Brenda Janowitz's Blog, page 4
May 7, 2013
Author interview: Leslie Lehr
I'm so thrilled today because I've got the amazing Leslie Lehr here to chat. Today, her new novel WHAT A MOTHER KNOWS comes out and it's a gripping story about mothers and daughters, about what, as parents, we fear the most. You may also know Leslie as Chemo Chick over on Sick of Pink. I know her as an awesomely supportive and hugely talented writer friend. But enough about me-- let's chat with Leslie!
Tell us about yourself!I grew up in Ohio and moved to California as soon as possible –meaning, after senior year in high school when it was so cold that school was closed for a month. Which was not as fun as it sounds. But I do miss the small town 4th of July. I’m sort of a newlywed, living as close to the beach as possible with my cute husband. (I’d sworn off getting married again, but he was still so cute after four years of dating that I couldn’t resist.) I have two almost-grown daughters who inspire both the angst and the adoration in What A Mother Knows. I collect sand dollars because it thrills me that no matter what else is happening the world, these little gifts keep washing up on the beach. And I’m just finishing treatment for breast cancer, so I absolutely hate pink, but I do appreciate how little time it takes to get ready when I’m rocking a turban.
Tell us a bit about your path to becoming a writerIt was a curvy path. I always wrote, newspaper columns and essays and scripts between jobs after film school, but mainly because I have a lot to say. This morning my radiologist had to tell me to stop talking to his co-worker, Candy, so the beam wouldn’t fry the wrong boob. How could anyone resist talking to a person named Candy?
Tell us about your latest release in 25 words or less. A woman who recovers from a fatal car accident only to be accused of murder must find her missing daughter, who might know what happened.
(Except she cares more about finding her daughter than she does about the accident.)
What's your favorite part of writing? Least?
My least favorite part of writing is when I spend an entire day banging my head against the keyboard, trying to figure something out. My favorite part comes after that when I finally give up, take a walk on the beach – and voila, the answer comes! Then I wish I’d gone to the beach earlier. And brought a notepad.
If you weren't a writer, what would you be?My original goal was to make music videos, but then I did and it was awful. Then I wanted to produce movies and started working my way up, but got sidetracked by kids. Then again, I always wrote on the side, thinking I could do it better than whoever wrote the script we were shooting.
Now I can’t imagine being anything else. I get to play with the people in my head all day. Boss them around. Is that weird?
What’s your website like?It’s so fun - and it was a family affair. My niece just moved to LA, so in exchange for doing her laundry here she helped me with Pinterest character boards and the Skype thingie so I can do book club visits from home. My daughter is studying advertising in San Francisco, so she filmed the trailer and also came up with the map where my hero searches for her daughter– you can click on cities from Hawaii to New York and find postcards from scenes in the book. She also put together the Spotify playlist. My girlfriend gave me her recipe for lemon bars to put on the page with all the book club menus. And of course there are blogs and reviews and the usual stuff. Plus a picture of me with long hair. Ha!
What are you reading right now?Caroline Leavitt’s Is This Tomorrow. If it were July, I would be reading Recipe For A Happy Life by Brenda Janowitz.
Aw, thank you, Leslie! I so appreciate that. Leslie's novel WHAT A MOTHER KNOWS is out today. What are you waiting for?? Go get your copy now!
Tell us about yourself!I grew up in Ohio and moved to California as soon as possible –meaning, after senior year in high school when it was so cold that school was closed for a month. Which was not as fun as it sounds. But I do miss the small town 4th of July. I’m sort of a newlywed, living as close to the beach as possible with my cute husband. (I’d sworn off getting married again, but he was still so cute after four years of dating that I couldn’t resist.) I have two almost-grown daughters who inspire both the angst and the adoration in What A Mother Knows. I collect sand dollars because it thrills me that no matter what else is happening the world, these little gifts keep washing up on the beach. And I’m just finishing treatment for breast cancer, so I absolutely hate pink, but I do appreciate how little time it takes to get ready when I’m rocking a turban.
Tell us a bit about your path to becoming a writerIt was a curvy path. I always wrote, newspaper columns and essays and scripts between jobs after film school, but mainly because I have a lot to say. This morning my radiologist had to tell me to stop talking to his co-worker, Candy, so the beam wouldn’t fry the wrong boob. How could anyone resist talking to a person named Candy?Tell us about your latest release in 25 words or less. A woman who recovers from a fatal car accident only to be accused of murder must find her missing daughter, who might know what happened.
