It began with a call from Liz, wanting to know if I was watching the Today show. They were doing a piece on the titillatingly popular Fifty Shades book by E L James.  My good friend wanted to know what all the hype was about and was it worth reading?  I assume the fact that I am her author-friend and not her auto-mechanic-friend, made me the go-to expert. I hadn’t read it—not at that point—so we watched together.  One psychological expert applauded the book for putting fantasy on paper, making it okay to indulge in kinky sex (don’t email me, kinky according to the bi-laws of vanilla sex, pg. 8 in the Submissive contract, clause 13E). The argument was that women had come full circle and it was okay to give back control in the bedroom.  Liz asked, “Do you think that’s right?”  I was glad she was on the other end of a phone, preventing her from seeing the blank look on my face. The other expert said the book was dangerous territory, exploiting an inexperienced young woman who would submit to just about anything to please a man. “Oh, she makes a good point,” Liz said, clearly caught up in the right and wrong of reading Fifty Shades of Grey.

I put the thought aside, too busy with two jobs, not to mention a manuscript that required one more round of revisions. In addition to this, I’d recently agreed to be the resident author for a critique group, the initial meeting scheduled for the next day. I’d all but forgotten Fifty Shades until I showed up to the critique group.  The women, all new to each other, were immersed in anything but a grey discussion of the New York Times bestselling novel. Some were huge fans while others argued everything from the lack of writing skill to that earlier mention about the parameters of vanilla sex. Again, not being their auto-mechanic but closest facsimile to a breathing author, they wanted to know what I thought, especially since I’d penned a love scene or two.  I felt as if I’d turned up to class without my homework, sheepishly confessing to not having pulled the shades to read Fifty Shades.

Moving on, I arrived home to find a Fifty Shades message on my Facebook page.  It was from an old college friend. You guessed it. Her PhD self was midway through the provocative read, thoroughly engrossed.  What did I think? Without answering, I turned off the computer and went to bed.  There I did nothing but sleep—no silky neckties, no blindfolds, no spanking. Well, that’s not entirely true.  The cat bit my chin around 3 a.m. and was the recipient of a flailing arm. Hot multimillionaires with a penchant for pain need not apply, not when we have a pedestrian tiger-striped cat willing to do the same for wet tuna.  The following day put me over the Fifty Shades edge, finding a gift copy on my Nook. It was from my boss. It was all quite innocent, a work-related assignment from the same person who sent me The Goal, a dryer than dirt book on effective process improvements. However, he was not without a specific motive.  Apparently, he’d been contacted by a major magazine wanting to interview men who’d read Fifty Shades.  What did I think?

From here the plot thickens about as much as the one in Fifty Shades.  I submitted, sitting down and reading the damn book.  I read from two different perspectives, half writer, half audience.  I did have a couple of must-share thoughts: First, I’d no idea riding crops were so versatile. Second, I’d think EL James should have to produce a breathing girl over the age of 21 who does not have an email address or computer—and an Amish girl does not count.  I won’t bore you with a more detailed opinion.  Surely, by now, you’ve heard it all, the outward protests of those dedicated to literary prose, as well as those who take pride in complete sentences.  Clearly, many loved the book. Honestly, my reaction was neither here nor there.  Take a spin through your TV channels; you can find bars set far lower without subscribing to pay TV.  Just the other night, I wandered into an MTV Q&A where the male interviewer was discussing, in excruciating detail, the female interviewee’s oral sex life.  All I’m thinking is WTF, why is this crap on my basic cable channels?  With the blatant over sharing of personal information so available to this impressionable demographic, I’m not sure a novel, which appears to have found its audience with women well over the age of 21 is that brow-raising.  Fifty Shades of Grey is a conscious choice where readers can happily indulge or otherwise conclude that the book is nothing more than another prop in the red room of pain. Yeah, you actually have to read the book to get the last one.  There are, I suspect, more important thoughts to think.

