First (Fictional) Boyfriends

As my most recent novel was wending its way through the publishing process last winter, a few women working at Simon & Schuster in Canada grew rather fond of my modern-day hero, Rob. They even created this Tumblr post, which made me laugh. And the concept of having great taste in one's fictional men got me thinking of all of the heroes I'd fallen in love with myself in the books that I'd read. Far too many to count.

Then I started to wonder: Well, who was the first?

Because surely the first love, with fictional men as with real ones, would leave some discernible mark on the memory and be something special.

My first thought was that it would have to be someone from L.M. Montgomery's books: Kenneth Ford, from Rilla of Ingleside, always a favourite of mine; Barney Snaith from The Blue Castle, or the more obvious Gilbert Blythe. Gilbert, with his swoon-worthy good looks and good-natured charm. Gilbert, who says things like: "I have a dream. I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true..."

And yet...and yet, the more I sat and thought, the more I realized it was none of those, because before I'd met them in the pages of their books my heart had already been captured by a man who'd won me over by degrees as I had watched him grow from boyhood, from a farmer's stubborn son into a patient, quiet homesteader who always seemed to be there at the moment he was needed.

Almanzo Wilder

"Laura's dread of strangers came over her and the open door ahead seemed a refuge from their eyes.
      She did not notice a touch on her coat sleeve until she heard a voice saying, 'May I see you home?'
      It was Almanzo Wilder.
      Laura was so surprised that she could not say a word. She could not even nod or shake her head. She could not think. His hand stayed on her arm and he walked beside her through the door. He protected her from being jostled in the crowded entry."

Of course I'd noticed him before that, and it wasn't the first time that he had rescued her (nor would it be the last) but with that simple question, 'May I see you home?' towards the end of Laura Ingalls Wilder's book Little Town on the Prairie, Almanzo Wilder laid claim to my heart. He was my first.

I suppose you could argue that he's not entirely fictional, since he and Laura were actual people, but Laura took enough liberties in writing her Little House series of books that I feel like he counts. And he set the bar so high, in my view, for all of the heroes who tried to come after him that many never did make it. A fictional man might have all the right lines and a great set of abs, but if I couldn't picture him driving a small two-horse cutter twelve miles in a blizzard that froze the thermometer colder than forty below, just to bring me back home to my parents, then I wasn't interested.

Which helps, I suppose, to explain why I never had much time for Heathcliff, and why my own heroes all tend to be quiet, dependable men.

Who was your first great fictional love?

An Easter Excerpt from The Firebird

Russian Easter Eggs © Christian Delbert | Dreamstime.com

 This just seemed like the perfect thing to post, today—a little sneak peek from my latest book, The Firebird (and one of my own favourite scenes, as it happens). I hope you enjoy it. 

* * *

     “And,” said Anna, “when the people greet each other, there will be the giving of the painted eggs, which is great fun. Do you give eggs to one another in Livonia, at Easter?”

     Katie, being little, could not say with any certainty.

     “Well, here in Russia, there are painted eggs—some red, and some with all the colors of your mother’s jewels, in clever patterns, and most beautiful to see.”

     “And do you eat them?”

     “Yes, eventually. First though, people give them to each other, and receive an Easter kiss. Like this.” She held up an imaginary egg, and said to Katie, “First I tell you, ‘Christ is risen,’ and your answer should be, ‘Truly He is risen.’”

     Katie parroted the words.

     “Good. Then you take the egg from me, that’s right, and kiss me three times, starting here.” She put a guiding finger to her left cheek, leaning close down to the bed to let the little girl perform the triple kiss: the left cheek, then the right, and then the left again.

     “Must you kiss everyone?” asked Katie.

     “Yes, it is the custom. If you’re greeted in this way, then you cannot refuse the kiss,” said Anna. “Nor the egg.”

     “I wish I had a real egg.”

     From the open doorway just behind, a man’s voice said, “Will this one do?”

     The light in Katie’s face, all on its own, would have told Anna who it was that stood there, had she not already recognized his voice.

     And as she always did in Edmund’s presence now, she put on mental battle dress, composed her features carefully to be polite but only just, and straightened without haste to turn and face him.

     He had leaned one shoulder jauntily against the door frame, with his black wool coat left open to reveal the yellow waistcoat worn beneath, all edged with braid. She’d never seen him in a color, only in the plain black coat, or in the plain white of his shirtsleeves; never with this vibrant dash of light that made him seem a bit more human.