(Except she cares more about finding her daughter than she does about the accident.)
What's your favorite part of writing? Least?
My least favorite part of writing is when I spend an entire day banging my head against the keyboard, trying to figure something out. My favorite part comes after that when I finally give up, take a walk on the beach – and voila, the answer comes! Then I wish I’d gone to the beach earlier. And brought a notepad.
If you weren't a writer, what would you be?My original goal was to make music videos, but then I did and it was awful. Then I wanted to produce movies and started working my way up, but got sidetracked by kids. Then again, I always wrote on the side, thinking I could do it better than whoever wrote the script we were shooting.
Now I can’t imagine being anything else. I get to play with the people in my head all day. Boss them around. Is that weird?
What’s your website like?It’s so fun - and it was a family affair. My niece just moved to LA, so in exchange for doing her laundry here she helped me with Pinterest character boards and the Skype thingie so I can do book club visits from home. My daughter is studying advertising in San Francisco, so she filmed the trailer and also came up with the map where my hero searches for her daughter– you can click on cities from Hawaii to New York and find postcards from scenes in the book. She also put together the Spotify playlist. My girlfriend gave me her recipe for lemon bars to put on the page with all the book club menus. And of course there are blogs and reviews and the usual stuff. Plus a picture of me with long hair. Ha!
What are you reading right now?Caroline Leavitt’s Is This Tomorrow. If it were July, I would be reading Recipe For A Happy Life by Brenda Janowitz.
Aw, thank you, Leslie! I so appreciate that. Leslie's novel WHAT A MOTHER KNOWS is out today. What are you waiting for?? Go get your copy now!
May 2, 2013
To self-pub or not to self-pub, that is the question!!
There's been so much talk these days about self-publishing. Haven't heard about it? Well, you can check it out here or here. And it's something I've been thinking about for a while. Ever since my imprint closed (RIP, Red Dress Ink!!) and I got the rights back to my first two novels, I've been thinking: what should I do with them now?!
Last summer, I sold my third novel in a two-book deal to St. Martin's, so there wasn't much time to think about it. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, comes out July 2 and in anticipation of the launch, I've decided to do something I never thought I'd do.
I'm going to release SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST myself. Now, I know what you're thinking-- it's easy to do since the books were already acquired, edited, and then copyedited to within an inch of their life. And you'd be right. The books are ready to go. I read over them and made a few tiny tweaks here and there, but the truth is, all I really had to do was to format them for e-readers, get new covers and then hit "publish." Easy as that.
So, I reached out to the fabulous Malena Lott over at the Athena Institute (seriously, how gorgeous are her covers?!) and voila!, she created an amazing new cover for SCOT!!
And man, do I love this new cover! I think it really conveys the sense of fun and romance that are in the book. I'll be publishing SCOT sometime next week (with JACK to follow closely on its heels) and I'm really excited about the new journey!
So, tell me about your thoughts on self-publishing. Are you for it? Against it? Have you tried it yourself? I want to hear!!
Last summer, I sold my third novel in a two-book deal to St. Martin's, so there wasn't much time to think about it. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, comes out July 2 and in anticipation of the launch, I've decided to do something I never thought I'd do.
I'm going to release SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST myself. Now, I know what you're thinking-- it's easy to do since the books were already acquired, edited, and then copyedited to within an inch of their life. And you'd be right. The books are ready to go. I read over them and made a few tiny tweaks here and there, but the truth is, all I really had to do was to format them for e-readers, get new covers and then hit "publish." Easy as that.
So, I reached out to the fabulous Malena Lott over at the Athena Institute (seriously, how gorgeous are her covers?!) and voila!, she created an amazing new cover for SCOT!!
And man, do I love this new cover! I think it really conveys the sense of fun and romance that are in the book. I'll be publishing SCOT sometime next week (with JACK to follow closely on its heels) and I'm really excited about the new journey!
So, tell me about your thoughts on self-publishing. Are you for it? Against it? Have you tried it yourself? I want to hear!!
April 16, 2013
Spring cleaning, ahem, reading
Ah, springtime! Time to clear out the cobwebs, get a breath of fresh air, and clean out the closets. I've got closets full of books over at my place, so spring always means reading for me. A time to catch up on the books I haven't had time to dig in to, a time to read the books I've been hearing so much about.
