A Hero Of My Own

As a romance writer, I learned early on it's imperative to include an irresistible hero in your books.  Those dashing, romantic, honorable men a girl can't help but fall in love with.  Some skeptics don't believe they really exist, but I'm here to tell you they do. I had one of my very own — my husband, Steve.

Our love story began in earnest when he lowered to one knee, asked for my hand, gave me a beautiful ring, then took me to a Willie Nelson concert.  For a girl who cut her teeth on country music and more than appreciated a good romantic gesture, this was the perfect proposal, so of course I said yes.  A few months later, I began our married life together with a lot of clothes and not a whit of equine knowledge.  Steve entered our married life together with an organized closet and a slew of horses.  We went on to raise three children and too many foals to count, and I suppose I should consider myself lucky it wasn't the other way around.  

Admittedly, Steve and I were pretty much polar opposites. He chose his words carefully, I spewed whatever came to mind.  He was a planner; I was a jumper.  He was also the consummate family man as well as a respected neurosurgeon.  His colleagues and patients knew him as the cowboy physician who wore polished boots, dress jeans and a starched white lab coat.  I knew him as the husband who wore scuffed boots, holey jeans and a T-shirt that read "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV."  

They knew the M.D. who could toss out orders without missing a beat; I knew the rancher who could toss a fifty-pound bag of feed as if it weighed no more than a nickel.  They knew the doctor who carried a chart down the hospital hall with authority; I knew the first-time father who proudly carried his newborn daughter around the delivery room—until one nurse reminded him that the baby's mother might like to have her turn. They knew the surgeon who donned gloves to wield a scalpel with precision; I knew the guy who liked to repair fences without gloves, much to my mortification. They knew the healer who could navigate a brain practically blindfolded; I knew the typical male who wouldn't consult a map to save my sanity—and refused to ask for directions.  They knew "the look," the one that had nurses coming to attention; our children knew "the look," the one that clearly stated, "Listen to your mother."  

They knew the doctor who spent a good deal of his time in the OR, the ER and the office;  I knew the husband and father who spent his free time at home, kissing a crying baby's boo-boos and assembling toys without bothering with the instructions—keeping all the extra parts "just in case."  I still have them, along with a box containing almost every greeting card I ever gave him that he secretly saved. 

Yet very few knew about the Parkinson's Disease that prematurely ended his career, and subsequently his life.  For fifteen years I witnessed the toll that insidious disease slowly took on his body and mind, yet he never let it touch his spirit—until  eighteen months ago when he grew weary of fighting.  Needless to say, letting him go wasn't the least bit easy.  All those things I loved about him, little things I'd forgotten when I assumed the role as his constant caregiver, precious memories that returned during his last days on earth, made me hold on even tighter. But as much as I clung to the hope that he would come back to me, I eventually recognized that willing him not to leave would only be selfish. If he could have stayed, he would have, because that's what heroes do, but only as a whole man completely in charge of his body and mind, not the suffering man who sometimes forgot my name, though he never failed to recognize me.   

I will always cherish Steve's final fleeting moments of clarity, the I-love-yous and quiet goodbyes before he found that much sought-after peace.  Maybe illness robbed him of dignity in the end, but it could never erase the unconditional love he had for his wife and children, or the countless lives he saved.  It could never steal the true essence of my hero.

So on this Valentine's Day, I celebrate being completely loved by a man who has—and will always be—the cornerstone of every hero I write.  I only hope that everyone will be so blessed.

Welcome To Authordom!

2012 marks a huge milestone for me.  It's been twenty years since I set out for that magical place known as Authordom.  I began the journey armed with only a kernel of an idea, a computer and encouragement from my sister.  For seven years I battled rejection dragons, greatly fearing failure monsters, while guided by my fairy godmother, Perseverance and her mouthy sidekick, R.U. Insane.  Several times I wanted to leave the foreboding publication forest and almost did, when I encountered that often elusive Lady Luck, who gave me the keys to the kingdom with my first sale. 

Thankful I'd finally arrived, I stormed the gates and rushed into the castle, only to discover that I'd been somewhat mistaken in my expectations.  Where are the bon-bons and the chambermaids?  What do you mean there's no throne aside from the one in the bathroom?  As it turns out, I don't keep company with ladies in waiting or dashing men in tights—aside from those in my stories.  Without the tights, of course, since I write contemporary romance.  I don't wake up every morning to breakfast in bed and don a red satin ball gown to begin my day.  I eat cereal and put on ratty sweats and a T-shirt, keeping my bra nearby in case I'm summoned by a mysterious messenger dressed in brown.  The banquet table isn't stocked with pheasant, fine wine and decadent desserts.  In fact, I have no banquet table, but I do have a microwave and TV dinners at my disposal.  And chocolate.  Lots and lots of chocolate.

I've become well acquainted with the deadline dungeon, a dark place where I chain myself to the computer, talk to imaginary cabana boys and learn to exist on five hours sleep, not knowing whether it's night or day or if I'll ever be able to lay off the caffeine again.  And just like that old "Writing a book is like giving birth" adage, I conceive a plot, nurture it until it's ready to be born and finally release it as a full-formed book.  I then take my place on the cyber balcony, the proud parent filled with anticipation, preparing to greet my loyal subjects/readers… only to have someone in the courtyard yell "Your baby's ugly!" It doesn't matter if a few people in the crowd applaud my offspring, I only hear those words repeated over and over.  Ugly baby. Ugly baby.  Ugly baby.  And still, I return back inside the castle and do it all over again, avoiding the moat so I won't get eaten up by self-doubt sea serpents.

While residing at the kingdom—or the queendom—I've become an expert juggler, so much so I could be the court jester if the writing thing doesn't pan out.  I've learned to juggle family needs, socializing with friends and the ever-changing publishing realm.  I've also learned that no matter how strong or how high the fortress walls, sometimes the challenges of life intrude into the inner sanctum, and terrible, awful loss sends you back out the gates and into the real world for a while.  Yet somehow you eventually return to the castle and your writing with a shattered heart and the realization you have to move forward, one word at a time.  Back to the dungeon to attempt to escape into your imagination, only it isn't quite as easy as it once was.  Then again, you're not exactly the same person, either.  A little wiser, maybe, but definitely grateful for the little things.  Even TV dinners and dungeons.

When things get tough, I try to remember everything I've learned to this point, and I often recall someone saying you should write what you know.  And what I know is how it feels to be truly and completely loved by a real knight in shining armor.  This knowledge carries me forward and encourages me to honor and celebrate that kind of love in every book I write.  If I can continue to keep my place in the castle—and I'm certainly going to try—I can only hope that I'll be residing in Authordom for another twenty years.  Looks like I better stock up on chocolate.  Lots and lots of chocolate.