Men are from Mars, hellhounds from Pluto
One of the rules I live by when writing paranormal fiction is not to think too hard, at least when it comes to practical matters. I mean, consider the problems of actually achieving a HEA with the heroes in question. Right now I’m working on a story where the strapping hero is a hellhound. Yes, he really is nothing but a hound dog.
Hellhounds, like werewolves, are meant to be beastly but hunky bundles of primal instinct. They’re protective, loyal Alphas always in tip-top sexual overdrive. They apparently don’t own shirts and wander about displaying serrated abdominal muscles, completely unconscious of their lusty charms.
Sounds yummy, but what would they actually be like on a day to day basis? How does one deal with a part-time canine? Does the city charge him with assault if he chases the mailman? When does he get to lie on the furniture? If he sheds on the furniture, will he clean it up, or does it just become another top-off-the-toothpaste issue? Couples therapy could start to smack of obedience training.
I live with cats, and shudder to think what they’d be like if bestowed with the power to operate credit cards and motor vehicles.
And then there are vampires. They come complete with an array of mechanisms for sidestepping all those difficult couples’ conversations. If the girlfriend starts winding up to a talk about “us,” he could turn into a bat and flap away. Turn into a mist. Turn sideways and slip through a crack in the floor. If all else fails, he’ll keel over dead when the sun comes up. Hate pillow talk? Just die. It works every time.
The supernatural guy belongs in the pages of fiction. His mystique is safe there, the curtain politely drawn across those awkward moments in the grocery aisle, when Fido heads for the extra-large package of chew sticks.
Yep, never pays to think too much.