Hello, daahhlings. It's been a long, long while. But guess what?
It's Flapper Friday!
And I've got a ✨FREE✨ ticket to the Leeds book-signing event burning a hole in my fishnets!
For a chance to win, dears, simply comment at my author page on Facebook with your favorite 1920s slang term. To be eligible, please ONLY share your comment on my post here: goo.gl/grptvh.
I'm leaving the contest open through tomorrow (Saturday, the 6th) and will select one winner at random. In the meantime, you can find more event details here: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/leeds-uk-author-event-2018-tickets-32387845919 (hosted by Hourglass Booksigning Events). In addition to the daytime signing with me and loads of other authors, there will be a Flappers & Gangsters-themed after-party at the same location!
So, if you're in the UK this spring, I hope you can make it to the signing and/or party! Meeting in Leeds would be the bee's knees!
In my previous post, "Madness to the Method, Part 1: The Brainstorm," I discussed how all of my stories originate from a very sloppy, scattered place: my brain. And the only way to get them out of my head is to kick up a windstorm in there and blow the ideas out onto paper like so much debris. At some point, though, these ideas need to be swept up into a plot pile, which then gets tidied into a story arc.
I've written short stories and vignettes here and there ever since I was a kid, and in crafting those, I usually do just sit and write from start to finish, having a general idea of where I want to go but pretty much making it all up along the way. So when I first took a crack at writing a novel, I automatically assumed I could approach it the same way. Which, when I now think about it, was incredibly naive and insane. Writing a few hundred or thousand words is one thing (don't get me wrong, short stories also benefit from advance planning), but taking on several tens of thousands is quite another. It can become a management nightmare if you just run into such a vast and wild, unexplored frontier with all creative guns blazing and no strategic plan. So as I continued to revise my first manuscript, I had to learn the hard way that backing cohesion and proper pacing into a novel is difficult as hell, and it would have behooved me to have an outline first.
Which is what I did for my second manuscript. I gathered my miscellaneous brainstorming and started to slot it into sections. Still spastic scribblings in my journal, by no means neatly divided into tiers of A, B, C, i, ii, iii, but guidance nonetheless. This bullet-pointed bird's-eye view helped me tremendously by giving a sense of the story's shape and direction without also confining my creativity. I wasn't bound to every idea that I jotted down here, nor were any of them fleshed out enough to dictate every step of the journey. Some writers might prefer a more detailed outline than this, but I've found I personally thrive under this balance between the concrete and the as-yet abstract. The organized and the organic. That gives me the breathing room I need to let myself change my mind if the characters want to head somewhere else, and it allows for those moments of magic when, truly and almost inexplicably inspired, you just write without knowing where it's going and end up creating something better than you could've ever achieved if you'd thought about it too hard.
Giving myself over to the story this way inevitably demands script changes, then, and sometimes I still manage to write myself into a corner. I leave certain aspects open to possibility so reach the inevitable fork in the road where I must commit to one outcome versus another. And I don't always want to go with what I originally planned--or have written myself so far outside that scope that it isn't even an option anymore--at which point I'll sit with pen and paper yet again and hash it out. In the case of both Seven for a Secret and What the Clocks Know, I was closing in on the final chapters when I needed to stop, step back, and brainstorm my way through a State of the Story outline: basically, Here's where my characters are at right now. Is this where I want them to be, and, if so, what are their options from here? It became a decision tree of sorts that ultimately helped me work out the solutions (and bust through my writer's block).
Ultimately, every writer needs to find what method works best for him or her, and surely the process continues to evolve with experience. With only two novel manuscripts down, a third in the works, and a fourth largely in the brainstorm stage, I have personally learned that I will never again attempt one without some semblance of an outline and especially encourage the practice to anyone out there who is writing a novel for the first time.
Need a new read for the New Year? Here's wishing you a happy close to 2015 and a bright, shiny 2016 with a free chapter excerpt from Seven for a Secret!
~*~ CHAPTER XIII ~*~
New Year’s Eve 1926 / New Year’s Day 1927
“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!”
