Especially when the hero/heroine is viewed through the eyes of the other.

1. This is a very legitimate way to build physical awareness.  Because as one character is taking in the other physically and processing that information, they are, by the very nature of that act, becoming increasingly physically aware of that person.
2. We are full of minor, interesting imperfections that if we observe about ourselves, would make us come across as either anal or appearance obsessed.  By having another character do it, particularly if it is a little detail that might not even get noticed by someone paying less attention, underscores that person’s physic al interest in us.
3. By what he or she notices, you are revealing things about the POV character.
4. By what he or she thinks as he or she observes the other character, you are revealing even more about the POV character.

And here is a massterful example from Meredith Duran, excerpted from Bound by Your Touch:

“You think a great deal of your intelligence.”

She pursed her lips.  The movement exposed a hint of dimple.  In conjunction with her starchy manner, it seemed wholly incongruous. A mere anatomical fluke, he told himself; just a trick of her tightened lips.  Nevertheless, he found himself staring at it, wondering what he might do to make it deepen.  Breathy gasps, flashing dimples: the idea came to him that Miss Boyce’s body liked to sabotage her.

“Of course I do.  I’m a woman.  If I don’t think highly of my intellect, who will?”

He wrested his eyes from the dimple.  Such a peculiar mix of affront and bravado. Her sisters were the acknowledged beauties, but Miss Boyce had her own charms—made particularly visible now, in the context of her improvisational honesty.  Her eyes were alert with intelligence.  The other night, he had looked into them and discovered they were heavy-lidded.  This gave her a perpetually sleepy appearance, so she looked always as if she had just risen from bed.  He smiled, suddenly won over.  She had risked her own comfort to come here.  Let her have her victory.  “Touché, darling.”

She did not like the endearment.  Her face, so bright when she defended her learning, went as dark as a shuttered window.  “But let me come to the point.  You must wonder why I’m here.”

“To beg forgiveness for your father’s foul deeds, I suppose.”

Her mouth tightened further.  Christ, but that dimple conspired against her.  It drew attention to her mouth, which was overly wide and completely unfashionable, and suggested prospects that were not appropriate to the moment.  Or, for that matter, precisely legal.

Amusement stirred in him.  Odd, unexpected, and undeniable: he was wholly attracted to her.  At some primal level, his body took note of hers.  The imperative it issued was blunt and unpolished: five thousand years ago, he would have dragged her off to a cave somewhere.  And no doubt Miss Boyce of the Stone Age, bereft of an education to sharpen her tongue, would have sharpened a rock instead, and neatly gutted him.

Now of course this is fair, as Meredith is probably the prose stylist among our generation of romance writers.  But this is a perfect example of how to deepen chemistry through what for another writer might be a throwawa bit of dialogue: the noticing and interpretation of quirks, the increasing physical attraction, the ironic self-awareness on the hero’s part.

Learn from the best, I say. 

Meredith has a deadline in August.  And so do I, since 10 days ago when my agent emailed and said she wanted the first draft of the next tour-de-force done by August 1.  LOL, guess no-matter how much I deny being in the shitty-first-draft camp, I’ve been unmistakably tainted by my undeniably shitty first drafts.

Had things been different we’d hold a much grander celebration.  But now we’ll just toss this little interview out and call it a release party.  Enjoy!

You have said on this blog that you brainstorm to blaring Top 40 hits on the radio. Can you give me some examples of songs that have helped Bound by Your Touch and Written on Your Skin take shape?

I knew that was going to be a dangerous confession! In many cases, the lyrics are very simple, even trite. But when they touch off an image or a vibe that brings alive some aspect of the characters’ relationship, they become profoundly important to my brainstorming.

With Bound by Your Touch I was particularly struck by “Eyes Open,” by Snow Patrol. The lyrics brought to life, for me, how James inhabits the wreck he has made of his life — the numbness he courts to get through his days, the anger he represses beneath his easy, freewheeling charm (“All this feels strange and untrue… My bones ache; my skin feels cold… The anger swells in my guts and I won’t feel these slices and cuts”). They also capture how central Lydia becomes to his journey toward redemption. He desperately needs to see himself clearly, and that only happens for him when he sees himself through her eyes (“I want so much to open your eyes because I need you to look into mine… “). The lyrics also seem to capture how his redemption ultimately becomes her path to freedom as well (“Get up, get out, get away from these liars, because they don’t get your soul or your fire / Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine, and we’ll walk from this dark room for the last time / Every minute from this minute now, we can do what we like anywhere…”).

So, on my playlist, this would be a “James” song.

