Archive for the ‘hero worship’ Category
Oh my God.
My new hero is SO GREAT. He is just, just, incredible. He is so lovely and wonderful and all-around AWESOME.
I have been rocking back in my chair every six minutes laughing out loud and telling the ceiling how brilliant he is.
How on earth am I going to stop my heroine from being totally in love with him already???
I want to post another photo, but there are too many to choose from on this site. I particularly like the rather naughty-looking one with the sonic screwdriver, sixth down from the top.
Mr Tennant at the always-enjoyable provocateuse.com
Big happy sigh.
By the way, people are still posting about the first page challenge and there’s a permanent link to it on my sidebar over there on the right, near the top.
Strangely, doing Google searches for pictures of men doesn’t wear me out at all.
Yup. This is my next hero. I think he is such a cutie.
Here, as promised, my celebratory picture of Guy Pearce…
Whoo-hoo! I wish I had enough of these to post every time I got a good review…
Wow, obviously I have some sort of deep connection with Guy Pearce since I posted a photo of him on his birthday without even knowing it. (Or maybe Julie S has the deep connection, since she told me it was his birthday.)
In celebration, I’m going to post an excerpt from my wip, where Guy Pearce is the inspiration for my hero. He’s Jonny Cole, a computer whiz, who’s reluctantly moonlighting as a male model in order to make money his family desperately needs. He’s known the heroine, Jane, for years, though they haven’t seen each other since they were kids. She’s an advertising executive who’s hired Jonny as the model for a new campaign, but because he goes by the professional name of Jay Richard, Jane doesn’t know who he really is when they first meet. He recognises her, though, and thinks she also recognises him.
Her machine took a moment to connect, and when she looked up, a man was smiling at her.
He had dark hair and he wore a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the cuffs. His hands were in the pockets of his faded jeans. He stood casually, comfortably, looking straight at her, and his eyes were dark blue. Even across the room she could see it.
Jane’s fingers gripped her BlackBerry hard. This was her model. It must be, he looked so familiar. But somehow, in a different way than she’d expected. It wasn’t like recognising someone from a photo. The sight of him connected inside her stomach, making her joints ache and her breasts tighten. Her tailored suit stifled her, felt too tight across her chest.
He had perfect teeth, sculpted lips, high cheekbones, and he wasn’t just smiling at her, he was beaming.
Jane couldn’t help it. She flicked her head to the side, looking over her shoulder to see who was behind her, because men this gorgeous did not beam at her.
When she looked back he was striding across the restaurant, nearly at her table, his hand outstretched.
And then he was there. In front of her, holding her hand in his, though she didn’t remember offering it.
“Jane,” he said, his head tilted slightly to the side, his smile digging creases into the side of his mouth. His voice was deep, soft, and friendly.
The sound of her name in his mouth did something to her blood flow because she felt as if she had too much of it, heating her skin, pumping her heart harder, tingling in her fingertips and chest.
“Yes.” She stood on weak legs, hearing her voice shaky and realising, somewhere in the back of her boiling brain, that she should really try to control her behaviour before she made herself look like an idiot. But this man… “You look different from your photographs,” she said.
“God, I hope so,” he said, and the warmth in his eyes and his hand made her swallow, hard.
“Dude, you found her!”
A man in a white linen suit burst out of nowhere. He clapped the gorgeous man on the shoulder and kissed Jane on both of her cheeks. “Hey Jane, great to see you babe, I see you know Jay already.”
“Thom,” she said, in confusion, and then realised that she was still holding the model’s hand. “It’s great to meet you, Jay,” she said, giving his hand a shake, trying to inject some professionalism into the gesture that was, for her, quite frankly sensual.
His hand enfolded hers, warm and dry, and it was as if she could feel every line of his palm, every print of his fingertips against her. It was more than a handshake. She felt as if she knew him.
She met his eyes again and he was smiling as if he shared a secret with her.
He knew he made her feel this way.
from Her Model Lover (working title), Mills & Boon Modern Extra, 2007
Must. Keep. Writing.
