Okay, I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour with writer’s block.
It didn’t take me long to figure out why. You know what it is?

Eyes. Looking at me.
Waiting for me to talk about them so they can come alive.
When I have a story in my mind, I write several pages about each character until I know them — can be them in my mind. Then I hunt for pictures of people who most resemble each one.

About three feet behind my monitor, I have a board with the characters for my Raptor Castle series. Oh, my, I wish you could see them.

Ranald, the monk turned chanaged to the Black Raptor in Masked Dessires, has emerald eyes that say, “Lucifer’s warty ears! What do you know about a monk’s desires, woman?”

Raik of Beloved Sacrifice never breaks eye contact with me, no matter where I am in the room. He’s not happy, etiher. He’s angry. Very angry. I’ve been to slow to get Lettia into bed with him.
Ha, that’s all men think about, isn’t it?

Maybe some women, too. I’m certainly doing it a lot lately trying to figure out what readers want.

Let me ask you something. Is it true that you want the hero/heroine in bed by, um, maybe 20 pages? I’ve waited about 50 pages in Beloved Sacrifice, because I don’t want them between the sheets before the reader has a chance to know who they are and why they’re there.

Oh, gag! For someone with nothing to say I sure can ramble on. Help me out before I take this manuscript and put it through the shredder.

I’ll shut up now and do some thinking.

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