I'd been hearing so many great things about The Good House by Ann Leary. There were the amazing reviews, and then this very candid segment on CBS This Morning. I found Ann's honesty so brave and inspiring that I didn't even make it to the bookstore, I just hit click on my iPhone's Kindle app.I was trying to save this book to read on vacation, but I took a little peek at chapter one-- something I always do. I was immediately swept away by the story and read the whole book before I even got on the plane! The characters, the setting, the story-- they all carried me away and I just couldn't stop reading. The Good House is a must read!
I was lucky enough to attend Ellen Meister's book party at the wonderful Corner Bookstore for the debut of her latest, Farewell, Dorothy Parker. I've always been a fan of both Dorothy Parker and Ellen Meister, so I was excited to dig in. This book does not disappoint. The writing is pitch-perfect-- you'll really believe that it's Dorothy Parker on those pages-- and the story is sweet and charming with a ton of heart.Elinor Lipman said of the book: "What bliss to be in the company of a reimagined Dorothy Parker! Ellen Meister's wonderful novel delivers the wit, ingenuity and elegiac sass worthy of the Algonquin Round Table's most quoted member. Long live Dorothy Parker and her zingers, resurrected so winningly in these pages."
And the word has been so positive about Dorothy and Ellen that Ellen's already signed the deal to write another Dorothy Parker book!
My book club (yes, authors belong to book clubs, too!) chose The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh as their pick last month and I devoured it. This story of mothers and children, family, and, of course, flowers, captivated me.The first thing you need to know is that it's a beautifully written novel. The story of a foster child, you will find yourself understanding the main character, Victoria, in ways you can't imagine. And the description of the language of flowers-- a Victorian language used to convey romantic expressions-- fascinated me. (It also made me re-think my entire bridal bouquet.)
This book made such a beautiful statement about moms and motherhood at the end that, frankly, I still tear up when I think about it.
I just began Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter and I don't know why it sat in my To Be Read pile for so long. Just a few pages in, I'm already wondering why I waited so long to enjoy this epic novel.Here's what it's about:
From the moment it opens—on a rocky patch of Italian coastline, circa 1962, when a daydreaming younginnkeeper looks out over the water and spies a mysterious woman approaching him on a boat—Jess Walter's Beautiful Ruins is a dazzling, yet deeply human, roller coaster of a novel. From the lavish set of Cleopatra to the shabby revelry of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, to the back lots of contemporary Hollywood, Beautiful Ruins is gloriously inventive and constantly surprising—a story of flawed yet fascinating people navigating the rocky shores of their lives while clinging to their improbable dreams.
And the cover is gorgeous, isn't it?!
Next on my reading list is Life After Life by Kate Atkinson. It seems like everyone is talking about this book, doesn't it? Jennifer Weiner said that it lives up to the hype, and that's pretty much all I need to know.Here's what it's about:
What if you could live again and again, until you got it right?
On a cold and snowy night in 1910, Ursula Todd is born to an English banker and his wife. She dies before she can draw her first breath. On that same cold and snowy night, Ursula Todd is born, lets out a lusty wail, and embarks upon a life that will be, to say the least, unusual. For as she grows, she also dies, repeatedly, in a variety of ways, while the young century marches on towards its second cataclysmic world war.
Does Ursula's apparently infinite number of lives give her the power to save the world from its inevitable destiny? And if she can -- will she?
Darkly comic, startlingly poignant, and utterly original -- this is Kate Atkinson at her absolute best.
Is that a WOW or what? I kind of wish I came up with that concept. I have a feeling this one's going to keep up me up late at night.
So, what are YOU reading these days?
March 5, 2013
Author interview: Samantha Wilde
Today we're very lucky because we've got the talented Samantha Wilde here to chat! Her latest novel, I'LL TAKE WHAT SHE HAS, is out and it's another hilarious take on motherhood and friendship.
Like her on Facebook, check out her mom, and watch her amazing book trailer! Okay, are you done with all of that?! Great. Let's get to chatting with Samantha!
Tell us about yourself!
I am a mother, a writer, a minister, and a yoga teacher. I live in Western Massachusetts with my three young children, all born in just over four years, and my husband, a professor of chemical engineering. The substance of my days is probably remarkably similar to that of so many other at-home mothers, in ways both humorous and tedious. Right now, in the midst of a flurry of work to support my book launch, I have neglected almost every household chore, including laundry. My husband, who does not have laundry as one of his household tasks, said to me this morning: “Luckily, I found a hidden supply of underwear.” That is lucky right about now!