Thousands of revelers buzzing on bootlegged liquor raised their arms in the air at the Aragon Ballroom. “Wooo!” Effie cried into the cacophony, throwing her arms around her dance partner’s neck. “Oh, Lonnie, won’t you kiss me Happy New Year? It’s bad luck if you don’t!” She nuzzled her silver-beaded breasts against his vest and wore a deep garnet, balloon-lipped pout. “Lonnie, you’ve been giving me the absent treatment all night,” she cooed, raising that pout and puckering it as blatantly as a fish. That’s what it is, Lon realized. He leaned back to eye her up and down and had to catch his footing as he almost lost his balance. Squinting through his gin-distorted vision, he confirmed that that’s what Effie had reminded him of all night in that little dress of overlapping giant sequins and beads: a silvery, scaly fish. “Ohhh,” she moaned into him, tracing her index fingers in symmetrical snakes down his chest. “Come now, darling. Since when are you so shy?” She giggled with a hiccup and swayed against him as a trumpet wah-wahhed the remainder of the band’s jazzy rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Scanning the crowd for the other couples they’d arrived with, Lon couldn’t make out any familiar faces. The camaraderie he usually shared with just his male companions at the late-night clubs wasn’t to be enjoyed this evening. He heard Effie “Mmmm!” at him in pleading and figured, What the hell. He joined in her sway as the band’s piano began to provocatively plunk out the song “Squeeze Me.”
Bending down, Lon practically swallowed Effie’s ready lips, penetrating that pucker and unable to care less if an usher tapped his shoulder for indecent public behavior. Passionately groping her hips and bottom thanks to his flask of gin, Lon went for it and waited for the slap across his face. He had underestimated Effie. “Mmm,” she continued to moan while her fingers tucked into the waist of his trousers at his back and slid around to the front. She gave his fly a tug and detached from his mouth. “Check, please. Let’s say we blow this joint and you take me to your hotel.” Her eyes were glassed on hooch, but they appeared to focus steadily enough on his. A mental inventory of his lodgings ran through Lon’s reeling mind as he appraised how suitable it was for company. Had he picked up his clothes? Put away his paints and canvas? But perhaps he hadn’t been considering the most important question: Did it matter? “So where are you staying?” Effie asked. “The Drake? Palmer House?” Lon narrowed his eyes. Of course. Why should she assume anything less than luxury? “Allerton?” she persisted. “Some place real swanky, I’m sure. You weasel; I’m certain you’ve been to town sooner than this and haven’t called me. Show me where you’ve been hiding.” She grabbed his lapels and looked up at him like an imploring puppy. “Pleeease, Lonnie? Take me where you bring the other girls.” Her voice returned to its characteristic nasal whine. A shame; Lon had enjoyed the brief departure. “I’m feeling an edge, and this music’s starting to grate on me,” she yammered on. “Come on, let’s ankle, huh?” She was actually pulling his arm now. “Before my giggle water wears off and gives me a headache.” With Lon rooted firmly in place, Effie kept a hold on him and leaned backward at an otherwise impossible angle. In an effort to motivate him, she released one of her hands to pull up the hem of her dress and reveal her garters. Not wishing her to fall over, Lon gave in to her tugs, watching this debutante-turned-flapper whom he supposed could be considered a kindred spirit, a renegade of her class — if not for the fact that she was sure to still color inside the lines enough to keep her key to The Club. She was fodder for gossips, to be sure, but she’d not been branded visibly enough to deny her invitations to all the elite events. She could turn her slang on and off like a light switch, transitioning with ease into the polished Standard English she’d been brought up with on command. And, though twenty-one, her parents still doted on her like an infant. Perhaps they thought it was safer to keep her on an extraordinarily long leash, but a leash nonetheless that would pull taut and tug her back if she ran out the slack. Daddy’s Girl, on the perpetual prowl for a Sugar Daddy to support her if ever she did snap that leash.