With Written on Your Skin, the most influential bit of music wasn’t even a whole song — it was the fiddle solo that comes about two and a half minutes into Dave Matthews’ “Crush.” Seriously — whenever I was stuck, I would listen to that thirty second snippet. It’s funny; listening to it now, in order to answer your question, I can’t understand any longer what I found so inspiring. But I recall being enchanted by how its ecstatic and dramatic quality was leavened by hints of humor. It got me into the headspace of the power play between Mina and Phin, which is certainly dramatic but also, occasionally, very funny.

And here’s the mildly embarrassing part of this answer: another song I listened to quite often when writing Written on Your Skin was Britney Spears’s “Circus.” Mina, the heroine, is a force, and this song is about a woman under pressure (“All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus”), who rises to the challenges thrown at her, and demands that anyone who wants her attention earn it the hard way (“Don’t stand there watching me, follow me, show me what you can do”). Mina, of course, has never met someone who can follow her, much less someone who can beat her at her own game. Until, of course, she meets Phin.

I have to girdle myself to do my research. But you, you like history. You would read primary sources even if you don’t have a book to research. What kind of historical readings do you enjoy the most?

I find travelogues immensely interesting. Judging by what I can find in my university library (and on Google books as well), they were greatly in vogue throughout the Victorian period. Since the authors are generally foreigners to the land about which they’re writing, they end up documenting the social scene and the local mores and everyday customs, all the little things that they would never think to remark on with regard to their own society. Victorian-era travelogues written by Americans visiting England are hugely useful for this reason.

My favorite sorts of travelogue are those that were written and initially published for a limited audience of family and friends; they’re chatty and personable, and often pair fabulous descriptions of various cities and countries with bits of gossip and social commentary about influential figures of the day.

You have written both damaged heroes (Duke of Shadows, Written on Your Skin) and roguish, golden-boy heroes (Bound by Your Touch). Which one do you enjoy better? Or do you just like to alternate them to keep things interesting?

Oh, I think James (Bound by Your Touch) is fairly well damaged, too. Certainly he’s better at hiding it — from himself as well as others. That fabulous sense of humor makes his scars a bit more difficult to spot.
I can’t really imagine writing a perfectly well-adjusted hero. I’m sure I will one day write a hero who *seems* perfectly well-adjusted,but ultimately I find my characters’ flaws more interesting than their talents. And I find it particularly interesting when their talents are inextricably linked with their flaws — as James’s humor and charm are.

Your two 2009 releases are both set during the 1880s, late Victorian, so to speak. The Victorian reputation in pop culture is the cover-the-piano-leg prudishness. But prudishness was largely a phenomenon of the Victorian middle class. The upper class were a rather naughty bunch–upon whom the middle class frowned mightily, I might add. In another one of your interviews I’d read, you mention that you’d come across “descriptions of parlor games played during country weekends that, let’s just say, you wouldn’t want your teenage daughter playing with her friends.” Inquiring minds want to know. What kind of parlor games are we talking about, exactly?

So, the upper crust played a lot of intellectual parlor games — freestyle poetry or charades, for instance. But they also played rather more physical games, which many of us might recognize from childhood: Blind Man’s Bluff, Sardines (hide-and-seek in which only one person hides; as others find this person, they must squeeze in to hide with him/her), and various “Sit on me” games, like Squeak Piggy Squeak.
Have you played any of these games since you turned sixteen or so? Probably not. Why not? Because piling into closets together, groping each other, or sitting on each other becomes rather more risque once you hit puberty.
Now think of a whole lot of adults playing these games after a night of wine and champagne, in a dark, sprawling country house in the middle of nowhere. Good, clean fun… no?

Your 2010 release is currently titled Wicked Becomes You. Along with Bound by Your Touch and Written on Your Skin, they are a trifecta of total triumphs as far as titles go. Who came up with those titles, you, your editor, or the marketing team at your publishing house? Are there any interesting stories behind those titles?

Yep, they were all my suggestions. Generally, I come up with a list of possible titles for each book, submit it to my editor and agent, and we all confer. (What this pithy summary elides is the many days I spend ripping my hair out while brainstorming titles. Some of my rejected suggestions are laughably bad.)

Interesting stories, hmm… Well, Written on Your Skin was named before it was written, and my agent floated the concern that the title conjured an erotic romance rather than a historical. I occasionally wonder if this is why WOYS ended up being even hotter than BBYT — I “wrote to the title”, as it were.

Then again, when a friend of mine heard the title, she said, “Rethink that. It sounds like it’s about a serial killer.”

Ah, well. You can’t win ‘em all.