Even in black and white, fifty plus years ago, it was still all about the idea.  I like the concept of a team effort when it comes to television writing. It’s a natural path for a forum that thrives on timing, dialogue and the occasional pratfall.  The medium lends itself to a group effort.  Book writers, on the whole, aren’t of that nature. Of course, there is the exception to the rule, successful trends where big name writers, like Patterson, take on a protégé or sometimes an offspring. But as group, we work alone. It makes the idea portion a precious commodity.  Visualize the stereotypical writer, go ahead.  I bet we conjure up the same scene: A haphazardly dressed, unshaven writer (man or woman, I’ll leave the hormonal issue up to you) staring willfully at a typewriter.  I don’t care if you don’t even remember typewriters.  It’s like separating Easter from chocolate. The two just go together. Inserted in the typewriter is the proverbial blank page, above the writer’s head an empty bubble. It waits with hemorrhoid like pain for an idea to insert itself.  As I said, a stereotype.

Personally, the idea of approaching any keyboard with nary an idea scares the hell out of me.  Assuming we’ve replaced the typewriter with a computer, I’d be on Facebook in .03 seconds.  Ideas don’t come as a whole. They don’t even arrive in tasty chunks. For the most part, ideas are snippets and threads that, if I’m clever, weave into fabric.  If the scraps of ideas are good enough, eventually the fabric reveals a pattern that tells a story.

Along with the blank page comes the proverbial author question: Where do you get your ideas?  When asked this, I tend to squirm, babbling nonsense that amounts to a message in a bottle. In truth, the answer is both so vague and tedious I find it impossible to answer.  I view it as fact until I ponder people like Patrick Bourne. He’s a character in my WIP, not the main character, but the one whose presence assures me that snippets are where real ideas start.  A few years ago, I was doing a newspaper piece on a beautiful vintage property. The homeowner was there, a svelte gentleman for whom the word dashing was invented. He spoke only about his house, showing me period photographs of the Georgian manor.  He was fascinating, his mannerisms matching his bone structure, distinct and inviting.  I spent no more than five minutes with him.  He had to leave for work—he was an attorney. At least that’s what the housekeeper told me, a woman who left me to peruse the property at my leisure. I admired ornate woodwork, Italian art worth more than I made in a year, Chinese Chippendale chairs and Persian rugs.  I traveled room to room, or continent to continent, unable to get my mind off the man. I know that sounds like instant infatuation, which is plausible, as he was worthy. But that wasn’t it. There was something about him that simply captured my imagination. It intensified in his bedroom, finding his closet clearly divided and completely filled with men’s clothing. There was one photograph in the room, the man I’d met and an equally fetching African American man. I probably stared at the picture longer than I should have; it was hardly the point of my business in his bedroom.

Not long after, I went back to the newspaper and wrote a lovely Sunday feature about the grand manor and its historic ties to the community. Today, I couldn’t tell you what town it’s in.  I wouldn’t be able to retrace my steps if you told me there was buried treasure in the basement. A few sentences back, I said that the man captured my imagination. For most people, that’s a disposable phrase. For a writer, it’s future reference. I won’t tell you that Patrick Bourne is the man I met that day. I didn’t learn enough about him to possibly draw that conclusion. Our conversation was not personal; I don’t recall his name. Admittedly, I had privileged information, information that had time to stew and simmer in the back of my brain. All of this led to the snippets of thread that wove into fabric, creating Patrick Bourne.  Is Patrick gay? Yes. Is he an attorney?  Well, he is indeed. Are his mannerisms identical—they’re similar.  But more than anything, the blanks of his past, present and future were completely up to me, custom crafted to fit the man in my book. So while there is no team of writers, there are thousands of random yet cataloged snippets.  With any luck, a few will turn into perfectly wonderful ideas.

♥RWA RITA Finalist, Best First Book, 2012♥

Recently, I was chatting with a friend whose passion is directing community theater. Not only is it what she loves to do, but she happens to be expert at it, making high school kids’ look Broadway bound. For her, opening night is not the rush or prize most people expect but leaves her in the back of the theater feeling bittersweet about the moment at hand. Naturally, she’s thrilled for the kids; loves watching them achieve what three months before seemed a line-dropping, “Do I exit stage right, and what is stage right?” insurmountable task.  What I heard and so clearly understood was her regret about reaching the end of the road.  For theater directors the moment comes when the curtain goes up. Their work is done. For writers it arrives when the bound book lands on your doorstep.

