One of the reasons why I enjoy writing romantic fiction is I love men.
Yes indeed. Oh I bet you thought that romance was all about women. Well it’s not and I’ve made mention of that before.
At its heart, romance is about fascination, passion, dedication – perhaps in some cases bordering on the obsessive, as the object of one’s heart becomes all consuming.
It is also grand in scope – the medieval chivalric romances of the High Middle Ages centred not just on romantic or courtly love between the hero and heroine, but was also filled with adventure, mystery, honour and drama.It keeps us riveted to the very final chapter, the very final word.Romance is life itself.Romance is accessible.
A girl simply grows into a woman, or so most believe, whereas a man is something that is made. He is made because his masculinity consists in the destruction of his own nature, not in the maturity of it. He is born subject to a slew of desires, some more despicable, such as an unbridled lust for sex and drink, and some more acceptable, such as a desire for fame and affirmation. Though some of these passions are perhaps less unbecoming than others, they all make the man a slave for as long as he is in thrall to them and acts according to them.
The act of being a man is realized when all such things are put under the rule of his will and are broken with a rod of iron; when he is no longer driven by his lusts as the Greeks would term it, or the flesh as it would be known among Christians, but rather commands them. Such is the dominance which is to be acquired by the power of his will and reason, and the acquisition of such dominance is called among us “virtue,” which is merely Latin for “manliness.” (If you do not believe me, note that the root of the word is the same as that of virile; vir, meaning “an adult male.”)
Do yourself a favour and read all of it. It just may change the way you think about men.