     In his hand he held an egg that had indeed been painted with a rainbow’s colors, red and blue and gold and green. “My landlady did give this to me earlier this morning, with instructions that, as soon as mass had ended, I should give this to the princess, and exchange it for a kiss. And I could think of but one princess in all Petersburg,” he said to Katie, “so now, Princess Katie, will you—”

     Katie cut him off, blond curls dancing as her face mingled delight and firm denial. “I’m no princess, Ned.”

     He paused, and feigned confusion. “Are you not?”

     She was decided. “No. Your landlady meant the imperial princesses. They’re at the palace.”

     “I see. Are you sure about that? Well, they’ll have so many eggs by now,” he said, “they’ll not miss mine. Here, you can have it.”

     “No,” she put him off again, but for a different cause. “You have to do it properly.”

     “How’s that?”

     “Like Mistress Jamieson was showing me. You have to tell me, ‘Christ is risen,’ then I answer you, and then you give the egg to me, and then I kiss you.”

     Edmund schooled his face. “It seems a lot of effort,” he told Katie, “for a kiss.”

     “It is the custom,” Katie told him, very solemnly, in a near-perfect imitation of the way that Anna had just said those very words, and Edmund’s mouth twitched faintly.

     With a shrug he came away from the door jamb and crossed to the little girl’s bedside, and Anna moved out of their way, standing back several paces to watch while the Irishman bowed very gallantly low to the child and announced, “Christ is risen. Now, take the damn’d egg.”

     “Not yet. First I must tell you, ‘Truly He is risen,’” said Katie, and looking to Anna, asked, “Is that right?”

     Any notion Anna might have had of telling Edmund not to curse in Katie’s presence fell away then, for she saw the child herself was not at all affected by it. Innocence, she thought, was often blind to other’s wickedness. And Edmund did not look so very wicked at the moment.

     He looked much as he had looked when she had watched him with the children in the yard, nearly two weeks ago: a gentle man, a stranger to her eyes, without a trace of the sardonic, cutting wit he liked to turn on her when they were in a room together.

     Seemingly mindful that Katie was still weak from illness, he leaned lower still for his kiss and received it at last, saying, “Three kisses! Sure, that’s a generous reward.”

     “Mistress Jamieson says every egg gets three kisses.”

     “Indeed? Well, I’ve no doubt she’d tell you the truth.” He was standing again at his full height and looking at Anna, as though he were trying to guess at her thoughts. “Mistress Jamieson, you appear troubled.”

     She said, “Hardly that. I was only admiring the egg.”

     “Oh, yes? I’ve another just like it.” Drawing a second egg out of his coat pocket, he held it up in full view as he leveled his gaze on her own, and the glint in his eyes told her she was a fool to have ever believed him not wicked. He said, “Christ is risen.”

* * * 

I hope you're enjoying this holiday weekend. Come back and read Julie's post, Thursday.

Good Bad Guys

(Photo from www.imdb.com)

I’ve just been catching up on some of the vampire stories that have been made into TV series – True Blood and The Vampire Diaries – and I’m also eagerly awaiting the final instalment of the Twilight films.

Something struck me about all these though – the fact that I don’t like any of the heroes!  I much prefer the other guy (in the case of Twilight) and the bad guys in the other stories.  I have to admit I thoroughly disliked Edward Cullen with his controlling ways and strange supposedly protective measures when it came to his girlfriend; Jacob Black is so much more passionate (and yes, alive!).  I find Bill Compton deadly dull (sorry, bad pun), while Erik Northman, the Viking vampire, is mischievous and fun in comparison.  And I can’t for the life of me like Stefan Salvatore.  His brother Damon may be evil, but he’s never boring!

Erik Northman (Wikipedia photo)

So is it just me, or does this seem wrong somehow?  Surely in a story we should be rooting for the good guy, the one who is trying to do the right thing (and in this case, abstaining from drinking human blood in order not to hurt anyone)?  Of course we all love a really well written “bad boy” story, but those normally end with him being reformed by the heroine and turned into the good guy at the end.  Or the reader is shown from the beginning that he’s just hiding his true colours behind a façade and needs to fall in love in order to be saved.  But that’s not the case with these vampire stories as far as I can see.

It could of course have something to do with the fact that I personally find the actors portraying the bad guys more attractive, but I read the books first and felt the same way.

