There he is people. Lantern jaw, hair ironed to his scalp (except for the flick of a kiss curl), chest hair removed by some painful method leaving gleaming pecs and John Travolta hips.
Or rather, this is the Mills & Boon view of perfect manhood. Noble, never allowing a flicker of emotion to dampen those piercing blue eyes.
But many men cry. Sometimes in private. Often in silence. Almost always never admitting it.
Well, I admit it. I do cry sometimes. Even when I am writing a particularly emotional or poignant scene.
Looking back, I realise that I am so immersed in the drama of my own imagination’s creation that I am in a different place, a different zone.
There are men that I can’t imagine weeping.
Until life hits them in the guts. Someone I know well is in this position. A member of his family suddenly did something so unexpected and so shocking that the knock-on emotional impact resonated throughout the family and relatives.
I wouldn’t have written a scene like that. Or if I had it would probably have been to illustrate the differences between people trapped in their emotional spider’s web.
Their own meat cage.
It’s when it gets close to home that it ceases to be fiction.
One thing I am sure about. Writers absorb these experiences and recycle them.
I can live with that.