Back, back, back she pulled him through the crowd of couples springing in lively dancing, their feet drumming against the wooden floor. The surrounding plaster façade of a garish Spanish courtyard closed around Lon like a tunnel, at the end of which he only saw Effie’s spread thighs, her garters snapping one by one at the yank of his teeth. Maybe it was worth trying to bounce this Sheba off his Murphy bed after all, send them both into oblivion. In his condition at the moment, her hole was good as any. Effie walked backward, still facing him and bunching the hem of her dress in her fist as she guided him along. The dancing in his peripheral vision appeared to slow, and Lon blinked as his sight blurred and the images converged in front of him. He looked up to the false night sky of the domed ceiling and tried to focus on its artificial twilight. As his hazy vision swam among the painted stars, he saw nothing else, only heard “Squeeze Me” in the very blood rushing to his ears. A “Whoops!” broke the spell, and Lon found himself pressed against Effie. She’d backed into one of the “palace” columns running the perimeter of the dance floor, leaving Lon to crash into her. Closing his eyelids to see the stars behind them, he took her lips with his again and plucked at her garter straps as if she were a bass. Effie complied with pleasing sounds for a little while, but it was when Lon crouched, grabbed the backs of her thighs, and hoisted her up against the column that he felt her struggle. “What’s the idea!” she cried, holding to him for balance while also trying desperately to keep her dress covering her bottom. “Lonnie, stop it now!” He tried to wedge his body between her legs and wrap them around his sides. “Say, I mean it! Quit it now or I’m really gonna cast a kitten in fronta’ all these people!” Here, kitty-kitty-kitty. Lon laughed to himself as he eased his hands beneath her dress toward her rump. But, with an instinctive sense of decency, he withdrew to let her down — just in time to see two uniformed ballroom attendants make their way toward him. Around them, he heard the disapproving cries of other women, a few of whom appeared to prod their dates to walk over there and knock his lights out. Lon seized Effie by the wrist and pulled her toward the exit, waving off the men who’d given up their chase but still pointed after him in stern warning. Out on the sidewalk, she huffed into the frigid air. “You, you’re screwy! You didn’t even fetch my ermine!” She ran at him and pushed him with surprising might. “The nerve, after dragging me all the way uptown. I’ll find myself another ride home, thank you. Don’t call on me again. Ever!”
And with that, she stomped her fish scales back inside, leaving Lon teetering on his feet. He hadn’t even grabbed his own overcoat, but no matter. The glittering lights of the Green Mill jazz club twinkled in the corner of his eye from the nearest intersection at Broadway. Rubbing and cupping his bare hands to his face, he blew warm breath into them and set foot to deliver himself from drunk to positively zozzled.
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“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!” Dozens of high society members tipsy on fine champagne raised their coupe glasses in toast throughout the parlor and music room of the Hughes mansion. “A kiss for good luck, my charming bride,” Finlay said, taking Eva’s hand and kissing the back of it before pulling her nearer to plant one politely on her lips. “You call that a kiss?” Eva teased, perhaps two glasses of champagne in excess of her threshold. She coiled her arm around his neck and pressed against him. Her lips roamed over his and traveled down to his neck, then up to his ear. “Evie, darling.” Finlay pulled her arms from their tight squeeze to add a little distance, looking around at the other partygoers and forcing a good-natured chuckle. The Redcliffe influence had tamed Hughes parties quite a bit over the last year. “Ha-ha, yes, perhaps you’ve imbibed a bit too much,” he said loudly for anyone in earshot. “May I walk you to a sofa, or perhaps your old bed upstairs to rest awhile? Collect yourself?” Eva pulled her arms through his grip and wrapped them instead around his waist beneath his tuxedo jacket. “I think,” she purred with a smirk, “you ought to take me home, darling, and lay me on our bed.” “Mm, yes,” Finlay replied. “Let’s do. I’ll fetch your mink if you’ll say your goodbyes and meet me in the foyer.” Eva tightened her hug and giggled into his neck, “Yes, master,” with a firm squeeze of his rear beneath his tails. “Er,” Finlay replied and coughed into his hand. “I’ll just be retrieving your fur, dear. Why don’t you make your way to the door now.” Pressing her lips together in a grin, Eva saluted her husband. She then dropped her hand with such gusto that it swung her around, so she followed its lead and walked in its suggested direction.