I love my babies, my children, being a mother, writing stories, being with my friends, taking long walks, talking to my husband about ideas, practicing yoga, being outside, playing with my children, eating chocolate, talking to old friends on the phone, dancing, hiking, and reading, reading, reading.
Tell us a bit about your path to becoming a writer.
I can’t remember a time I didn’t write. I grew up the daughter of novelist, Nancy Thayer, in a house filled to overflowing with books. It always seemed perfectly reasonable to want to become a writer—despite the fact that it’s actually quite challenging—because my mother, who never wanted to do anything else, made such a tremendous career for herself as a novelist. I have written everything, except for plays. I have at least twenty full journals, dozens of short stories, hundreds of poems, the beginnings of at least ten novels, a few other finished novels, unpublished memoirs, and now two published novels. After my first son’s birth I wrote my first book during his nap-times. This became This Little Mommy Stayed Home. I think having my son helped me find my voice as a comic novelist. Motherhood has certainly given me the best material for my books.
Tell us about your latest release in 25 words or less
Best friends wrestle with the green-eyed monster uncovering the truth about imperfect friendships, mixed up families, messy motherhood, and myth of the greenest grass. (Whew! I’m long winded. That was hard.)
What's your favorite part of writing? Least?
I love the actual writing, being inside of the story, putting the words down, following the characters where they go. I don’t love the plotting. Characters come more easily to me. I still don’t know how to write a great synopsis or outline my books. I am also learning how to navigate the world of marketing. I am happy to say that some parts have proven fun—a relief because publicity challenges me. I want a bumper sticker that reads: “I’d rather be writing!”
If you weren't a writer, what would you be?
I often think, well, if I could only do one thing, what would it be, because I do express myself creatively in a variety of different ways. My answer is always: mother. I have wanted to be a mother since I was a little girl and I love it more than anything else I do (not that I find it easy!). As far as vocation goes, once my children grow older, if I could make a living teaching yoga, what a dream that would be. I have such a heart for teaching and practicing. I had an amazing teacher during graduate school. She truly changed the course of my life. She would walk into this room packed with students (only forty were allowed to enroll, she never turned anyone away), and I knew with a gut certainty that I wanted what she had, but instead of the superficial kind of wanting (clothes or hair or money), I wanted that thing that made her glow, made her alive. And that thing was yoga. I became a teacher so that I could do for others what she did for me—what she gave me doesn’t belong to her or a classroom or a moment in time or a class. I take it with me wherever I go; that’s pretty powerful.
What are you reading right now?
I’m reading Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth, A Thousand Names for Joy by Byron Katie (a re-read), Bossypantsby Tina Fey and the original Winnie-the-Poohto my children.
Like her on Facebook, check out her mom, and watch her amazing book trailer! Okay, are you done with all of that?! Great. Let's get to chatting with Samantha!
Tell us about yourself!
I am a mother, a writer, a minister, and a yoga teacher. I live in Western Massachusetts with my three young children, all born in just over four years, and my husband, a professor of chemical engineering. The substance of my days is probably remarkably similar to that of so many other at-home mothers, in ways both humorous and tedious. Right now, in the midst of a flurry of work to support my book launch, I have neglected almost every household chore, including laundry. My husband, who does not have laundry as one of his household tasks, said to me this morning: “Luckily, I found a hidden supply of underwear.” That is lucky right about now! I love my babies, my children, being a mother, writing stories, being with my friends, taking long walks, talking to my husband about ideas, practicing yoga, being outside, playing with my children, eating chocolate, talking to old friends on the phone, dancing, hiking, and reading, reading, reading.
Tell us a bit about your path to becoming a writer.
I can’t remember a time I didn’t write. I grew up the daughter of novelist, Nancy Thayer, in a house filled to overflowing with books. It always seemed perfectly reasonable to want to become a writer—despite the fact that it’s actually quite challenging—because my mother, who never wanted to do anything else, made such a tremendous career for herself as a novelist. I have written everything, except for plays. I have at least twenty full journals, dozens of short stories, hundreds of poems, the beginnings of at least ten novels, a few other finished novels, unpublished memoirs, and now two published novels. After my first son’s birth I wrote my first book during his nap-times. This became This Little Mommy Stayed Home. I think having my son helped me find my voice as a comic novelist. Motherhood has certainly given me the best material for my books.
