WHAT'S IN A GENRE?

I have never really got to terms with all these different genres now floating around the writing world. For me, anything that has a love interest present is romantic and when I was a mere lowly reader, as opposed to an even merer and lowlier author, I didn’t give two willies about genre. I picked up a book, read the blurb and if it tweaked my interest, I bought it. Too much analyzing, folks: Romantic fiction, contemporary romance, suspense, historical suspense, futuristic suspense, futuristic romance with flash backs to historical. Chick lit, mummy lit, manny lit, nanny lit, Erotic, Erotica, paranormal, historical suspense, and romantic erotic starring aliens from outer space – gay aliens at that all dressed up as cowboys. Anyway, barring the outer space angle, I think Tolkien pretty much covered everything in Lord of the Rings.

I think I will create a new category. How about; anything I bloody want it to be romance coz its fantastic and you ought to buy it? Have I answered this question? Probably not but I have had fun trying. Back to work I go on my romance whatever it turns into and if any agent or publisher is reading this - I plead insanity.

Viviane

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - MY FIRST WRITING LOVE

I know it sounds weird but I was glad you bawled me out. Do you know how annoying it is to have everyone walk on egg shells around me? I hate being treated as if I am some basket case and it’s so...so patronising. And then you arrived and I thought, finally, someone who doesn’t know about the ‘accident’ and probably wouldn’t care anyway.”
” Did I come across as so heartless?”
“Yes...no,” She shrugged her shoulders, “Thing is, I respected you for your honest treatment of me and then


They say you never get over your first love. I think this applies to our writing also. My first attempt at a novel, begun in the spring of 2004 and finished by Septemeber. It was a great summer that year. Greece won the Euro soccer 2004 turnament, Athens hosted a wonderful Olympic games, I discovered the wonderful talent of one singer/song-writer extraordinaire, Darren Hayes and I fell in love with my novel's hero - a one Mr. Max Jackson. Of course, my 170,000 word ms was unpolished, rife with first time author hideous mistakes and consequently did not find a home. Since then, I have completed five novels, four published and one on the submission trail but I keep coming back to Max. I want him back in my life. I want us to share that joyous, heady relationship we once had so....I a giving him a second chance. This time, after many failed attempts at ironing out the glitches in our 7 year relationship, I want to make it work. I will make it work. We share too much history to give up on him. I leave you with a small, raw excerpt from Class Act {working title.} Enjoy....

She ran; ran so hard the sound of her own breathing hammered against her skull. Her heart raced. A tight band clawed at her chest, the pain excruciating but she couldn’t stop. To do so would be to die. Low-hung branches scratched and whipped at her face. She wiped at her cheeks, feeling the warm stickiness, knowing it was blood; her blood. Feet tangled in hidden roots and she tumbled to her knees. Panic caused bile to rise into her dry, raw throat. “No,” she moaned. “I have to keep going.” Drawing on every last vestige of strength left in her battered body, she stumbled to her feet. He drew closer; she heard his heavy lop-sided gait as he crashed through the trees. His foul, enraged curses carried through the still of the night, searing her ears and chilling her to the core. “No, please, Daddy. Where are you?” Her dry sobs were futile, she knew. She was on her own. No one was coming to save her. He was closing in. His acrid stench filled her nostrils and she whimpered. Down she went again, knees connecting with a sharp stone, cutting into already too abused flesh. Her skin crawled as her pursuer curled a calloused hand around her neck. “Not so fast, you bitch.....”

Rebecca shot up in bed. Hand shaking, she found the bedside lamp switch and the room flooded with welcome, warm apricot. Whimpering his own fears, Wally shuffled on to her lap and licked the tears from her cheeks. “It’s ok, Wally,” she whispered, fondling her loyal friend’s silk ears. “He didn’t get me. He didn’t get me.” Clutching the dog to her damp, sweat soaked body, she wept into his coat. “You won’t tell, will you? No, I know you won’t. You understand. Best they believe what they want. I don’t have to remember, do I?” She turned off the light and she lay, mentally exhausted, back down against the pillows. She was safe. She only dreamt the dream once a night. For now, it was over. She closed her eyes.