Weaving through the merrymakers with a smiling nod, she eventually found herself in the front foyer. She stood on the mosaic tiles between the great columns and swayed to the string ensemble. Fleetingly, she wondered if she ought not quickly run upstairs to check on Ollie, but looking down the golden corridor, she spied the marble lovers above the fountain. Her sister forgotten, the corners of Eva’s lips twitched downward, and she softly sang along with everyone else to “Auld Lang Syne.” Her throat tightened, making her voice falter into silence. Yet she still swayed, leaning against the door and frowning. Seconds later, Finlay descended the grand staircase with her white fur in hand. “All right, my darling, let’s be off.” Compliant, she stood away from the door and allowed the butler — who’d been invisible to her until just then — to open it for her. Humming the song, she clopped down the stone steps, turned an abrupt left at the sidewalk, and marched the short distance to her own home next door. She then took another sharp military turn left up their steps. Once inside the foyer there, she turned onto Finlay to half-heartedly renew her seduction. “Mmm, kiss me, darling.” “Of course, dear.” Finlay pecked her lips, then her forehead. “Oh, come now, can’t you do better than that?” She fixed a ravenous gaze on him and reached for the fly of his tuxedo pants. “Eva, my sweet...here...let me just — ” And he swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs. Entering their master bedroom, he laid her on the bedspread and covered her with her white mink, which she promptly snatched off. Crawling onto all fours, she flicked it at him like a whip. “Come here, you.” “Darling, I must get back to your father’s. There are important men there that I need to speak to, and — ” “Well, if you must go, then go!” Eva spat, poised up on her knees. “Here I am throwing myself at you, and you still won’t touch me! I am your wife! I’m the one you always return to exhausted from your days of commerce or riding or golfing or whatever it is that you do at any given hour with the other Rulers of the World. There’s always someone else important to speak to. I fear I don’t interest you very much.” “Pardon me, darling, but do I disrespect you? Do I treat you poorly? Deny you any comforts you’re used to? After only one year away, you’ve had to move all but one door down from your childhood home, for goodness sake.”
Eva pouted, tears streaming down her face. Why did she always seem to be crying? Ever since 1925, ever since the engagement, and was this how she was to ring in yet another year as well? Another New Year of old tears? A New Woman confined to old ways? “No,” she replied. “You’ve been a gentleman in every way.”
“What then?” he beseeched. “Eva, what can I do to make you happy?” “Must you really ask? Fine, then. I give up.” Hands folded at her lap, she sank onto her heels. “Intimacy, Finlay. I want to feel intimacy. I want us to find pleasure in each other, emotionally, physically. I feel all I’ve accomplished since our wedding is a successful role-play as Wife. My next audition will be for the role of Mother of Your Children. And yet how am I to achieve that when you scarcely lay a finger on me? It’s been over a year, and I still simply want to feel like a woman first before becoming a vessel for your seed.” “Don’t be vulgar, Eva. It doesn’t become you.” “What doesn’t? Modernity?”
“You know very well.” Eva closed her eyes and mouth at once and concentrated on breathing through her nose. “Darling, I...” Finlay’s voice had softened, and she could hear him approach just before his weight pulled down at the bedside and his smooth hand rested on top of hers. “This isn’t how I wanted our evening to end, darling.” Keeping her eyes closed, Eva snorted. “Who ever wants any evening to end like this?” “Yes, of course, but I only mean to say...I suppose I’m not quite good at being a husband. Not yet. But I swear to you, I’ll endeavor every day of my life to try. I’ve never done this before, Eva. You must be patient.” A tear trapped beneath Eva’s eyelid slipped its way to freedom down her cheek. She opened her eyes to look at her husband beside her. “And you think I have done this before? Where do you suppose I’ve stored all my previous husbands? In the cellar?” Finlay smiled and squeezed her hand. “I suppose,” Eva continued, “I’m not much good at being a wife. Yet. I promise to try, too.” “I appreciate that, darling. They always say the first year is difficult. We will work on this second year, together.” He kissed her cheek, then leaned further to kiss her lips, not just once but twice, somewhat of a record for Finlay in one sitting. With a double pat of her hand, he rose and straightened his tuxedo jacket. “So then, are you fine to stay here? Or can I escort you back to the party?” He held his arm out akimbo for her to take. The stance was unsettlingly familiar. “No,” Eva said, staring at his offered arm. “No, thank you. You go on. And please do extend my apologies to everyone for leaving without saying goodbye. As you said, I imbibed too much. I believe I’ll sleep it off now.” Finlay patted her head and withdrew to the door. “Happy New Year, darling,” he whispered just before closing the door behind him. Eva lay down on her side and hugged a pillow to her chest, replaying the conversation in her mind and asking herself again if crying was to remain