Like my director friend, who thoroughly appreciates the accomplishment of her cast, I too appreciated seeing BEAUTIFUL DISASTER in print. What always seemed odd, like a twisted yearning that you’d only admit to your analyst, was the loss of the process.  I thought it would fade, but the feeling of being finished has forever superseded the thrill of the feat. I realize how absurd that sounds to writers deep in the hunt, querying agents, hoping their break is just around the corner. And for this reason, I’ve squirreled the notion away. It’s like being able to eat a dozen boxes of Godiva chocolates and never gaining an ounce. You just shut up about it. But after finding a kindred spirit in that emotion, I felt I had permission to write about it. Of course, this is MY blog, and I can write whatever I damn well please.  So, clearly, in addition to guilt, I do harbor codependent tendencies—a topic for another day, I’m sure.

But while we’re here, let me continue to clean house, making a confession that I’ve shared with practically no one. When my author copies of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER arrived, more than a year ago, I didn’t open the box right away. I felt terrible about that; ungrateful and fairly sure I was doing the published author thing all wrong.  This is not a terrific shock in that I do a lot of things wrong, beginning with the Play-Doh dining incident, circa 1969.  I know that tearing into a cardboard box marked with a fat Penguin, Simon & Shuster or St. Martin’s Press return label is the pinnacle for most authors.  I’ve heard them talk about the dewy-eyed fascination they experienced holding their book for the first time. Honestly?  If I hear the newborn analogy again, I can see my way clear to sticking a screwdriver through my eardrum. I wasn’t damp-eyed and I didn’t feel that way. All I felt was empty and over. That beautifully bound book, with a cover as painstakingly planned as the words inside, meant the process had come to an end.  I get that it was really the beginning, the first step in, dare I say it, a career that will include other books.  Let me to also note that I never allowed empty to interfere with busting my ass to promote BEAUTIFUL DISASTER.  I am satisfied that I am the best novel stage mother I can be.  But like my director friend, I knew the rehearsal, the process of getting there, had come to an irrevocable conclusion.

While promoting BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, I spent most of this past year getting to that place with my next book.  There is no love at first sight in the writing business.  It takes time to decide if you love a story enough not to want to let it go.  I’m sure I’ve made it drag on weeks, if not months, longer than necessary. I savor the process far too much, even when my agent handed it back last summer and said, “This needs work.” Devastating words unless you took it as permission to indulge in the thing you covet most, being alone with your characters and story—a sordid affair of the imagination. But time does have a nasty habit of checking in, and a few weeks ago she reread, far more pleased with the result. Damn. Still, she asked if I could stand one more revision. The twisted tune hummed in my head as I retreated once more, though the list of amendable items is concise, creating an unavoidable finite end.

Earlier this week, I took a break from the WIP to have lunch with my director friend. The big high school musical had come and gone the weekend before with sold out shows and spectacular performances.  As she picked at her salad, I heard a melancholy note—one that would have left her insisting the cast rework the scene.  The sound was something someone on the outside of the creative process might misinterpret.  But I got it, maybe more than she knew, the note sounding a bit sweeter as I asked what she had in mind for next year’s production.

Anyway, my very non-scientific poll, which I took at every gathering, revealed the most popular item on book club menus, The Help. I didn’t visit one pass-the-cheese-dip semi-circle where Ms. Stockett’s beautifully crafted novel wasn’t named the favorite book of the year. Engaging, thoughtful and a page-turner, everyone could also agree that if they tired of talking about the book, they could always discuss the movie. Readers of all genres morph into a singular demographic when it comes to The Help. Book clubs, I’ve also learned, like to read about the Holocaust—a weighty topic whether it’s a high school history class, a trip to the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C., or a book club.  Interestingly, on more than one occasion, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER happened to be the follow up selection to a Holocaust read. Great.  It’s like following Ulysses with Dr. Seuess’s One Fish Two Fish. Okay, make it two sizzling fish in an ocean deep love story.  But either way, I never could figure out the right response to this bit of information.  Just for the record, I don’t even like mentioning my book in the same paragraph as the Holocaust.  Although, if any readers suffered whiplash from the abrupt switch in subject matter, they didn’t mention it to me. In fact, several book clubs seemed appreciative of the change of pace. I suppose that’s the one commonality among book clubs, the diversity and ease with which they shift reading gears.

