There is a minor, but crucial, character in a novel I’m working on that has little redeeming qualities other than his admittedly warped sense of justice and honor. When it comes to the fairer sex, women are snacks. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate their intellectual capabilities or their feelings as people, it’s that they provide such physical pleasure, he just can’t see beyond getting his rocks off and looking for more.
He’s a character, this character.
And he’s not me.
But I wonder, sometimes, with this literary creation I’ve breathed life into, readers will think I’m either a) talking about myself or b) living out a male fantasy of moving from one beautiful woman to the next.
Neither which is true. I’m trying to tell an entertaining story.
How about you: do you sometimes write the rogue and rake, and then wonder if readers can’t separate the author from the character?