Jacob black (Wikipedia photo)

I don’t really have an answer here, I guess I’m just kind of thinking out loud.  But I’d love to hear everyone else’s take on this – discuss please?

And please come back on Sunday to hear from Liz

Heroes of the Past

I’ve been thinking a lot about heroes lately (yes, day dreaming like Anna said) because there’s a new one “brewing” in my mind. I know what he looks like already and I have his back story, so now I’m slowly figuring out what’s going to happen to him. And I know one thing for sure – the ladies love him! Since the story is set in the 18^th century, however, that got me thinking about whether the ladies of that time would REALLY have liked him, or if that’s just my 21^st century view of him?

Obviously, he has to be attractive to today’s readers, so I’m subconsciously adding details that would appeal to us. But surely, a handsome man would always be a handsome man? Brad Pitt looked just as good as Achilles in a little skirt as he did in Ocean’s 11. But maybe that’s just me ...? Because if you look at the sort of man who was idolised in his day, tastes have definitely changed!

I recently attended a celebration in honour of Lord Byron’s (224^th) birthday and it was clear that he was the Regency equivalent of our A-list celebrities. Famous, handsome, sought-after and “mad, bad and dangerous to know”. In other words, a bad boy hero, just like the ones in romance novels. But looking at the portraits of him, I couldn’t see the attraction myself. I guess you had to be there in order to fall under his spell? Or was it his superb poetry that did the trick? I don’t know.

There have been many such men through the ages, the kind everyone seems to find charismatic and attractive. I tried to think of a few and came up with:-

Henry VIII, who was supposedly very handsome as a young man, although it’s kind of hard to see from the later portraits. Apart from anything else, the fear that he might chop my head off would probably have killed any feelings stone dead for me!

Sir Walter Raleigh – yes! Now here’s a man I think I could have fallen in love with. Just look at those bedroom eyes in the miniature of him, they’re decidedly wicked.

Rupert of the Rhine – I think I’ve mentioned him before and apart from being tall, dark and handsome, well ... no, what more do you want?

In Victorian times, maybe Dante Gabriel Rossetti? Another poet – hmm, maybe there’s a trend here ...

Going forward a bit, Douglas Fairbanks Jr? – no, not for me.

Clark Gable? Hmm, maybe, but he reminds me too much of George Clooney and I’m not a fan.

James Dean – yes, maybe, I like the motorcycle and bad boy attitude.

It is strange though, how different the tastes were. So who, from the history books, do you think you would have fallen for? I think Sir Walter’s bedroom eyes are definitely calling to me, so I feel another day dream coming on ...

Please come back on Sunday to hear from Liz.

The Games They Play

I just stepped upstairs to write this. Downstairs, my husband is sprawled on the sofa, my netbook on his lap, gleefully tweeting away while watching the Grand Prix. He's like a child with a new toy, loving the juxtaposition of two of his favourite things - motorsport and computers.

Earlier we watched the BBC coverage before the race, where Jenson Button and Lewis Hamilton competed against the BBC team of Martin Brundle and David Coulthard for the fastest wheel change.

It was a bit of fun, something none of them usually do. There was no prize involved, nothing was at stake. But Hamilton was jumping up and down and fairly vibrating with adrenaline, and both the McLaren boys were, um, extremely focused. The whole thing couldn't have been more competitive if they were competing for the podium on the last turn of a race.

Husband and I talked about it, about the legendary competitiveness of racing drivers in all things, about the way some games seem to make men of all backgrounds gleefully, boyishly competitive.

We remembered that time on a beach in Dorset when a can floated by, and one man desultorily started flicking stones at it, trying to hit it. Then another man joined in, then another. Before long the entire beach was engaged in the age-old gladiatorial combat of man-and-pebble-versus-target, and the race to be first to hit it was on. Wives and girlfriends were surreptitiously searching for the perfect stone, men were sitting up or lounging, trying to look nonchalent.

Husband landed one first with a resounding TING. I hissed, "YES," under my breath, Husband picked sand from under his nails and examined the sky. There was an almost audible sigh from everyone else, and the beach subsided. No comment had been voiced no eye contact made.

But a battle had been fought, and one man emerged victorious...

I don't know if I have a point to make about this, only to say that I love it when guys get into their games... and I'm now going to check that the current WIPs have a least a few moments just like these...