Alan Rickman

Argh.  There's nothing like losing a post halfway in the middle.  But undaunted, I will dive in again, because Alan Rickman is worth it.  

One of the real joys of writing romance is the ability to take an actor and/or a character we've seen in a  movie or on tv and make it our own.  Impeccably demure as always, I cannot tell you how delightful it is to have sex with your favorite crush, make them perfect in bed, and write it down so it lasts forever.  Oh, no, I'd never say such a thing.  (Pardon me while I wipe the steam off the screen).  Ah, the times I've had with people you wouldn't even begin to imagine.

Alan Rickman with his impossible, fabulous snark, has turned up as part of my heroes time and time again.  Sometimes it's his manner, sometimes it's his looks, sometimes it's snippet of a character he's played.  That's what we writers do -- take our fantasy crushes and turn them into characters of our own.  Or maybe I'm giving us too much credit -- maybe that's what our characters do on their own.  

But Alan Rickman's Sheriff of Nottingham in ROBIN HOOD: PRINCE OF THIEVES stands on its own for sheer brazen lusciousness.  Who else could say "That's it then. Cancel the kitchen scraps for lepers and orphans, no more merciful beheadings, and call off Christmas."

So I took the Sheriff, gave him a nun and plenty of high adventure, and the result is this novella, available for Kindle, Nook and Kobo for half-price, $.99 (I couldn't get it any cheaper.)  Trust me, it's a hoot, one of my favorite things I've written.  And even a nun can't reform the wicked Sheriff of Huntingdon, but he's fun-wicked, not dark and twisted like many of my bad heroes.

One interesting factoid.  Long, looong ago I made an indelicate remark about Fabio and ended up slathered all over the news.  So notorious was the comment that Entertainment Tonight called me and flew a crew up from Boston to film me repeating those indelicate statements.  Fortunately I was at my lowest weight and I was able to haul stuff out of my office so it wouldn't look decluttered.  They filmed me walking down the hillside, sitting in the living room, on the deck, and they wanted to film me writing.  Not being one for pretend, I opened the work in progress, this novella, and began to type.  And the power of story was so strong the even with cameras pointing at me and a pretty blond woman yapping at me, I wrote words that ended up in the final version.  How's that for concentration?

I don't know how many writers have avatars.  I've had a number of the years, but Alan Rickman and Daniel Day-Lewis, exactly as he looked in LAST OF THE MOHICANS, tend to serve me well.  Etsushi Toyokawa, Clive Owen (I always saw him as Peter Madsen), have been starting points as well, but of course they always end up as their own character.  And wait till you see what inspired Reno in FIRE AND ICE.

If I look over at my cork board I have a still from Terminator (Michael Biehn and Linda Hamilton), Cary Grand kissing Ingrid Bergman (I adore Notorious), Clive Owen with a cigarette from Gosford Park, a photo of Richard Thompson, a Calvin Klein ad with a man's body stretched over a woman's.  There's a photo of Ian Somerhalder under the index cards, and David Carradine's eulogy from EW, written by his brother, and Gackt, a Japanese rockstar of interesting gender identity.  

Anyone is grist for my mill (ouch -- that sounds painful).  That's why I get to deduct my satellite tv and movie expenses.  Because where would I be without Alan Rickman?