Yes, you can, Meredith. Your gorgeous books will win readers and influence aspiring writers! Congratulations on the book release. I’m getting off my bum to the bookstore this minute!

The question then becomes: how does this backstory make for a plot?  To answer this question, I… procrastinate. I play with random ideas, read everything I can get my hands on, and daydream to a long and inspiring playlist of Music that Deeply Offends My Boyfriend’s Superior Taste.

I also occasionally entertain myself by searching Parliamentary records and date-restricted Google results. During my most recent search, I discovered a Ghost in the Google Machine: Eva Fox-Strangway, birthdate: unknown; death: March 1910.

Eva Fox-Strangway: who were you?  Not who you said you were: that much is clear.

Your story seems as extraordinary as any piece of fiction. The internet has only two records of your existence: both New York Times articles, the first of which details your arrest, and the second of which records (after an amusing article on how ladies’ Bible study groups will save us from the evils of suffrage) your death.

As far as I can tell, you were clever, well-educated, ambitious, and beautiful – or “personally attractive,” as the newspaper so delicately put it.  You also had a talent for lying.  You came to the United States in 1907; to acquaintances on your ocean liner, you introduced yourself as the niece of the Earl of Ilchester.

But you weren’t the niece of Lord Ilchester.

Who were you?

Your new acquaintances were charmed by you; by the time autumn rolled around, you were a staple in America’s most glittering social circles: Newport, New York, Philadelphia.  But by the summer, you must have realized that you’d overplayed your hand.  You disappeared, leaving behind you a string of creditors who wanted recompense—dressmakers, jewelers, the Savoy Hotel.

You reappeared a month later in Montreal.  You must have felt more daring than ever, for now you were not merely the niece of Earl Ilchester, you were his countess.  You stayed at Place Viger Hotel.  They caught on quicker this time.  They seized your trunks for collateral.  You fled to Toronto, where you were caught and arrested at the end of August.

How did you get out of custody so quickly?  Did you work some magic on the lawmen?  For a year later, in autumn 1908, you were back in New York, where you now introduced yourself as Helen Drummond.

Why did you go back to New York?  With such talents of deception, I expect you could have moved to a new city and started your game from scratch.  Instead, you chose to go back.  Was there someone in New York whom you’d decided you couldn’t leave behind?

And why, of all things, did you choose to work as a journalist – side by side with someone who had interviewed you when you were Eva Fox-Strangway? You liked living on the edge; that much is clear. And for a time, you succeeded.  Somehow, the journalist didn’t recognize you.

And so you took bigger risks.  (Why?  What was driving you?)  You went to the very police station where your photograph was hanging in the Rogues’ Gallery, to ask questions related to your new job as a journalist.  You became a public figure, briefly.  You claimed to have known the President, and he never contradicted you.  You gave speeches about women’s right to vote.  You interviewed U.S. senators and society leaders.  You had your articles published in London newspapers.  (Was that where you were really from?  Were you amused at the idea of former acquaintances from the homeland—former lovers, your mother, your brother or sister—reading your words, all unaware of the success you’d found under your new name?)

But your end was nearing, although you didn’t know it.  An acquaintance spotted you and outed you to one of your fellow journalists, who scented a story.  (Was his ardent pursuit of the truth motivated, perhaps, by his envy of your sudden rise to journalistic fame?)  He confronted you.  Asked you if you knew one Eva Fox-Strangway. You bluffed your way through it—successfully, you must have thought.

This was when you should have run.  It seems you had the chance.  But instead you stuck around (who or what was holding you there?  Why was it so important for you to be in New York?), trading on the new friendships you’d made, hoping you could secure a loan and keep your new life going.

On March 3, 1910, they came to arrest you.

You drank poison.  It didn’t kill you immediately.

They shipped you off to Bellevue Hospital for treatment.  They held a trial while you lay unconscious.

You were sentenced to twelve months imprisonment.

On March 9, you died of the poison you’d drunk.

Eva, if I put you into a romance novel, I would knock that poison from your hand.  I would give you a history that illuminated why deception seemed to be the only choice remaining to you.  I would give you a mother who anxiously hunted through newspapers for the articles you published – or a brother who was searching for you tirelessly.  I would give you a hero who appreciated the extraordinary nature of your talents, and who helped you turn them to something other than petty thievery.  I would give you a happy ending.

There’s only one thing I wouldn’t do: I would never, ever strip of you of your incredible nerve.

That journalist who asked you about the criminal, Eva Fox-Strangway?

“I’m very sorry,” you told him, “but I can’t help you in this.  You see, I haven’t been in the habit of associating with swindlers of any kind, international or otherwise.”

Such incredible steel.  From such steel are heroines born.