such a regular state of being. Where had her strength evaporated to? Her independence? Her long-ago dreams of becoming a world-traveling journalist? Why did entering into a marriage mean having to check her identity at the door? For being a marriage of convenience, Eva was hard-pressed to identify just what had been so convenient about it. “I simply want to feel like a woman,” played back in her mind. “We will work on this,” did as well. Still practically newlyweds, they were already having to work on it. Eva supposed that was a fair enough reality of commitment, but what she couldn’t define quite as precisely was what they’d be working for. At least he was trying. That counted for something when another man in her life had ceased working at even friendship. And from only a block away, if he even still lived at that hotel; Lon could have moved months ago for all she knew. That he remained in Chicago at all was only confirmed through the rumor mill. But Eva couldn’t act spiteful of that. She’d brought it on herself and hadn’t dared make the effort either. Meeting Lon at the movie house last winter had been a rash misjudgment. And how dreadful to have put him in that position — she’d single-handedly tried to drag him back to his philandering days, after he had been there for her, just as he’d promised. No, she’d owed Finlay this first year, reserved for just the two of them as they began a new life together. And she owed Lon a chance at his happiness in the way he wanted to seek it. He didn’t need a rich married woman cramping his style. Eva sat up. She didn’t need a rich married woman cramping her style either. Striding to her wardrobe, she yanked her hanging dresses along the bar one by one and stopped at a little black knee-length Coco Chanel number she’d bought months ago but never had the right opportunity to wear. Unfastening and peeling off her fern green gown, she stepped into the beaded and fringed black crepe and rummaged around for her favorite black beaded purse, the hexagonal one she’d carried the night she’d first snuck into the Lincoln Park Zoo with Lon. The one that reminded her of the stars, the sea of dew where she could cast her nets and soar with the Dream Lady.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be found. “Drat,” she muttered, frowning over where she might have misplaced it. Yet not wanting to dawdle any longer than she needed to in the event Finlay returned for her, she plucked up the next best thing — a basic silk clutch — and glided to the door. She halted. Returning to her wardrobe, she opened a small interior drawer and withdrew from it a little mahogany box lined in black velvet. The winter chill that crept in through the windowpanes had shrunken her fingers enough that her emerald engagement ring and diamond-encrusted platinum wedding band slid off with ease. She tucked them into the velvet’s recesses, clapped the case shut, and scavenged through yet another drawer and jewelry box for a plain gold band to wear on her ring finger instead. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to look married, just not flashy. She’d forego wearing a fur as well, but the champagne hadn’t driven her to complete insanity — it was January in Chicago. Penning a brief note in her elegant script, she placed it on Finlay’s pillow. She affixed a black cloche hat with a low-hanging brim, wrapped herself in an ankle-length black mink, and snuck out to Clark Street where she hailed a taxi to the Green Mill.
I'm still a new kitten in Crooked Cat's cradle--with my next novel to be released next year--but in the meantime, you can find great savings on other Crooked Cat titles tomorrow! (I highly recommend Shani Struthers' Psychic Surveys series if you'd like to put a little haunt in your holidays.)
But should old acquaintance be forgot? I think not! So I'm having a little holiday sale of my own soon for my first novel, Seven for a Secret--on sale soon for only 99 cents! Just in time for a happy New Year, to follow what I hope for you is a very, very happy Thanksgiving today. Cheers!
The Spooktacular Giveaway Hop is back to haunt us, mwahahahaaa!
Yes, boys and ghouls, it's time for the 6th Annual Spooktacular Giveaway Hop, which begins today, October 15th, and runs through midnight on Halloween.
In the spirit of spirits, I'm giving away ONE (1) KINDLE EBOOK of my Chicago-based ghost story, Seven for a Secret and a $10 AMAZON GIFT CARD.
Kicking off a new feature today in hopes of becoming a little more consistent in my blogging efforts. :) And so, without further ado, today's Music Monday selection is...
"TONIGHT YOU BELONG TO ME"
by The Bird and the Bee
Today's little ditty comes to you from my unofficial soundtrack for Seven for a Secret. In the book, Lon plays the original 1926 Irving Kaufman version of "Tonight You Belong to Me" on his Victrola. But this sweet, modern rendition provides the perfect bridge between the novel's past and present story threads. I can almost hear it playing during the epilogue, actually--that final scene with Kate and Dexter. The song's rippling, almost glimmering synthpop evokes a celestial, standing-in-line-for-Space-Mountain-at-Disney-World sound befitting Kate's and Dex's planetarium jobs and all the stargazing throughout Seven for a Secret.
That's it for today, rockstars. Have a happy week!
In Seven for a Secret, the Hughes mansion is based on a real Chicago property.