Apparently, I’m also not a total bore at book clubs, as last Friday Booktini, from Taunton, MA, invited me back to celebrate their third anniversary. I honestly enjoyed every book club I visited during the past year, but I have to give special props to Booktini—a group my Penguin publicist called, “The best name I’ve ever heard for a book club.”  They’re a Pinterest board in motion, having artfully and thoroughly embodied the idea of what a book club should be. Sure, they have the basics: wine, women, a book, a variety of cheesy dips. But they also have business cards and a logo. They wrangle free stuff from businesses that like to share their wares, which seems to be a win/win for Booktini members and the product being distributed. These ladies go the extra mile (with one member actually running the Boston Marathon) making a mega effort to reach beyond the pages and turn every read an accessorized adventure.  As a group, they attend author readings and movie premier nights, should a favorite book make it to the marquee. The Hunger Games at Patriots Place, aka luxury theatre seating, is on tap for their next field trip.  Just this morning, one member posted the add-ons for their next read: Violets of March—a theme within itself. It appears that it’s going to be a plum hued event with prizes for the best-dressed violet clad reader. Last Friday, as I watched current Booktini president, Christina Bruneau, cut into its oh-so-charming cake, I found myself a bit envious. And not just because the cake was off limits to me, the gluten-free girl, but because of the camaraderie Booktini shares. It’s the kind of thing where you sit, for the moment, as part of their semi-circle (or this case Christina’s kitchen table) and say, “Gosh, this is a lot of fun…”  So, as noted, while book publishing continues a course that mirrors the S.S. Minnow, thank goodness for the anchored, sure-footed stride of book clubs.

Miss Dawn's Room, circa 1991

I never cried when I dropped a kid off at nursery school. I was happy to help them pack for college, happier still to move them into a dorm room and say, “See ya!” You probably think this makes me a bit of a cold fish. But I don’t think so, I also think I’ve had enough time and experience to figure out why. I always felt a great sense of accomplishment in my children becoming their own person.  That began twenty years ago when I dropped Megan off in Miss Dawn’s room, continuing right through her college days and two more kids.  My theory even has proof, not only can she tie her own shoes, she’s also enrolled in a rigorous graduate program. Physically, emotionally, mentally, I know I had something to do with that, so yay for me in that regard. On the other hand, that’s where it ends. Sink or swim on your own.  Maybe I am a little different in that I don’t particularly view them as an extension of myself, but as their own person and I’m okay with that.

Children, for me, are NOT like books. I know that’s the opposite of what most writers say, their work invariably summoning the same emotions they feel for their children.  I get that, I really do. But as I prepare to hand off this new manuscript, I feel nothing but throat-clenching angst, hands wringing raw.  I never felt this way about a kid—even the one that had an entire colon removed (A page-turner for another time).  I think most of that boils down to control and responsibility. When it comes to human beings, even if they’re the ones you gave birth to, there are too many outside influences. Yes, it’s my job to oversee those influences, but eventually, whether it’s a temper tantrum over building blocks or the decision to invite a boy to college for the weekend, it’s up to them. I’ve always felt there was a little thing called consequences that should factor in.  You don’t get that luxury with a book.  Sink or swim, the consequences are mine. Children become adults who, if your gene pool isn’t too screwed up going in and you pepper them with enough common sense, in all probability will turn out fine. Try that with a book and you’ll soon find out that a party of one is providing all chromosomes and character traits. So the question becomes, is it enough? Did I do it right?  It will never think for itself; it will never answer the question. Agents and editors and the book buying public get to decide that one. And that’s where I get stuck.  For this manuscript to do anything more, become anything else, I have to let it go. Rationally, I’ve worked too long and hard to shove it in a desk drawer—Okay, so we all know it’s a USB drive, but the imagery of 370 dog-eared, coffee stained pages is far more evocative. I say rationally, but I think I left rational back on page 132, when on a third revision I looked Aidan Royce in the eye and said, “Well, finally, there you are!”

