Is it just me, or is anyone else imagining Sharpe-era Bean in his 95th uniform as the fellow, here?

I deliberately made sure his coloring is different--my guy has chestnut-brown hair and light brown eyes--but I'll admit to having stolen Bean's body for him. Yum.

I sometimes start with an actor or person I know, but as the story goes along they develop their own look. So whenever people in my critique group try to cast my novels, I'm all, "But for Lucy you'd really need a woman who was somehow simultaneously the child of Ioan Gruffudd, Amy Acker, and Sasha Cohen the figure skater," or "But Anna is my friend Diana, only short and curvy instead of tall and willowy, and with just an eensy touch of Vivien Leigh." So yeah, the same thing happens to me--and it's not even that Lucy and Anna quite look like any of the people I used to describe them. It's just that I can't draw, so that's my shorthand description.

What's very odd is that my central female character has no physical description. Anywhere. I never "saw" her, so I never described her. Even the characters I deliberately "cast" with real-world people or characters, just to give me a starting point to hang dialog on, I never completely described. "Eyes as cold as their icy color," kind of thing, or "brown of skin and hair and eye," "air of toughness belied the limp," or "shock of russet hair".

But long after I was deep into the story, I was watching tv and on a show with primarily non-US cast, there was a woman character who was exactly my female character, as I'd never imagined her. It was eerie. I'd never given her physical appearance a single thought, and here she was, physically, although the tv character had much different personality, motivation, etc. Physically, she was my girl. Very very strange.

A shoe drabble

Shoes

She is dreaming of shoes. Brown-and-white I.Miller spectator pumps. Johnston and Murphy two-inch heels, the leather butter soft. She is walking down the street in her new alligator shoes with the matching purse, the brown velvet dress she copied from the one in the store window, the hat with the peacock feathers. She is pulling up the socks that slip down her ankles, admiring the shiny dimes in her penny loafers. She is jitterbugging half the night, her scuffed saddle oxfords flying.

She is pulling opaque support stockings over her blotched and swollen ankles and velcroing on clunky walking shoes.

I'll admit to having stolen Bean's body for him. Yum.

Yum indeed. But what I was getting off your description was more Sharpe's (a sergeant's, I suppose) diffidence and deference in the company of a 'lady". Which, as Bean played it, was a lovely thing to behold.

Oh. Ginger.

Oh, that aches.

But what I was getting off your description was more Sharpe's (a sergeant's, I suppose) diffidence and deference in the company of a 'lady". Which, as Bean played it, was a lovely thing to behold.

Yes, and while Jack isn't particularly Sharpe-like in most ways, he has that.

I think I may have to get out my Sharpe DVDs and look for such a scene. Strictly for research purposes, of course.

(grinning) Research. Of course!

Such devotion, Susan. You're an inspiration...

I'm a hormone bomb. This drabble will be written, as I go, in one pass. Editing and word-counting is for losers.

I lace up my shoe, wondering if she will like them. But why, I think, do I care? I know that she likes me, I know I like her, so why do I worry about shoes? My mind is stubborn, though, and I wonder if she'll like my pants. I know it doesn't matter, I know she won't care, but still... I wonder. My pants, my shirt, my clean-and-fresh smell...will she like them? Will she see me, and judge me, and find me to be worthy? Or will she see me as my mind sees me - ugly, awkward, and strange?

Stop it! Relax! You know that she won't! You're good, you're nice, she likes you! She does!

I lace up my other shoe, and I wonder... Will she like them?

Oh, dear, poor Nova. But a fun drabble.

Ginger, yours was major with the ouchie.