Yikes!

Where to start. First off, all the Risky Regencies with the exception of Elena Greene, are here in Washington, DC, at the Romance Writers of America’s National Conference. Which is cool! And we are having a get-together on Saturday afternoon at Harry’s Pub so come by if you are also around.

But that means that I am, as usual, at a loss as to what to talk about. So, of course, I will choose to talk about hot guys. And right now my hot guy du jour (non-Clive Owen edition) is Stephen Moyer, who plays Bill Compton on True Blood. Since Carolyn Jewel–my RWA roomie–was onto the True Blood trend way before me (but her One True Love is Alexander Skarsgard), she brought her Season One DVD so I could see the first time Bill and Sookie do it. Which is what we did last night, in-between eating Krispy Kreme donuts and howling about rhinoceroses. Hard to explain about the latter, but let me assure you it was hysterical.

But back to the matter at hand. Bill and Sookie’s first time is so damn romantic, and Bill manages to convey both his lust for and worship of Sookie in that scene. And the donut was pretty damn good, too.

The first kiss, the first time, the first moment in the fiction we love–whether it’s movies, TV or books–is what gives my heart a poignant ache. Also in True Blood, the first time Sookie even sees Bill is a scene I had to rewind and watch over and over. And all it is is a look, but what a look.

The first time Darcy and Elizabeth see each other, when John Thornton and Margaret Hale have their first encounter, when Mr. Rochester nearly tramples over Jane Eyre–these are the moments that inform our romance vernacular.

What first times do you find particularly memorable? What was your first time like?

For some women, it’s height; for others, broad shoulders. For still others–sometimes the heroines at the start of our books, although certainly not by the end–it’s wealth.

For me, it’s the voice. That one essential element to finding someone attractive, without which it’s a dealbreaker. I’ve only realized it recently, while watching actor Ed Burns try to be confident in Confidence. He wasn’t. And it was because he hasn’t got a sufficiently deep, raspy voice; his voice is a tenor, unconvincing because it was just too high. I just didn’t believe what he was saying, despite his posturing.

There’s a trainer at my gym who is, by job definition, totally cut and happens to be really good-looking on top of it. But I just can’t find him attractive because his voice doesn’t appeal to me (too high–sense a trend here?). Conversely, I swooned over former NY Knicks coach Jeff Van Gundy after particularly tough games, because his voice got all raspy and jagged after 48 minutes of yelling. I know it’s weird. But I cannot deny my attraction (the fact that he is so intense is appealing, too, but that is a post for another time).

And I think, although I would like to blame my inherent Anglophilia for it, is why I find so many British men ridiculously attractive; there’s something about the way they speak that I find devastating. Clive Owen has a supremely sexy voice, as does Sean Bean. Richard Armitage is off the charts in terms of how damn sexy his voice is. Listen to a sample of him reading Georgette Heyer‘s Sylvester.

Oh, goodness. (By the way? If my husband doesn’t pick up on copious hints to get this for my birthday next month, he might need a Clue Intervention).

So if a hero has a deep snarl, or a husky rasp, or a low-throated growl, I’m sold.

(And, yes, my husband has a fantastic voice, especially when he’s really worn out.)

That, I’ve realized, is my dealbreaker. What’s yours?

What a weird week. Globally, of course, the world is reeling from the unexpected death of pop icon Michael Jackson. I remember having a discussion with someone about who was the most well-known person around the world, and we settled on MJ. How bizarre that someone with that much notoriety, that much at his disposal, seemed to have had such an unhappy life, and definitely had an abrupt ending.

One of my first records ever was the Jackson 5‘s Greatest Hits. I was so young I scrawled my name–only my first name, mind you, since I couldn’t yet spell “McLaughlin”–across the front cover. I listened to that record a whole lot, and bought Jackson 5 45s later on with my allowance.

I remember when Elvis Presley died; I was about to be 13, and I just didn’t get the whole deal, why people were so upset and all (I grew up in a musical household, but we were more likely to be listening to Arthur Crudup, from whom Elvis lifted a lot of his songs).

I get it now, though.

The death of an icon makes us reflect, perhaps selfishly, on our own mortality. Which of my childhood touchstones will be next?

And next month is my son’s tenth birthday, although we are having his birthday party this Saturday (pray for me . . . ). That reminds me just how much has happened, and how he’s not my little boy anymore. Thankfully, he still likes getting hugs from his mom. But who knows when that will change? And who will his childhood touchstones be?

Maybe, to bring it back around to the books we love to read, that is why we love to read romance: It depicts a crystallized moment in time where the main characters are young, interesting and, we presume, destined to have a long, happy life together.

What are you thinking about today?

Dear Heir,

Your tutor has gone back to the benighted rural village from which he comes, and he does not return until September. Which means that you have nearly three months of free hours. Mother, however, still has her correspondence, her visits to the poor, her sewing, her planning on dinner parties and general running of the household.

Mother does not get any months off from her life.

Not that she is envious, or anything.

Therefore, I’ve compiled a list of what you could do to occupy your time during the summer months. Please refer to this list before demanding to know what I have planned for you on any particular day.

Go fishing, either on our property or our neighbor’s.
If it is our neighbor’s, make sure the neighbor does not know. Until you fall in and need rescue from the neighbor’s equal-aged daughter.

Make sure to knock all equal-aged girls out of trees, mock their lack of sports ability, pull on their pigtails and generally do things to ensure they a) hate you now and b) will love you later.

Go for long walks where you dream of what you could do if you were not the heir.

Indulge in your scientific obsession, especially if you plan on becoming an intense reserved man in the future. Woman you end up with will be fascinated with your preoccupation and knowledge, not to mention passion.

Speaking of passion, steer clear of those maids who have a come-hither look. You will either a) have a miserable experience that will taint your life or b) end up being a father. Perhaps both. Either way, not so good.

Spend hours thinking of ways in which I am the ideal, or not ideal, mother against whom you will compare all other women.

Please feel free to add to this list, as needed; your younger brothers will soon have their own books, and will need other diversions from which to draw inspiration.

Love,

Mother

What else could my heir do this summer? What are your kids up to?

Megan