​It happened again. I went to our little store yesterday to pick up a couple of items and was recognized by a woman eager to make conversation. Clearly, she knew me, knew where I worked, asked about my co-workers, mentioned my husband by name – everything indicating she was very familiar with me. So why was I in such a panic? Because she was only vaguely familiar to me and I didn’t know why.

As she chatted with me, and I just as politely tried to move along, she continued to talk over and around shelves. It made me so uncomfortable because I couldn’t escape this embarrassing situation. I have no idea how I managed to exit the store without her realizing I never did place her. You’d think that I'd be used to these incidents by now. Nope. And I assure you, it never gets easier.

I wish I was able to recall faces. Unfortunately, I’m also bad at names, forgetting them a fraction of a second after hearing them. My husband used to say I couldn't be bothered to make an effort, but the evidence doesn’t support that theory. This clueless trait runs in the family and my dad and I both have stories. We can laugh about them - eventually.

Like this one. I once failed to recognize a woman I'd spent a good hour with, chatting pleasantly while watching our kids play soccer. We hit it off. Afterwards, while waiting in our car with the kids while my husband ran into a convenience store for something, I was alarmed and confused by some random woman who'd pulled up next to us and spotted me in the passenger seat. She tipped down to see into the car better, waving enthusiastically while I stared in surprise and confusion. Out of ideas, I whispered to the kids in the back. “Anyone know who this is?” Turns out they did - and I should have. "You were talking to her during our practice." If I could have melted out of sight, I would have. Sometimes the blush goes through every layer of epidermis.

This story is one of my favorites. I can actually laugh at myself now. Enough time has passed. Ok, here goes. One weekend, my son’s band was playing at the local tavern and hubs and I went to listen. Now, my husband worked a very visible job for years so I’m quite used to people greeting him when we’re out together, but that night when it happened, he was away from our table chatting with another couple. I waited until it seemed rude to hang back then dragged my introverted feet over to the trio and, with a smile, extended my hand to a seriously stunned woman and introduced myself. This is when my horrified husband jumped in and muttered testily, “Tare, they’re our neighbors. They’ve been to our house.” OMG. Yeah. And you want to know something? I wouldn't recognize them today. Or even the day after that awful faux pas. This is why I tend to avoid social situations.

I've since learned this embarrassing family trait is actually a recognized condition called Face Blindness. It's an equal-opportunity affliction that flusters the famous and highly intelligent as well as average guys and gals. It's nice to finally have an explanation for something I've agonized over for so long. A huge relief, actually.

I heard in an NPR interview on the subject one particular sufferer admit he failed to recognize his own reflection in a window once. Now, I may be bad, admittedly, but my case isn't quite that severe. Something I learned decades ago though, context matters. My ability to recall a person depends on familiarity. I have to see someone over and over again on a regular basis before I'm able to imprint them. But, if I run into them elsewhere, they may seem vaguely familiar, but chances are, I won't know why and it's going to drive me crazy unless someone kindly helps a stumped girl out and I can experience one of those rare and wonderful 'ah-ha' moments. Bliss.





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  This post was originally published August 2012 / modified and updated today.   

Snow isn't the only thing falling in this frosty misadventure of a short. Read it today.

Free on Prolific Works.  Cold Hands Warm Smiles

I like men. I’m comfortable around them. Old or young, playful or serious, they’ve always fascinated me.

There’s no denying I was daddy’s girl, but dear old dad was just the start. I also have three brothers and an extended family full of boys. I myself raised three boys. It took nearly forty years for my youngest sibling—the only other girl—to finally have a daughter. She also has two boys. Can you say, “Celebration?”

I see my upbringing as a fortunate accident because it prepared me for writing male characters. I’m not as hung up on labels like alpha or beta because they don’t go far enough in describing the complexities of a man, nor do they take into account situational influences that will drive actions. By putting too much stock into a label, there’s always the danger that the character can become a caricature rather than a man with a pulse.

This is why I love writing men. My heroes are familiar. They live and breathe. These guys have hopes and fears, dreams and desires, feel passion and pain. Though physically stronger than the heroines, they can be wounded without shedding blood. Falling in love can be just as frightening or exhilarating for him as it is for her.

So I like to get into a hero’s head. I’ll listen to his thoughts, catch a ride on his circulatory system to understand the buzz and tingle he feels when she touches him for the first time. How will he interpret something as opposed to the heroine? Can she manipulate him? Will he resist or play along? What would he fight for? Is there something so important to him he’d be willing to battle it out with the woman in his life? Are there sacrifices or risks he’d take to protect her or others? Now we’re getting somewhere.
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What kind of man is he? If I have a say, the best kind--real.
 
—Tara Mills

No matter what you celebrate or observe this holiday season, I hope it brings you peace and joy. 

See you in 2024!

I've been invited to appear on the Excelsior! Podcast this weekend. I'll share that  specific podcast link once it goes live, but please pop over there and listen to Britleigh's other wonderful guests. They're interesting.

What can you expect from my interview? Well, we'll be talking books, naturally, and food, and how romance and food comingle harmoniously in life and fiction. 

A few lucky listeners will also be getting a paperback so be sure to tune in.

Watch for the podcast link here, on my official Facebook page, or on Twitter. 

- Tara
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Excelsior!

I referenced this 2013 blog post the other day on Twitter so the discussion is ongoing. Rather than simply cut and paste the original, I decided to update it. Things change, attitudes certainly do. Mine has.

In my original post, my tastes were decidedly against first-person point-of-view. Looking back, I didn't give it a fair shake. Since then, I've come to enjoy many books and series' written in first-person. A lot of genres are particularly suited to first-person. But I stand by my original assertion that when an intimate relationship is the central theme of the plot, first-person creates a he said/she said imbalance that's both incomplete and unfair to the silenced character.

All we can really know of the love interest is what they express or divulge to the main character. From that, we get the MC's limited, and often flawed interpretation of the other person's words and motivations. It will never be complete or entirely honest. 

In first-person POV romance, the love interest is only as deep as any other secondary character in the story. He lacks a voice. Crop his head off the cover and he doesn't even need a face. He's little more than a prop for the heroine.

Without an intimate peek into his head, all we have are his interactions with the heroine to give him substance. He's as deep as the cat winding around her ankles. Sure, we know at a glance the cat is happy to see her, certainly responds to her strokes with a deep, satisfied purr, but is that really enough for her love interest? I don't think so.

I want to know what he thinks, fears, hopes for, and dreads. What does he withhold and why? What is he dying to share? What does he wrestle with? In a book supposedly focused on a developing relationship between two, his perspective isn't just valid, it's vital. He deserves a voice. Without it, the story may be good, but it feels out of balance. Again, I want to state that I have and do enjoy first person, and I've read some very good first-person romances by talented and more successful writers than me, but I can't help thinking as I read these books, how much better they would have been with a dual POV.  They were fine, but imagine taking a taste of something and, while admitting it's pretty good, there's something missing. Something that will take it up a notch and round out the flavors into a delicious harmony. That's the point I'm trying to make.

In the end, it takes two to tango, so let him speak.

Here's wishing you a safe and stress-free holiday season.  Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

-Tara