She couldn’t run anymore. Her legs held no strength, her lungs empty of oxygen. Blood covered her hands, smeared her torn and dirty t-shirt. Head bent to her knees, she curled into a foetal ball. She cried again but this time her tears were for her father. He wasn’t coming. No one was.
“Rebecca.”
Head raised, she squinted through the threatening dark. A silhouette, tall, upright, stepped out from the shadows, whispers of ethereal moonlight dancing on his smooth, strong face. He held out a hand. “Rebecca, it’s ok. I have come for you. You’re safe now.” Warmth thawed her frozen soul. She believed him. She trusted him. His gentle tone held compassion; love. He would protect her – with his own life, if need be.
“Daddy...” Tentatively she reached for his out stretched fingers. They entwined with hers. His touch calmed her. Everything was going to be alright. “Daddy...hold me.”
Strong warm arms scooped her up and held her close in their protective folds. “Shh...Don’t cry, honey. I am here. I will always be here. No one will ever hurt you again. I would rather die than let that happen.”
Breathing in the warm scent of him, Rebecca closed her eyes and let his words lull her to sleep. Cool lips brushed against her cheek. Her eyes flew open. Raising her head, she stared into eyes the colour of sea-green.......

Rebecca woke with a start. Fingers twisted in sheet folds, she pulled it over her head. My god – what was wrong with her?
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WHAT'S IN A NAME?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2) Bill Shakespeare.

Are names important? You bet. A name is often our first connection to someone and, as we shouldn't judge a book by its cover, we often sum people by their name - until we get to know them a little better, of course.
Examples:

Elmer - sorry for any Elmers out there but conjures up an image of a Louisiana moonshine swamp boy.

Rupert: A Lord Byron wannabee popinjay with Robert Pattison hair {quite nice image. actually}

John: Strong, dependable, hardworking family man. Think The Walton’s and you’ll get my drift.

Henry: Hurrah – speaks for itself. Green wellies and fox-hunting.

And on to the ladies
Drizella: ugly – as in sister. Heaving bosom and as string of pearls. Probably gives singing lessons in a Victorian parlor.

Fiona: A wee Scottish lady in a tweed shirt and walking stick, a basket of heather and oatcakes in her hand. Probably secretly yearns for a good rutting session on the moors with her secret love, Jamie

Cassandra: Ooooh cool ice-queen. Poised, super-intelligent and most likely possessing the gift of foreseeing the future. I can see her in cool ivory linen, a cloche hat on a precision cut Nordic blonde bob.


When I choose names for my heroes, I like to go for the short and snappy and traditional but also a name that will command attention; a name that will conjure up sexy but dependable, intelligent. Daniel, David, James, Michael. For my ladies, again I tend to go for the old-fashioned. Rachel, Sarah, Rebecca. I love names that end in ‘a’, that can be shortened. Isabella – Izzie. Elysianna – Ellie. Cassandra – Cassie.
A name must trip lightly from a readers lips, a sensual caress to the inner ear.


As for book titles, sometimes they come to me in a flash. Other times, I will lie awake all night long, fretting that I will never find anything to make me happy. I usually try to have a title tie in with one line form my story.
Example.
Written in Stone “Stranger things have happened. Nothing is written in stone, Jamie.”
So, folks, just remember; a writer's life is not an easy one. Decisions, decisions and please - choose your childrens'names wisely....

Viv

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY -

This week, my six comes from Fragile Dreams

“How? How did you know?”
“It wasn’t difficult.” Expression neutral, he laid his book face-down on the table. “You wear your emotions so flagrantly. You were too happy. I sensed someone was rocking your world and it wasn’t me.”


Fragile Dreams holds a special place in my heart. It is probably the one work in which I have injected so much of myself. Continuing my love affair with all things Greek, and following the success of Dreamweek, it seemed a logical step to create another tale set on the enchanting imaginary Greek island of Kuros.
Re-introducing some of Dream’s main characters, I have, once again, leaned on my experiences working within the travel industry to provide much of the backdrop. But the love story is all brand new. This is a tale that touches on many issues; psychological bullying, culture clash, controlling spouses – all mixed in with a young woman’s battle to recover her self-esteem after struggling with Breast Cancer {based on my personal experience. I am hoping to donate any future royalties to cancer research. I believe Fragile is a tale that goes beyond a simple romance and will touch something in all of us. Here is a short blurb and excerpt:

Introducing Elysiana Rouva and the young Michael. Drawn together by an inexplicable bond, they share so much more than mere physical attraction. Ellie is at the point where she is questioning her life. Recently overcoming a long, hard battle with breast cancer, she is vulnerable and depressed. Her husband Pavlos, although outwardly supportive, provides her with no real comfort. Their marriage is a farce. She no longer loves him and is not threatened by his numerous affairs or his obsession with his work. Her friends say all the right words but she cannot make them understand.
Enter Michael. Michael becomes Ellie’s salvation. The young man Pavlos sends to tend their garden turns Ellie’s world on its head. As for Michael, Ellie provides escape from a past clouded with bad memories. Can she rid his heart of so much betrayal?