First of all, have you seen the BOOK TRAILER yet? If not, curl up with some popcorn here before scrolling down to today's answer...
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Answer: TRUE!
The novel's fictional mansion where Lon Ashby and Eva Hughes meet on the staircase in 1925 was directly inspired by the Francis J. Dewes house in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood. Located only a block away from the Hampden Court apartment building that likewise inspired the story's Camden Court, this Chicago landmark dates back to 1896. Like the fictional Warren Hughes, Francis Dewes was a wealthy brewer and had his home designed in a German-inspired, lavishly ornamented neo-Baroque style.
"But before Lon could turn around, the great gray Hughes mansion loomed ahead, with some Choice Society stragglers milling around its steps and shimmering like fireflies in the dark. The music of a piano and string quartet floated on the air to greet him as ladies’ giggles popped like bubbles above the notes."
While I lived in a Hampden Court studio apartment just up the road, I walked by the Dewes mansion almost every day--and salivated over it almost every time. I was just like Kate, gawking at the exterior architecture and peeking through windows without shame. Back then, the home was commercially owned, and you'd often see a wedding reception filling its gated garden. Today, this city mansion is once again a private residence (lucky bastards). It is truly one of Chicago's hidden gems, transporting you to the past (and across the ocean) for a moment; so if you ever find yourself on the city's north side, I highly recommend strolling on over to 503 W. Wrightwood (on the corner of Wrightwood Ave. and Hampden Ct.). It's near Lincoln Park Zoo and Lake Michigan, which makes for a lovely day excursion.
But though you can't tour the inside of the house anymore, don't be dismayed. YoChicago provides a wonderful three-part video tour on YouTube. Below is Part 2, which shows you the entertaining spaces where the fictional Hugheses threw their glittering parties, including the one where Lon meets Eva. I took some liberties, of course, but the key features are all there--such as the staircase...
His gaze trailed up the fall of green to see an alabaster elbow peeking through the swirling black and gold-gilded iron. Then, on approaching the landing, he saw a shoulder, a protruding clavicle...a jaw...and a face, turned away from him. [...] Lon stepped onto the landing and walked to the next flight of steps where the woman sat.
In Seven for a Secret, Kate's dating history was largely inspired by the author's real-life experiences.
Watch the new BOOK TRAILER as you think it over...
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Answer: Sad, but TRUE...
Last time, I made it clear that Dexter was in no way based on a particular ex-boyfriend of mine who worked at the Adler Planetarium. But that isn't to say he (and other male characters) weren't loosely based on other "romantic" encounters in my life. For the most part, Dexter is his own man. I really did not base him on anyone I know outside of the "break" he takes with Kate. The break itself didn't happen, but I'm ashamed to admit I once laid out the "inclusive" terms that Kate does. The guy and I had already been broken up for a while, however, and though I earnestly wanted to get back together with him, I also wanted to have my cake and eat it, too (which, to be fair, is an expression I've never understood as being a bad thing. I mean, what's the point of having cake if you're NOT going eat it??). I'd been enjoying seeing other people so wanted that to continue, too. Which might've worked if the feeling were mutual, but it unfortunately wasn't; he dated no one else while I went out once with another guy, and that was enough for things between us to deteriorate fast. I'll always feel bad about instigating getting back together with such unrealistic and unfair expectations, and I wanted Kate to learn that lesson, too.
In any case, some of Dex's mannerisms in that scene are reminiscent of breakup discussions I've had (none of which, FYI, EVER happened directly after such an intimate moment of passion!), and the ones he doesn't display (but Kate reflects on) are my husband's:
"She wondered how many others besides her were able to notice such microscopic differences in him; who else had learned the little traits he had like scraping his fingers against his thumbs when he was indecisive or how his body jerked in brief spasms whenever he first fell asleep?"
Beyond Dex, though, the other inspirations were pretty straightforward:
"A chatty yet friendly accountant she’d met at Fado’s invited her and another gal she worked with to Smith & Wollensky with his buddy. It had been an evening of good steak, martinis, and hilarious company, and she was excited about giving the gentleman her number. Until the waiter toured them through the kitchen and her date suctioned to her from behind, his hands roving her body under the pretense of keeping her warm inside the meat locker.