When I dropped Megan off at nursery school, I remember feeling excited for her, excited for the two and one-half hours that I was going to have to myself. As I work up the nerve to detach and send, I know the safety zone of this WIP will be gone. Empty hours will follow with a fair amount of dread, as I suspect I will only sit and wait for somebody else to tell me how it’s going to turn out.

There are certain things you can’t imagine in life, like how you might prefer summer to winter, and big holy crap things
like a published book. The premise of this blog, I think, falls somewhere in between. Today is Friday the 13th (my second Friday the 13th Stiletto Gang post, but not my point) and it also happens to be Mother’s 83rd birthday. I started linking the odds earlier in the week. It’s Friday the 13th AND Mother’s birthday AND my turn to post here at The Stiletto Gang! I couldn’t, in all good consciousness, pass up the forum. She gets another whack at the black-cat calendar birthday in five years, but the odds of it being my turn to blog are debatable. The odds of her enjoying number 88… Pretty damn good, if you know Mother.

Mother’s name is Clarabel, which never struck me as odd, but you can bet spell check just marked it with a big red line. She was born prematurely, and for all the fuss and care taken with preemies today, let it be known that they stuck her in a coal stove. Eighty-three years later, and she’s happy to tell you the story. Her father was an interesting self-made man who, during the Great Depression, built houses and roads in Pennsylvania. Driving down any of those winding

My parents have traveled over the years. She’s enjoyed places like Italy, Israel and Austria. She’s not a resort type of person, though they do leave on a cruise next week. Just the other day she was kvetching about the excursions, not the destinations or cost—well, maybe the cost—but mostly she was perturbed by the age restrictions. Apparently, cruise lines are not that excited about folks over 75 participating in their day trips. When she told me this I laughed under my breath, thinking: Good luck to whoever is running that show. Apparently, they haven’t met Mother.

While that merely scratches the surface of Mother, I’ll leave it there, wishing her a happy 83rd birthday and many more!

Thoughtful Decor from a Book Club Gathering

VISIT BEAUTIFUL DISASTER’S FACEBOOK PAGE AND ENTER TO WIN A SIGNED COPY!!

http://www.facebook.com/BeautifulDisasterANovel

Given the post-holiday, pre-New Year date, not to mention the one-year anniversary of my debut novel, it seems a foregone conclusion that I write a retrospective blog. I saw a really good year-in-review on the Christmas Day CBS Morning Show. Of course, that one was dedicated to well-known personalities who’d passed, the montage segueing beautifully from Elizabeth Taylor to Steve Jobs to the guy who invented the teleprompter—sometimes, it’s the invention we recall, not the inventor. Thankfully, sadly, the major loss at my house was the cat. While I’d tear up over a photo-filled post devoted to Ted’s memory, I assumed you might not feel the same.  Aside from the dead, the other thing we regale over this time of year is lists: Best Of, Biggest Blunders, Most Popular, 2011 Trends. So in keeping with that theme, and sparing you my personal life’s little inventory list, I chose to focus on a Top Ten Retrospect for the Newly Published, aka, As the Debut Light Dims.

1) Authors are accessible. Some of the smartest people I’ve met this year are writers working to become published authors. While waiting to get their ticket punched, or book bound, they’ve made great contacts and friends with published authors. From what I can gather, it puts them miles ahead of the curve. I’m impressed by their networking and appalled by my own lack of foresight.