Excerpt:

Ellie awoke, refreshed and feeling alive. For the first time in months, she’d slept like a baby. But now, a new day dawned, Pavlos had gone and….who was she trying to kid? Tomorrow was here. He was coming.
I’m only excited, she told herself as she showered, because finally the rose garden will be sorted. No other reason. Nothing whatsoever to do with captivating grey eyes and a tender smile. Genuine. That was the word scurrying around in her head. She sensed his interest in her. It felt good.
Ignoring Maria’s disapproving stone expression as she washed up a wine glass, Ellie poured out a cup of coffee. Good, strong Columbian. None of the decaf rubbish Pavlos tried to make her drink.
“Maria,” leaning against the worktop, she sipped at the fragrant brew, “It was one friggin glass, not a bottle. But I am sure you will report back how you see fit. Either way, Kyria Rouva will be delighted I have transgressed yet again. Just make sure you tell her I opened one of dear, departed’s finest cava red.”
Maria didn’t respond but the crashing of wet dishes told Ellie she’d got in her first serve. Her mother-in-law thought she was so clever by hiring her cousin to ‘help’ around the home. It had taken Ellie all of one day to suss that the sour-faced women was there in capacity as a spy. A staunch tee-totaler, her mother-in-law didn’t approve of women drinking but then she didn’t approve of much, least of all loose-moral foreign girls running off with her beloved first born. Ten years had passed and Ellie was over it. She didn’t care what Pavlos’ mother thought of her. With the benefit of hindsight, she was only surprised he’d found the guts to stand up to the Gorgon matriarch and marry her at all. Glancing at the brass clock above the ornate china cabinet, Ellie drained her mug. Time to hit the pool.
The bikini was new. Still bandeau style, it kept the prosthesis in place and — more importantly — hid the scars but the bottoms were definitely sexy. Pavlos hadn’t seen it yet but then, she hadn’t bought it with the purpose of enticing him. Actually, she didn’t know why she’d bought it. When she’d laid it out on her bed, it had taunted her, clearly screaming what were you thinking? And to think she’d nearly given it to Lisa. Well now she needed it because….. Oh God, she was acting daft; plain teenage, immature daft.
“I’m a married woman,” she chanted as she rubbed Piz Buin into her skin. “Old enough to be his mother.” Ok, so that was stretching it a bit. She’d settle on big sister. Besides, he wasn’t even that good looking. For a start, his nose was too long and how the hell had she noticed that?
“I am insane.” She addressed the Red Arrow team of house-martins skimming the pool’s surface. Yesterday she acted like a gauche schoolgirl. Today she would be in control; professional and short to the point. He knew what to do so there would be no need to hang around. She would call Lisa and go into town.
So why, three hours on, did she lay on the sun-bed, morose, with all earlier sense of well-being evaporating up into a cloud of doom? Maybe she had that bi-polar thing. Ok, reality check. Disappointment raked at her soul. Tears sprung; hot, grit tears of rejection — which was silly because how could one reject someone one barely knew? Could Pavlos be right? She should call up Dr. Balis. It wasn’t possible to continue in this way. Her emotions were out of control, a cartwheel spinning too fast and furious.
“Good morning”
A dazzling shower exploded in her heart. And God said let there be light…
“I’m sorry for coming so late but I was on airport duty last night. There was a major delay. I didn’t get to bed until—”
“Late?” Aiming for casual, Ellie sat up. “Is it? I didn’t notice. I was reading….” Too late. No book in sight. She left it on the kitchen table.
He smiled his understanding, obviously too kind to point out this tiny discrepancy. The glasses were perched on his head which didn’t do a lot to bridge the troubled waters between her sanity and downright lunacy. Today, he’d dressed in shorts. On Pavlos, the gaudy Aussie-style floral print of blue and orange would have looked ridiculous but Michael made them look good. He wore no shirt and fine beads of sweat lined his broad shoulders along with a faint smattering of freckles. They also dusted his face. Funny, she hadn’t noticed yesterday but then his eyes did tend to hog the limelight.
“I hope you don’t mind but I drove the van right down to the steps…only until I unload the stuff.”
“No...It’s fine.” Ellie cleared her throat and reined in her emotions.
An awkward lull unfolded, pierced only by the persistent buzz of plump nectar-drunk bees.
“Mrs. Rouva, forgive me for being forward but are you ok? You look a little flushed.”
“I do?” As if with a will of their own, Ellie’s palms pressed against her cheeks. They burned to the touch. “Too much sun, I expect.”
“You should swim.” He spoke carefully.
“Yes.”
More deep, {meaningful?}silence.
“Well….” This time it was he who averted his gaze. “I’ll get on.”
“Yes.” Fascinated, she watched a red hue creep up to his throat. He felt it too. This thread, so fine and yet strong, like spun silk, drawing them together. Before she could mentally expand on this theory, he turned on his heels and left as quietly as he’s arrived, his gait long, fluid. Ellie jumped into her favorite mind game; matching people to dogs. Michael was pure sight-hound, a Saluki, tall, elegant, cautious — sensitive. The glittering azure of the pool beckoned and she dived in before her remaining brain cells disintegrated.

