My name your name, my characters name.
Okay, our names were chosen for us—well most of us anyway—by our
parents. I’m sort of ignoring those who have changed names by deed
poll. Or us lucky authors who use a pen name and have great fun
debating what it’s going to be. Well not ignoring you, just that fact.
(Re my pen name. Raven, the bird who denotes change. McAllan in my
mind the finest single malt in the world. And just before my first
novel was accepted, the bird was everywhere. And we celebrated with
champagne and you guessed it, a wee dram.)
Generally though, as a baby someone looked at us and said oh she’s a
Mary or a Britney, or he’s a Charles or a Clint. And there we were
saddled with whatever name was chosen for us whether we liked it or
I guess most of us when through a phase where we wished our name
wasn’t Jill or John but Juliet or Jack. Or whatever.
Not only that, there will be some names we don’t like because they
remind us of someone we know.
I used to hate the name Billy. Not because of my ex boyfriend, but
because of a horrible boy in my first year of school who used to pinch
me! His mum found out and made me pinch him back. She said I didn’t do
it hard enough, so did it for me. No wonder he hated me after that!
Then there was the beautiful girl in your senior school. OR so you
thought, because all the boys seemed to want to go out with her. (It
was only years later I realized it was because they though she ‘put
out.’) Mentioning no names here, but no way I’ll call any of my
heroines after her!
Names have fashions. So calling a hero in a regency novel Auberon
works. Calling one that in a contemporary probably wouldn’t. But I
still have to like the name to like the hero. No empathy-no write. And
lets face it so does my heroine. If she has a Felix or a Steve in her
murky past, she isn’t going to melt in a puddle of drool if I try to
set her up with one. Physical attributes to die for or not.
Now I know my choice of hero’s names—no scratch that I don’t get any
choice. They tell ME not vice versa— can’t be to everyone’s taste. And
they might even put people off reading the book. Sorry, but as I said,
not my fault. Take To Please A Lady. Berry and Ran. They were
going to be Charlie and Harry, but they had their own ideas. So did
Hermione. Charlie was a boy who threw worms at her, and Harry was the
name of her brothers best friend who disliked her (or so she told me
anyway) so Auberon and Ranulf appeared.
Hermione, I’m given to understand, much prefers her pet name Mione.
Especially when her men say it in the throes of passion.
(In my current WIP, I was going to call my hero Marcus. He said no.
He’s Jason. End off.)
So I apologize if my hero or heroine chose names you don’t like. I
don’t mind if you skim over the name, change it in your mind. No
problem. Remember, they know who they are, and by the end of the
book., hopefully so will you.
And to help you, here’s an excerpt from To Please A Lady…
Tying the lowest set of ribbons, barely inches below those curls,
Hermione could not control her compunction to sooth the throbbing
concealed within. Her hand slipped beneath the ribbons and touched.
She closed her eyes to feel with her senses. Ah, that first swirl
through her curls and then the sheer pleasure of touching her now wet
lips, finding her fingers coated with the evidence of her desire. The
intensity of her feelings shot through her like lightening, and she
gasped. Not from her arousal, however.
A swath of velvet covered her eyes.
As she caught her breath, soft hands feathered across her
nape as the material was fastened. Then her hair was pushed to one
side, and she experienced the press of lips, kissing where the ribbons
from the velvet knot brushed her back.
My love, you started without me? For shame. How shall I punish you?”
Her breath quickened. Her punishment had started! Knowing
what those elegant hands were capable of and unable to see how they
explored and excited her to ever more passion was punishment enough.
As her tormentor well knew.
“You were late, my lord; the play started on time, alas
without your attendance.”
A soft laugh greeted her remark. “Ah, Mione-mine. I would be lost
without you in my life. Shall I begin Act Two?”
Oh, if it so pleases you, and three, four, and five. However, never
would she allow her eagerness to show.
“As you wish, my lord. Does it please you to leave me so
hampered that I cannot observe?”
She could almost hear his pondering. “Ah, I think so.
Perchance you simply imagine and feel, my love.”
She pouted, although her heart thundered, and her arousal in-
creased with thoughts of further intimacies to be experienced. His
taut clothed male body was tight up against her back, a rock-hard cock
pressed tight against her rear. Hermione had to curb her impatience to
wriggle ever closer to that exciting appendage. She knew her control
would excite him even further. She held her hands loosely by her
sides, not moving them behind her to touch and caress as she desired
to do with ever-increasing intent.
“Ah, Mione-mine.”—there was a growl of frustration—”You so do
arouse me to such a degree I fear I may not be able to hold back to
give you the satisfaction you deserve.”
“Say you so, my lord? That is something I cannot believe;
your control is legendary, your stamina even more so. I cannot believe
you have ever come without intending to.” She felt his frustration and
A sudden, sharp slap on her rear added to her jubilation. The
sting and the soothing hand that followed—the way it swept aside the
silk covering of her gown, before elegant fingers traced around her
anus—made her draw breath. She heard the soft sibilant, “Ah, yes.” As
she was spun around full circle, hands caressing as they spun her, her
nipples, her breasts, her pussy, all fondled as they were skimmed and
swept over. She could feel the brush of fingers on her sensitized skin
as the ties across her front were loosened. Regardless, her arse was
caressed, her silks slithering gently over her sensitized body.
A thought drifted into her mind, took hold, and made her act.
How could one man’s hands be in so many places at once? Impossible!
Firmly she took hold of the two hands at her ties, and held
fast, still feeling those that were softly stroking her arse. How dare
she be used so!
**** To Please A Lady, By Raven McAllan. Published by Breathless Press.