the imagination?

Please share in the comments.

Oh, in case you’re wondering, I did see hot yoga guy’s face at the end of class. I was disappointed. Not that he was unattractive – that wasn’t the case at all – but just because he looked nothing like what I’d imagined.

He’s still welcome to park his yoga mat in front of me anytime. I’ll even save the spot.

Bad boys & the risky business of writing

I never had a thing for bad boys.

Don’t get me wrong, I admire the aesthetic as much as the next woman. I’ll gladly gawk at the tattooed beefcake with the bedroom eyes and the police record.

I just never wanted to date him. Maybe I lack the “rescuer” gene that draws many women to men like that. Maybe I just found more appeal in good boys – or more accurately, in being the one to make good boys do bad things.

I blogged last month about the thrill I get writing many different heroes, but I have to admit, the guy in my current manuscript is throwing me for a loop.

He’s a former bad boy who’s gone to rehab and cleaned up his act. My heroine – who was married to the hero's best friend and knew him well when he was a self-destructive drunk – is doubtful he’s changed.

It’s an interesting dynamic, and I’m having fun with it. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a challenge. Not just the fact that I’m writing a divorced heroine and a recovering alcoholic hero, but that I have to tackle those issues sensitively while still making you laugh hard enough to piddle down your leg.

That’s a handful.

I can find comic relief in secondary characters – the alpaca who likes to head-butt men in the gonads, the pink-haired grandmother who's in a motorcycle gang, the over-amorous parents who never stop groping each other.

I think I’m striking a decent balance, but it’s too soon to tell. I might just be crafting a document my husband will eventually hand over to our family physician as evidence I should be heavily medicated.

Only time – and my critique partners – will tell.

I knew this story was a risk when I proposed it as the third book in my contract. To be honest, I was surprised my editor picked it out of four other ideas I offered. It was the one I most wanted to write, but also the most challenging.

There’s some comfort in knowing it’s already sold, but also some panic. What if they hate it? What if I hate it? What if my mother-in-law reads what I wrote above about making good boys do bad things and decides to backhand me for corrupting her son?

Writing is a risky business no matter where you are in your career. There’s the risk of pouring your heart and soul into a book that agents and editors might not love. There’s a risk in every decision you make – from what genre to pursue, to what kind of car your heroine drives.

But the risks are also the fun part. They’re what keep us from writing the same book over and over until our eyes glaze and we topple unconscious from our chairs and hit our head on the floor and bleed to death and end up being devoured by the cat.

Hypothetically speaking.

What risks are you taking in your writing? Do you enjoy it, or do you just want to hide under the bed? Please share in the comments, I’m curious.

And I’m also braced for that backhand.

Fueled by lust for big engines & good wine

Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I’ve spent the last couple days ogling the construction workers next door diligently researching the construction trade for my current manuscript.

Actually, it’s not the construction workers that enthrall me (OK, it kinda is).

But my real lust is for the heavy equipment.

I love bulldozers and backhoes, trenchers and cement mixers. My life’s ambition through most of my formative years was to drive a garbage truck.

My fascination with the compactor at the landfill led me to write an entire book about a heroine who loses her office job and ends up working at the dump.

(Let’s all pause for a moment and cross our fingers – or any other available body parts – that my wonderful agent has the same good luck selling GETTING DUMPED as she did selling my romantic comedies!)

In last week’s blog chain on writing process, I touched briefly on the fact that story ideas don’t seem to come as easily for me as they do for some authors. While many of my peers seem to have a constant stream of plots and concepts flooding their brain, I operate more like an attention-deficit eight-year-old.

“Big, spiky wheels!” squeals my inner third grader at the sight of a landfill compactor. “Maybe if I write about it, they’ll let me drive one!”

(Sadly, they did not, though I did get to spend a lot of time crawling around inside them).

And though my inner third grader is not legal drinking age, it was my fascination with wine – plus my urge to drink some and get paid for it – that prompted me to propose LET IT BREATHE as the third book in my recent three-book contract with Sourcebooks.

Oh, and for the record, the love interest in that book is a construction foreman. See? I told you the ogling was research.

I’m always curious about where authors get their story ideas. Do yours come easy for you, or is it like pulling teeth? (Hey, there’s a story idea…)

Please share your experiences in the comments trail.

And while we’re sharing, allow me to share the highlight of my week. I wore a tight shirt used my exemplary powers of professional persuasion to convince the guys next door to let me sit on the backhoe. Alas, I didn’t get to drive it. But they did let me make growly engine noises and that beepy sound to suggest I was backing up.

My life is complete.