It's not uncommon for a writer to fall in love with one of their creations. Stephanie Meyer dreamed of Edward Cullen, Anne Rice was utterly head over heels for Lestat, and so on. Lest I seem to be picking on the ladies, I also am utterly convinced that George Orwell had a thing for Napoleon. I'm not talking exclusively about romantic or sexual love, here, though this is a space in which all sexualities in which everyone consents are coolies and I will not abide otherwise.
I, for example, am completely, utterly, ridiculously twitterpated with this jet.