Tell us about your latest release in 25 words or less
Best friends wrestle with the green-eyed monster uncovering the truth about imperfect friendships, mixed up families, messy motherhood, and myth of the greenest grass. (Whew! I’m long winded. That was hard.)
What's your favorite part of writing? Least?
I love the actual writing, being inside of the story, putting the words down, following the characters where they go. I don’t love the plotting. Characters come more easily to me. I still don’t know how to write a great synopsis or outline my books. I am also learning how to navigate the world of marketing. I am happy to say that some parts have proven fun—a relief because publicity challenges me. I want a bumper sticker that reads: “I’d rather be writing!”
If you weren't a writer, what would you be?
I often think, well, if I could only do one thing, what would it be, because I do express myself creatively in a variety of different ways. My answer is always: mother. I have wanted to be a mother since I was a little girl and I love it more than anything else I do (not that I find it easy!). As far as vocation goes, once my children grow older, if I could make a living teaching yoga, what a dream that would be. I have such a heart for teaching and practicing. I had an amazing teacher during graduate school. She truly changed the course of my life. She would walk into this room packed with students (only forty were allowed to enroll, she never turned anyone away), and I knew with a gut certainty that I wanted what she had, but instead of the superficial kind of wanting (clothes or hair or money), I wanted that thing that made her glow, made her alive. And that thing was yoga. I became a teacher so that I could do for others what she did for me—what she gave me doesn’t belong to her or a classroom or a moment in time or a class. I take it with me wherever I go; that’s pretty powerful.
What are you reading right now?
I’m reading Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth, A Thousand Names for Joy by Byron Katie (a re-read), Bossypantsby Tina Fey and the original Winnie-the-Poohto my children.
January 23, 2013
Let's go to the hop!
I'm so excited because I've been invited to take part in a blog hop! What is a blog hop, you ask? Well, that's easy. It's like a ginormous round robin where authors answer questions and help readers discover new authors. What could be better, right?! So, let's begin!
THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP
Welcome to the NEXT BIG THING Blog Hop.
For this hop, authors are answering 10 questions about what we’re working on now. This week, I’m it.
I was tagged by Judith Arnold (http://www.juditharnold.com/blog/). Visit her blog to see who else she tagged. At the end of this post, I’ll tag more authors who will be joining the hop next week. Follow the hop long enough and you’re bound to find books you’ll love!
Here is my Next Big Thing!
1: What is the working title of your book?
My third novel is called RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE. It will be published by St. Martin’s on July 30, 2012
2: Where did the idea come from for the book?
My grandma Dorothy! One summer, when I was single, she informed me that she would be renting a house in the Hamptons. I was to stay with her and she was going to help me meet someone. The only problem with this scenario was that I was SURE that she’d meet a man before I did.
In the end, when she found out the cost of a Hamptons summer rental, the idea sort of fell apart. But it gave me an idea—what if a young woman spent the summer out in the glamorous Hamptons with her even more glamorous grandmother? (Grandma D was nothing if not glamorous.)
3: What genre does your book come under?
This novel is considered commercial women’s fiction. But really, it's for anyone who loves a good story that will whisk them away to somewhere fabulous, anyone who loves a good laugh and a good cry.
4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Oooh, this one’s tough, because the most important part to cast a grandmother. (And we all know how Hollywood loves old people- especially women!!)
I think Joan Collins would be perfect to play the part, but my editor likes Shirley Maclaine. (Joan, Shirley, call me!)
5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Here’s the St. Martin’s catalog one sentence description:
A grand dame rules over three generations of women from her Hamptons estate, and her granddaughter realizes that the recipe for a happy life may be very different from her family's expectations.And in case you liked that, here’s the whole kit and caboodle! (I was never very good with the whole one-sentence-synopsis thing…)Hannah Goodman isn’t like everyone else. Her mother, Gray, is an award- winning photojournalist with little time for the banalities of caring for a child, so she's mostly raised by her grandmother—a glamorous widow known for her charm, as well as the fact that she’s been married nearly as many times as Elizabeth Taylor. Despite her mother's great wealth, Gray is determined that Hannah resist the siren song of the trust fund set, and make her own way in the world. And Hannah did just that—becoming a lawyer in New York City. Hannah has it all, or so it seems, until one hot June day when the carefully constructed pieces of her life break apart. That’s when she seeks solace at her grandmother's Hamptons estate. And that’s when she learns that there's more than one recipe for perfection.Fast-paced, charming, and full of heart, Recipe for a Happy Life sweeps you into a world in which fabulous beach-front cocktail parties are a regular occurrence, and the cure for social awkwardness is a perfectly-placed quip, but the boy in the mansion next door might just turn out to be the one thing that keeps you grounded when reality sets in. A memorable story about one memorable summer.