2) Not everybody is going to love your book—soon-to-be-authors, take note! There’s no avoiding it or the sting.  Suck it up.  And the sting is equal whether it’s a place like Publishers Weekly or a live-wire on Goodreads.  I believe the ego-annihilating phrase was, “Just halfway through and it is nauseating…” Well, if you felt compelled to post that, and my book made you physically ill, I guess we’re even (-;

3) Signings are fun, but they come with a level of tension that’s difficult to corral—at least this was the case for me. Note to self: gray long-sleeved blouse, pretty as it is, will show pit stains every time.  I know; I have the pictures to prove it.

4)  Promotion can be all consuming. An author could seriously give up all other activities, including writing a next book, for the sole and express purpose of promoting the one on the shelf.  The good news here is you meet a lot of great people along the way. Just last night, I ended up in a lovely FB chat with Amy Bromberg from Chick Lit Central. They’ll be featuring BEAUTIFUL DISASTER in February!  You also learn quickly that every little bit helps! Do you have your copy yet?

5) In the same vein, find the dividing line between what you wrote and what you’ve yet to write. Promoting a book and writing one are polar opposites. One requires you to be a social butterfly. The other is a cocoon. You have to figure out how to transition fluidly from one to the other.
 6)  If your book happens to get nominated for a nice award, go to the party. This is my big book blunder from the year. I gave myself the, “It’s a thrill to be nominated,” speech and stayed home.  In retrospect, it would have been really cool to have accepted the invite and the award personally.

7)  Book clubs are God’s gift to writers. Again, this goes to my last-off-the-turnip-truck naiveté, but what an unexpected bonus! Where else can you make eight to ten instant friends by showing up?  And even if they don’t love your book, they will congratulate you on the achievement of being published. Well, except for that one woman. I’m still considering having her comment about Flynn, my protagonist, tattooed to my butt: “He was just so… so dirty.”  Silly me. I thought it was part of his charm.

8)  “So, how much of your book is autobiographical?”  Say what?  For a lot of reasons, this question bothered me a great deal. I should have had the sense to let it go early on and just be glad they were reading.

9)  Regarding BEAUTIFUL DISASTER and the college-age boys who emailed me: Glad you enjoyed it… So happy you learned something… These things take practice… And it’s probably best we’re not Facebook friends.

That's me, writing in the sunroom... Or maybe promoting a book

10)  And my number one newly published author conclusion: I am happiest writing a book. It gives me a sense of self, if you will, that tends to escape me in everyday life. Honestly?  I’d probably be happier just writing in the name of self-satisfaction. But for some reason, that mindset never seems to be the proper path.  I am muddling my way through the rest, making it up as I go. And, well, there you have it, life imitating art.  Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah and my best to you all in the New Year.

I had a different five letter B-word in mind for this blog, but my sensible author friend Susan McBride whispered (from St Louis) in my ear, “Hey, Miss Laura, Try to keep it civil and polite…” I defer to her impeccable manners. I think first chapters will do that, more so than any other part of a book, bring out the worst in you. The first chapter in question isn’t an inception but a revision, which I firmly believe to be more riddled with landmines than any initial attack. Sure, there’s the daunting prospect of blank pages and zero word count when you begin something new. But there’s also gutsy intuition and the promise of unabashed wordsmithing.  This just looked like work. The initial first chapter of any book is a sketch. It has to be, unless you’re a writer who outlines every thought on index cards, tacking them sequentially to a corkboard before turning on your computer.  It’s the same methodology used by people who alphabetize condiments or coordinate their closet by color and season. It’s something Patrick Bourne would do, a character in my new novel who I happen to be in love with and also happens to be gay. But I assure you, like Patrick, that organizational skill set escapes me.

            When I first considered the revisions for this book, I almost trashed the entire thing: switch from first to third person, rewrite the main character’s motivation, and match the tone in BEAUTIFUL DISASTER, which, apparently, I failed to do the first time around. But like BD, this book, these characters, convinced me to hang on, saving their lives and story in the process. So after I committed (or was committed, the insane never know they are) the first thing I did was chop off Chapter One. There was no point to it, not until I’d coerced and cajoled the other 375 pages into submission. Fast forward three months and I was there, ready to rewrite the first chapter. I will give myself credit; it was the right move, as those other countless changes left me a detailed blueprint. Of course, there’s a reason a draftsman get a flat fee while the contractor gets an inflatable check. Execution is everything, and if the foundation sucks, well, the rest of the project is essentially a house of cards.