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HOW DOES A WRITER STAY SANE? HOW DO ANY OF US STAY SANE?

A muted hello from Corfu, today. I say muted because it's hard to be chirpy was so much suffering going on all around us. I am sure most of you, like I, has been left speechless by the devastation and hardship Japan is dealing with. This is not the first catastrophe to strike this year; it, I am sure, will not be the last. Whether you buy into the end of days 2012 scenario or not doesn't really matter but, personally, I believe these cataclysmic events are becoming more frequent. Why - I do not know. Of course, some will say, its the wrath of God, others, mankind's blatent lack of respect for the environment. All I know is, no matter how rich and powerful and technologically advanced we think we are, we are but tiny, insignificant souls in the this wonderful Universe. We have no power over Mother Nature. This planet is not our right; it is a gift.

"Mankind inhabits this Earth subject to geological consent," says Simon Winchester in Newsweek. And, as demonstrated by the earthquake and resulting tsunami that brought Japan to its knees, this consent "can be withdrawn at any time."

So true. Why do we believe we are Omnipotent? Will the events in Japan change us? I fear not. Man is inherently selfish. No good sitting in one's comfortable armchair, spouting off about the wisdom of nuclear energy or the rising price of fuel when we all do little to curb man's ferocious appetite for the 'good' life. It comes with a price.

How do we sane? Perhaps we don't.

How do I stay sane as a writer? I am realistic. I know the odds of my reaching No. 1 on the New York Times best seller list are slim; which isn't the same as me doubting my abilities. I have confidence in my writing. I love what I do. It's important to stay grounded. Forget ideas of stardown and huge advances. Concentrate on improving your craft. Maintain a sense of humour and a touch of cynism. Oh - and the occasional gin helps. I leave you with an excerpt from Written in Stone...

Viviane

“Tell me about Gus.”
“Gus...” Extracting himself from her needy embrace, he stood. Arms folded, he crossed the room. He reached out with a finger, touching the cheek of the giant man-creature. “You don't want to know about Gus.”
He spoke quietly, but his pain reached out and touched her heart.
“No one wants to know about Gus.”
“I do.” She went to him and slid her hand into his, fingers entwining. “I want to know what happened to him. My father taught me never to bury my head in the sand. He says toomany of us are guilty of doing that.”
He turned to her, lips twisted in a raw smile. “Apt turn of phrase, my darling,
softhearted Cassie. You see, I found him...lying in a shallow grave.” Focusing on the portrait once more, he rubbed at his temples. “That beautiful head. It was gone. They’d decapitated him and left his body to the mercy of scavengers. And for what purpose? So some rich bastard can display it in a glass cabinet…as if his head were some inanimate piece of china or glass wear. A senseless, avaricious killing, and no one gives a damn.”
Cassie held her breath. His cheeks were wet. She’d never seen a man cry before.
Moisture coated his thick eyelashes, but he made no attempt to wipe it away.
“I should be immune, but it never gets any easier. I came away from that clearing in Rwanda feeling so...dejected. That day is something that will live with me for the rest of my life. It haunts me because—”
“Because you feel guilty. Because you are ashamed you couldn’t do more to stop it.” As if with a will of their own, her fingers rested on his arm He made no effort to draw back.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he brought his hands up to his face, pressing against his skull with open palms, as if trying to push back every ugly image that must have been clicking open
and shut in his mind.
“How do you do it?” His bruised breath escaped his lips. “How is it you seem to know me?”
“Because I understand what it is to stand by and feel so inadequate. To know there is a creature in need and yet not be able to do anything to help. My dad calls me his eternal bleeding heart, always making every wounded bird, every stray puppy my personal responsibility, but of course, I could never save them all. It made me feel so guilty.” He dragged his hands away from his face, a fragmented smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “We could be soul mates, you and I.” The smile faded, regret, once more painted on his strong yet so sensitive face. “Alex doesn’t get it, you know, can’t understand why I allow Gus’s death to eat away at me. After all I have been witness to enough of man’s cruelty to humanity and his rape of the natural world to be hardened against it. I’ve seen babies dying in the arms of their emaciated, desperate mothers. I’ve observed the ravages of
civil war and the utter devastation that it brings to a country and its people, but every starving child, each hunted and tortured animal chips away at my soul until think I’ll go crazy with it.
"Somehow, finding Gus—that majestic beast, beaten, degraded—ripped away any last
vestige of hope I had for mankind’s salvation. And you’re right. I do feel guilty simply because I am a man. I bear the brunt of our collective responsibility in my heart. No, Alex doesn’t get me at all, but you…


