Just. Start. Writing.

A blog? What is it exactly? I am told it is a place to share those things in a day, that make this life I live in this slice of heaven unique and all Tessa Bowen! So..here goes!

I survived the storm here in Napa Valley, and braved the twenty-four hour power outage with candles and a thankfully charged iPhone. While I didn’t relish having my lady’s toilette impaired by the pitch black of night, (removing my contacts got really interesting), I did manage to have fun re-visiting some of the first romance novels I ever read. This time I listened on Audible (another nightly ritual) rather than read.  Catherine Coulter’s Medieval Song trilogy proved a fun way to while away the hours until electricity was restored. I first discovered these juicy historical reads as a newly pubescent girl on the shelves of my mother’s bookstore. Needless to say I have been scorching myself on smut ever since, in one way or another.

 I also had a good laugh at the expense of Mrs. Coulter, for her heroes are EXTREME a-holes—sexist bullies, most of them. I can’t say I was disappointed. I never have liked a nice, easy-going guy. Well, maybe to fix my computer or give me directions, but never to supply me with sexual fantasies.  Perhaps I have Catherine Coulter to thank for that (or curse rather). Surely, I was greatly influenced by the Maven of the Bodice Rip when I penned Tobias Langthorne of Valley Fever—a brooding hulk who makes Mel Gibson look sweet (and I mean Mel when he’s on one of his female-hating rant/ rampages). Just kidding, but seriously, let’s just say Tobias is the most “difficult” of my male leads and not every gal’s cup-of-tea. The truth is, I would donkey-kick him square in the gnads if he pulled his shit on me—in person anyway, but alone in the candlelight with my battery-operated gizmo, well…that’s a different story altogether.

 

My sincerest thanks to Catherine Coulter for the fun walk down memory lane and getting me through the long, dark night. Sometimes a chick is in the mood for a 1980’s male chauvinist, especially if he doesn’t really exist.

 

 

Alison Shull