            Night and day for weeks this is where I’ve lived, inside Chapter One. During that time, I made a whirlwind trip to Athens, Georgia, taught a community class on writing/publishing, and banished a 14-year old boy to house arrest after seeing his interim progress report. None of these were simple tasks, but none were as daunting as that chapter.  I thought I knew these characters, I really did. But like a weak eyeglass prescription, you’re awed by the clarity when the proper adjustments are made. What I had was that sketch, the one to which I’ve already confessed. Now I have a hand slamming against my forehead, a voice (not Susan McBride’s) saying, “You idiot, why didn’t you see this the first time around!”  I suspect it takes me longer than the average author to get to know my characters. I’ve no idea why—I’m slow to peel back layers or simply slow out of the gate.  I often envision the entire writing community receiving an old fashioned telegram, complete with character instructions: Single woman, STOP. Tumultuous childhood, STOP. Fearful of her own sexuality, STOP. Lingering denial reaches impasse, STOP. There are a hundred more directives and stops, but you get the idea. A telegram is an antiquated analogy, but I like the idea of vital information being hand-delivered in a sealed envelope.

Fortunately, I appear to be on the downside of the first chapter mountain, my stinky pack mule having finally lumbered into camp with the goods. I am satisfied, to the extent any neurotic writer can be, that this Chapter One has its house in order. But in the end, we’ll see, because as we all know, the writer’s word is hardly the last one.                 

In early September, New Jersey Romance Writers of America called.  They wanted to let me know that BEAUTIFUL DISASTER was a finalist for Best First Book in their prestigious Golden Leaf contest, which awards excellence in romance fiction.  Naturally, as a debut author, this was all new to me: publishing, sales, reviews, Goodreads, book clubs, and contests.  To be honest, I did hesitate to enter.  Four books, you had to send four books to get in the game. That’s a lot of books out of the box—really, it’s a cardboard box that sits in my bedroom. More to the point, there are a lot of great debut novels out there, and I suspected the competition would be tough. So when they called to say my book was one of three finalists, I felt fairly validated. For me, it was as good as a win.  People with a lot more know-how than me agreed that BEAUTIFUL DISASTER was a worthy contender.  I could rest easy.  Attending their October 21^st conference and awards ceremony was absolutely my first choice.  But circumstance said otherwise, and I had to relay my regrets.

            Today, one day later, I sure wish circumstance had rethought that plan. I went to bed early last night, around 8:30, terrible headache, perhaps feeling a little sorry for myself.  At the very least, I was missing out on making some great contacts and engaging in some one-on-one with other writers—something I don’t get to do often enough. I woke up around midnight, headache gone, and wide awake. I headed downstairs, perusing empty rooms to see who left lights on and crumbs all over my kitchen counter. Passing by the computer, I decided to check my email. Junk, lots of junk. No, I definitely was not interested in what was new at Redbox or a coupon from LL Bean.  But at the bottom, not long after I’d gone to bed, was an email from my NJRWA contact. My reaction was this: “I can’t believe NJRWA would email me in the middle of their big event to tell me I lost.” Surely, that’s a late Monday morning email, if at all. Well, you guessed it, I WON!  It was a very short, very sweet note from my NJRWA contact, letting me know that I should be screaming at the top of my lungs from the Bay State! BEAUTIFUL DISASTER was just named the 2011 Golden Leaf winner for Best First Book!

            So today is a little bittersweet. I missed out on a moment that will never come my way again. A second book (God willing) will not be eligible for a Best First Book.  And while there are other Golden Leaf categories… Well, we all know how special the first one is! My heartfelt thanks to NJRWA, this award was unexpected and it is most appreciated. It’s still difficult to grasp that a lightning bolt image of one guy, and less clear fragments of his story, eventually turned into BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. But I suppose that’s why they tack debut to author.  It takes time to sink in.  And now, in addition to published author, I have the honor of putting NJRWA’s stamp of approval on my work.