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It's in our hands.

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY-DID THE EARTH MOVE FOR YOU?

Is it Six Sentence Sunday time again? Doesn't time fly when one is having fun? A glorious week of writing, editing, blogging, promo-ing all mixed in with the occasional bout of mother and wifely duties and the odd beer. Who needs a day job - not me.
Today I have gone to my February releas, Fragile Dreams, for today's six.

Suddenly it was hard to breath. Her grandmother’s words drowned all reason. There will be a time in your life, girl, when the world will stop turning, even albeit for a second, when you know your life will never be the same again. It will be the time when you lose ownership of your heart and soul, entrusting it to the care of someone, even if that person may not even realize you have done so. Maybe they don’t want that responsibility but, nevertheless, your happiness will be in their hands. Wise woman, her grandmother.

I want to ask the question - was it like that for you? Is there such a thing as love at first sight? I know we all write about it? The best answer will win free download of Fragile Dreams.

Here is a blurb and excerpt to get you in the mood

Introducing Elysiana Rouva and the young Michael. Drawn together by an inexplicable bond, they share so much more than mere physical attraction. Ellie is at the point where she is questioning her life. Recently overcoming a long, hard battle with breast cancer, she is vulnerable and depressed. Her husband Pavlos, although outwardly supportive, provides her with no real comfort. Their marriage is a farce. She no longer loves him and is not threatened by his numerous affairs or his obsession with his work. Her friends say all the right words but she cannot make them understand.
Enter Michael. Michael becomes Ellie’s salvation. The young man Pavlos sends to tend their garden turns Ellie’s world on its head. As for Michael, Ellie provides escape from a past clouded with bad memories. Can she rid his heart of so much betrayal?
Excerpt:
“You didn’t eat much.”
“Oh you know how it is.” She feigned detachment although her heart raced. This was not the time to ruin the evening. She was having too much fun. “It’s just when I cook… well I tend to taste everything and then….well I’m not hungry and…I have been ill.” Oh God, why had she said it? The words had slipped away from her like a slippery eel on the end of a rod, out of her box of pride. She had no desire to court sympathy, especially his.
His quiet I know caught her square on the chin. “How?” Her defensive comeback betrayed suspicion.
“I just know.”
Breath froze her lungs. He reached across the pale lilac damask table-cloth and covered her hand with his, touch electric, cool fingers caressing her too-warm skin.
“No one told me.” His tenderness made her head swim. “I can read it in your eyes.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected.
“You’re so sad,” he continued, words cradling her senses, soft as goose down. “Tired of life.”
Ellie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak.
He went on, tone seductive. “I understand, you see. I understand because my sister had the same look. She suffered but, like you, she was a fighter. She had strength. I know you too have that strength. Use it. Don’t give up. You will be ok.”
And still he cradled her hand in a cool clasp, thumb tracing snowflake patterns on her palm. It was too surreal and yet his intensity didn’t frighten her. He breathed sincerity.
“She died, didn’t she?”
Pain flickered in his eyes, giving her the answer.
“She did.” His return was unfaltering. “But you won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” She held his gaze, challenging him to reassure her.
“Because…” He smiled. “I won’t let you.”

