Let’s discuss heat, shall we?
Not the uncomfortable, lethal heat that has affected much of North America over the past ten days, but guy-and-gal heat. You know, hormones, pheromones, and that ilk. What got me thinking about hormones is being part of a romance writers critique group this summer. Chances are I will soon have to come up with few hot, spicy scenes.
Having been happily married for a long time, I’ve got a good idea of how hot and spicy works. But I’m certain that my husband prefers if what happens at home stays at home, so I should cast further afield for writing material.
How about all the way across the universe?
For all of my science fiction geekness I somehow missed Doctor Who. I have a vague recollection of a winter in the mid eighties when a group of us retired to someone’s house very early—about 2 AM—every Saturday morning to watch Doctor Who on PBS. I’ve no idea which doctor we were watching, though it was likely either Colin Baker or Sylvester McCoy. As I said, it was 2 AM, and beer and skittles had been involved earlier in the evening. Emphasis on the beer.
Since my husband also had missed the Doctor Experience, we raided our local library for old episodes. We eventually reached the 10th Doctor, played by the Scottish actor, David Tennant. Now there is hot and spicy.
Let’s be clear. I’m sure Mr. Tennant is a smart, funny, attractive man. If I ever ended up having coffee with him, no doubt we could have a delightful conversation about writing, drama, and directing. It’s his portrayal of the Doctor that gives me the hots.
The look chosen for this Doctor is one step short of an unmade bed. Spiky hair, pinstripe suit, tie askew, long wool coat flapping as he walks and trainers, the perfect footwear for a character who’s most frequent line seems to be, “Run, run for your life.” All that running and flapping is part of the charm. He’s a healthy, young, male animal and it’s stimulating to watch him being physical.
As this is a family-oriented blog, I shall refrain from discussing implications of sonic screwdrivers.
Did I mention smart? He’s got an eidetic memory. Nine hundred years of experience hasn’t dampened his childlike joy and amazement when he discovers something new. Of course, nine hundred years, much of it running for his life, has also given him nightmares. Keeping the joy public and the nightmares private gives him an oh-so-sweet vulnerability. And an intense desire to treat him with remarkable kindness and charity.
“But at my back I always hear/Time’s winged chariot hurrying near” (Andrew Marvell). That regeneration thing is always on the horizon, sometimes a black speck, now that we’ve watched almost up to The End of Time/Parts 1 and 2 it looms like a huge dark cloud. Waiting for the end is like covering your eyes during the scary parts, but leaving your fingers open just wide enough to catch a glimpse of what’s happening. You want things to happen and you don’t want things to happen because after it’s over, it’s over. And all that will be left are memories.
Quote for the week
How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
~Victor Hugo, (1802 – 1885), French poet, novelist, and dramatist