Then there was Thursday night when a group of her college friends had subjected her to karaoke therapy at Trader Todd’s, the cheesy tropical-themed bar where the guy who’d played Ogre in Revenge of the Nerds always hung out. But neither spotting Ogre in a Hawaiian shirt nor her inexpert renditions of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' and 'I’ve Had the Time of My Life' had been enough to work magic on Kate’s mood. However, another piña colada had gotten her to finally flirt back with the lanky redhead who’d been commanding her attention all night. He’d even chased out in the rain after her when she’d tried to bail while he was in the bathroom. The gesture had all the makings of life imitating rom-com art, yet Kate had only reluctantly given him her number."
Yep and yep. Except I met the first guy at Rock Bottom Brewery, not Fado Irish Pub, I don't remember his profession, and I was never--at any point--excited about giving him my number. But he did make himself cozy inside that meat locker, and though I never sang karaoke at Trader Todd's (just subjected my ears to others), that lanky redhead did chase after me in the rain. And in both cases, I was too nice to not give them my number but mean enough to never answer or return their calls--just like Kate.
And then there's David... Kate mentions meeting a guy at Gamekeepers sports bar, which is where I met the guy who in part inspired Hot Neighbor--except the guy I dated was not hot. He was tall with a handsome face and five years older, which I really liked; his 27 years of age seemed so mature to my 22, and he just seemed like so much more of a man than the guys my age. But he wasn't built like David and didn't have that beautiful head of hair (actually, he's probably bald by now). Like David, though, he was a lawyer and had the same personality, let's just say (I don't want to spoil too much if you haven't read the book). Yet while the kiss at Geja's Cafe did happen with him, the "Big Scooch" did not...
That's all I'm going to say about that.
Needless to say, my perspectives about love and dating were very much like Kate's when I was in my early twenties. I thought I had all the time in the world--and definitely an idealized (deluded) sense of romance that was originally warped by the Molly Ringwald movies I watched growing up as an '80s child. (In fact, a conversation with a friend about this inspired his Tribecca Film Festival award-winning screenplay, John Hughes Ruined My Life, which is in development now as a future web series! You can follow @JohnHughesRML on Twitter.) As Kate reflects:
"The guys had definitely gotten better over the years as she honed her selection process into a science.
Yet whenever she was just about to get more practical about it all—write up her lists of pros and cons and see how Dex or any other guy weighed in on paper—Kate would get this vision of herself standing in the doorway of a church, a bridesmaid bouquet in her hand. As she’d look down forlornly, in her peripheral vision she’d notice guests’ cars driving away, only to look up and see Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles in his sweater vest, his button-down shirt rolled to his elbows. He’d be leaning against his red sports car, smiling and waving at...her?
Me?
And then she’d meet him halfway as he jogged across the street to her. Fuck, Kate thought as Vera’s gritty voice dulled into background noise. John Hughes, you’ve ruined me for all men."
To make matters worse, I was even a bridesmaid in my sister's wedding when I was fifteen. No red sports car waited for me outside the church that day. Or any day. Just a used silver Buick when I finally did find the man who'd say, Yeah, you. :)
Wanna make your sssummer sssizzzle? Enter The Romance Reviews's Sizzling Summer Reads party for a chance to win a free ebook of SEVEN FOR A SECRET and other prizes that meet your bookish fancy!
"Jefe, would you say there are a plethora of other authors participating in #TRRparty, giving readers many chances to stockpile their summer beach reads?"
"Yes, El Guapo. There are a plethora."
My own trivia question is only there for today, June 22nd, so please do give it a go or refer a friend!
In Seven for a Secret, Kate's boyfriend Dexter is based on the author's ex-boyfriend who worked at the Adler Planetarium.
Think it over...
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Answer: FALSE!
I got asked this question a lot by friends who know my dating history, so allow me to set the record straight that Dex is in no way inspired by my ex who worked at the Adler Planetarium.
To start, that guy worked in Adler's IT department, not the Education one, like Kate and Dex do. The real reason I employed my characters there is because I volunteered at the Adler on weekends. Wearing my red volunteer polo and my trusty lanyard, I worked closely with the Education department in creating what they called "make-and-takes" with the kids who visited the museum. They were little activities that usually involved coloring, cutting out, and assembling a basic astronomical tool, like a sundial or star-finder, or making bracelets out of plastic UV beads and then holding them up to the sun to watch how they changed color. I also participated in special events, like the museum overnights and Celestial Ball mentioned in Chapter 6. There, I'd get to present little demos on air pressure and hydroponics or whatnot, help with telescopes, pose with aliens for photos...you know, the usual. ;) One year at the Celestial Ball, actually, I sold a raffle ticket to an older gentleman, and it wasn't until he'd walked away that I actually read his name on our sign-up sheet: Jim Lovell. Yes, as in Apollo 13.