The One Hundred Romance Project Review:
I loved everything about this story. The characters were so vivid and so real that they felt like old friends. It was so easy to feel for Ellie – her bitterness was palpable, her loneliness was haunting, her feelings of hurt, betrayal, and love ran so deep that it felt like I was experiencing the same things. This was really just a beautiful, poignant piece that I absolutely want to read again and again.

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Clean Monday, Stunning Corfu and Why I Am TiRed of Alpha Men

Greeting all from a cold Corfu,

Yes, my husband definately married me under false pretenses. Corfu does get cold and then some. I just can't believe it decided to pick Spring in which to do it. Typically Greek that; perverse. So, it's the start of Lent and Monday saw my friends and I troop off for the grand annual kite flying and picnic. As is tradition in the Orthodox faith, from clean Monday {Καθαρά Δευτέρα}nothing is supposed to be eaten that contains blood.

Isaiah 1:1-20), which says, in part:

Wash yourselves and ye shall be clean; put away the wicked ways from your souls before Mine eyes; cease to do evil; learn to do well. Seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, consider the fatherless, and plead for the widow. Come then, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: Though your sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow; and though they be red like crimson, I will make them white as wool

Wikipedia can explain it better than I:
Clean Monday is a public holiday in Greece and Cyprus, where it is celebrated with outdoor excursions, the consumption of shellfish and other fasting food[2], a special kind of azyme bread, baked only on that day, named "lagana" (Greek: λαγάνα) and the widespread custom of flying kites. Eating meat, eggs and dairy products is traditionally forbidden to Orthodox Christians throughout Lent, with fish being eaten only on major feast days, but shellfish is permitted in European denominations. This has created the tradition of eating elaborate dishes based on seafood (shellfish, molluscs, fish roe etc.). Traditionally, it is considered to mark the beginning of the spring season, a notion which was used symbolically in Ivan Bunin's critically acclaimed story, Pure Monday. People on Clean Monday usually take their picnic baskets and put inside fasting foods because it is the day that Lent begins.
The happy, springtime atmosphere of Clean Monday may seem at odds with the Lenten spirit of repentance and self-control, but this seeming contradiction is a marked aspect of the Orthodox approach to fasting, in accordance with the Gospel lesson (Matthew 6:14-21) read on the morning before, which admonishes:

When ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance: for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face, that thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret... (v. 16-18).

In this manner, the Orthodox celebrate the fact that "The springtime of the Fast has dawned, the flower of repentance has begun to open..

So, quick theological lesson over, I am happy to report, we had a lovely day. It was cold, with a biting wind but the rain stayed off long enough.

So on to the question of the week:

Alpha men? I hate them. Now, don’t get me wrong, here. I love strong, handsome guys as well as the next woman/man. How could I not when such godly delights as Gerard Butler and Russell Crowe and Daniel Craig roam this earth in human form. BUT, what do these three guys have in common? Think of their most famous roles?
Russell Crowe – Gladiator. Strong, brave, loyal, ready to kill for the freedom of men and yet, emotionally, he was a destroyed man. The loss of his wife and child meant he no longer had the will to live and did so only to exact revenge. Who can forget that moment when he falls to his knees and weeps for his dead wife and child?
Gerard Butler – 300. Oh Spartans don’t come any tougher. {Those bodies in leather underpants. I will never be the same again}. Ah but do you remember the tender love scene with his wife when he admits he doesn’t know what to do?
Daniel Craig – James Bond. Why is Casino Royale my favourite Bond film? {Apart from the delectable Daniel}. Because we are allowed to see his vulnerability. We find out, for the first time, what it was that shaped his character.
I look for the same criteria in my romance books – in ones I write and read. I want my men to shed a tear occasionally, I want them to be kind to animals, children and defend the underdog always. I want them to be emotionally flawed, human, make mistakes and sometimes-bad judgment calls but, above all, my hero needs to admit he is in love. No more macho crap, boys please: we all know you are the weaker sex. I do not want a tattooed, bear-swilling redneck nor do I want the kind of man who – let’s be honest here – all too often grace the cover of torrid romances. Boy next door is good, as is nerd, at times. Personally, I find Sheldon from Big Bang Theory very cute and oddly sexy. So I am weird. So, to sum up, no more macho crap, boys please: we all know you are the weaker sex.

BAZINGA!

{My little Shelly}