And post photo of Guy Pearce in a bathroom.
Yesterday was Hugh Jackman Day over at the fantastic Pink Heart Society. Hugh Jackman is so lusted after by romance writers as a model for heroes that we were nearly squabbling in the aisles, and lots of Pink Heart Society members have posted their own photos of Hugh.
My beloved Kate Walker has a photo of Hugh In A Towel that she shows at every opportunity. Little does she know that I have two additional photos of Hugh, filling out that towel admirably…
Please remember to clean the drool off your keyboard before you comment. Electrocution is a dangerous thing.
This is my new hero. I’m writing about him today.
Yup.
I’ve been missing in action for the past couple of days because I’ve been editing like mad–oh and writing those sex scenes I couldn’t bear to write when my hormones were making me want to puke constantly.
Anyway, the good news is that this book is DONE, done done and it’s going out to my editor tomorrow, bang on deadline.
I’ve got to catch up on here properly–I’ve got a contest for a copy of Delicious I need to do a draw for, I’ve had several reviews to put up, and of course I need to update everyone on the general state of fatness.
Tomorrow.
Though Saturday I’m going to Birmingham to give a workshop on writing sex scenes to the BookCrossing Unconvention. Which should be cool.
Meanwhile, thanks to all my loyal and kind friends who were convinced that I was John Cusack’s stalker. It’s nice to know you all think so highly of me.
This isn’t about Delicious, it’s about yesterday. I decided to take a holiday from everything and go to Basildon Park for the day. Basildon Park is a gorgeous 18th-century house with beautiful grounds outside of Reading, and its most recent brush with fame is that it was filmed as Netherfield Park in the new Pride and Prejudice.
I stood outside the house and texted Biddy: Matthew MacFadyen stood RIGHT THERE!!
For once she didn’t tell me to shut up!
They had an exhibition of the costumes used in the film inside, and also an exhibition of what was done to preserve the house while filming was going on. It was fascinating, though I must say that I am very very shallow and spent quite a bit of time staring at the clothes that Mr MacFadyen wore in the film. You know, judging shoulder breadth and foot size and things like that. These things are important for a romance writer.
(It’s also a brilliant excuse to post this photo again, because they had this outfit on display. Ooh, er, um, yes.)
Then I wandered around the grounds and spent some time lying on the grass in the gentle sunlight, watching the trees and the birds and the clouds (and the many many airplanes, which sort of spoiled the mood).
This is Cillian Murphy in Cannes this week.
I am not in Cannes. I am, instead, in Reading, doing laundry and marking practice exams.
This seems so fundamentally unfair that I can’t even begin to start to attempt to consider it.
I mean, look at the poor guy.
He’s obviously pining for a bit of interesting conversation with a marginally deluded romance writer/grammarian. Those show biz people must get boring after a while. Blah blah blah Palme d’Or blah blah cinema blah blah sophisticated French crap blah blah champagne and the Oscars blah blah my agent darling and I loved you in that Irish film thing about the bloke in the dress and the subtitled robins.
He hasn’t even got anybody there to persuade him to undo the second button on his shirt.
What a drag.
the dapper Mr Richard Astley
(Just a note for those of you unfamiliar with Mr Astley’s work, as referenced in my last blog post)
According to his Wikipedia entry, Rick Astley was a protege of Stock Aitken Waterman, starting as their tea boy and eventually exploding onto the scene in 1987 with his number one single “Never Gonna Give You Up”.
When you dance to that song in your local disco, you should always do the appropriate universal hand movements signifying “give you up”, “let you down”, “run around”, “desert you”, “make you cry”, “say goodbye”, “tell a lie”, and “hurt you.” (Instructions available on request.)
His website is www.rickastley.co.uk, where you can hear a sampler from his latest album, a collection of cover versions of classic songs.
Oh yeah, and Donna fancies him!
(Edit: Liz, I couldn’t possibly comment on the dimensions of his manhood. Wikipedia only goes so far.)