Who says astronomy's not cool now! Face!
In any case, I loved my experiences at the Adler. The volunteer coordinator was nothing like Vicki, she actually did her job and did it well, but I was like Kate in favoring the antique sundial by the medieval classroom; I would sit in that window seat to reflect during a quiet time. And somehow I was partial to the Atwood Sphere, too; we're jaded now by the technology of modern sky theatres, but you've gotta appreciate the Sphere's history, and it provided such a perfect link between Kate's and Lon's stories.
And yes, I have more than a passing interest in astronomy, but my time at the planetarium was meaningful in another way that I suspect was fated from the moment I found an Adler pamphlet in the women's restroom at Joe's on Weed St. I was working in finance at the time and generally feeling a void in my career, so just seeing this brochure inspired me to contact the museum about volunteering. And so I did, and in becoming a volunteer, I found such joy in teaching and interacting with the public, that I was in turn inspired to leave the business world and become an educator instead. And so I did, and in becoming a high school English teacher, I cultivated the passion and skills that now feed my work as a writer and editor.
So, between the Adler's influence on me when I was about Kate's age and its rich history as an iconic Chicago landmark, I absolutely had to include it in the story. Let's just say it was written in the stars...
So was Dex based on anyone in real life? Methinks I'll leave that to another Friday. ;)
In Chapter 1 of Seven for a Secret, when Kate Pembroke gets locked in her bathroom and must call for help out the window, this actually happened to the author.
I'll give you some time to mull it over...
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The real "Camden" Court.
My studio apartment was on the top floor of this left-hand wing,
above the entrance at the top of those stairs.
Answer: TRUE!
This absolutely happened to me. In fact, a lot of strange things tend to happen to me in bathrooms (aside from the obvious), and this won't be the last time one such bathroom incident will appear in one of my books. :)
I'd elaborate on the details, but honestly, it happened exactly as described in the book. Except I hadn't moved in yet; the place was supposed to be painted that day or the next, and I was just checking it out before work in the morning. Even though completely by myself, I closed the bathroom door--and, actually, now that I think of it, I don't think I was even using the toilet; I think I was just testing the door, knowing how they can stick in those old buildings (in which case, what moron tests it from the inside??). Anyway, while my doorknob wasn't as pretty as Kate's vintage one, it did come out in my hand, and, well, read the book for the rest.
Calling out to an unknown neighbor in the courtyard was mortifying, and I wish that gal were even half as nice as Vera is to Kate at the time. She was a younger woman who came upstairs to let me out and then proceeded to say nothing as we walked back downstairs together. No matter my profuse apologies and gratitude for her help, she did not speak. Needless to say, in my two years in that building (Hampden Court, the inspiration for Camden Court), I never saw her again. So maybe she was a ghost...
I've got a bit of a smorgasbord going on here, with some fun developments as of this week.
First of all, I have the honor of being this month's Random Fan at the Big Spoon, Little Spoon blog, courtesy of my gracious hosts, Morgan and Jennifer Locklear. Authors of the contemporary romance Exposure, they not only interviewed me for this segment but answered questions of my own about their debut novel's inspirations and their writing process as a dynamic husband-wife duo. They're as lovely and fun as their story, which you can find here. You can access our recent Random Fan interview by clicking the image below, and Jennifer will also be reviewing the book at the Bookish Temptations blog later this week!
Next up, I am still sitting here in a very ladylike fashion with my mouth hanging open, unable to register that Bookaholic Babe has added SEVEN FOR A SECRET to her list of favorites! To be there with the likes of The Night Circus and fellow Omnific author Georgina Guthrie's Word series is such an honor.
And finally, my 9,000-word novelette, Four Somethings & A Sixpence, is scheduled for release by the Battered Suitcase Press (an imprint of Vagabondage Press) on February 3rd. There will be a Rafflecopter giveaway running from then until Valentine's Day to celebrate this season of looove, and YOU can help promote it NOW by joining my Thunderclap!
Thanks as always, daaahhlings, for your maaahhvelous support!