6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency?
I’m thrilled that my novel is being published by St. Martin’s.
7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Years and years!! I began work on this novel back in 2007, after I finished my first novel. But I don’t think I was ready to write this story just yet. I picked it back up after finishing my second novel, which was published in 2008 and worked on it for years. In the time since I began this novel, I met my husband, got married, and had two children. So, yeah, I guess you could say it took a long time.
8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I really love books by Emily Giffin, Julie Buxbaum, Jennifer Weiner, and Allison Winn Scotch, so those were the authors who served as my inspiration as I wrote. I hope that readers will find the warmth, truth and laughter that are the hallmarks of these authors in my book as well.
9: Who or what inspired you to write this book?
See question number 2: my grandma Dorothy! But becoming a mother also inspired me, as did my own mom, who is my best friend.
10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The description and gorgeous cover didn’t do it?! Man, you guys are a tough audience. I think what readers will like most is that it’s a story with lots of heart which will also make you laugh.
Below you will find authors who will be joining the blog hop next Wednesday. Be sure to bookmark and add them to your calendars for updates on WIPs and New Releases! Happy Writing and Reading!
Malena Lott (Facebook)Jacqueline Luckett (Facebook)Jennifer Miller
Ka Hancock
Samantha Wilde
Christa Allen
THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG HOP
Welcome to the NEXT BIG THING Blog Hop.
For this hop, authors are answering 10 questions about what we’re working on now. This week, I’m it.
I was tagged by Judith Arnold (http://www.juditharnold.com/blog/). Visit her blog to see who else she tagged. At the end of this post, I’ll tag more authors who will be joining the hop next week. Follow the hop long enough and you’re bound to find books you’ll love!
Here is my Next Big Thing!
1: What is the working title of your book?My third novel is called RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE. It will be published by St. Martin’s on July 30, 2012
2: Where did the idea come from for the book?
My grandma Dorothy! One summer, when I was single, she informed me that she would be renting a house in the Hamptons. I was to stay with her and she was going to help me meet someone. The only problem with this scenario was that I was SURE that she’d meet a man before I did.
In the end, when she found out the cost of a Hamptons summer rental, the idea sort of fell apart. But it gave me an idea—what if a young woman spent the summer out in the glamorous Hamptons with her even more glamorous grandmother? (Grandma D was nothing if not glamorous.)
3: What genre does your book come under?
This novel is considered commercial women’s fiction. But really, it's for anyone who loves a good story that will whisk them away to somewhere fabulous, anyone who loves a good laugh and a good cry.
4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Oooh, this one’s tough, because the most important part to cast a grandmother. (And we all know how Hollywood loves old people- especially women!!)
I think Joan Collins would be perfect to play the part, but my editor likes Shirley Maclaine. (Joan, Shirley, call me!)
5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Here’s the St. Martin’s catalog one sentence description:
A grand dame rules over three generations of women from her Hamptons estate, and her granddaughter realizes that the recipe for a happy life may be very different from her family's expectations.And in case you liked that, here’s the whole kit and caboodle! (I was never very good with the whole one-sentence-synopsis thing…)Hannah Goodman isn’t like everyone else. Her mother, Gray, is an award- winning photojournalist with little time for the banalities of caring for a child, so she's mostly raised by her grandmother—a glamorous widow known for her charm, as well as the fact that she’s been married nearly as many times as Elizabeth Taylor. Despite her mother's great wealth, Gray is determined that Hannah resist the siren song of the trust fund set, and make her own way in the world. And Hannah did just that—becoming a lawyer in New York City. Hannah has it all, or so it seems, until one hot June day when the carefully constructed pieces of her life break apart. That’s when she seeks solace at her grandmother's Hamptons estate. And that’s when she learns that there's more than one recipe for perfection.Fast-paced, charming, and full of heart, Recipe for a Happy Life sweeps you into a world in which fabulous beach-front cocktail parties are a regular occurrence, and the cure for social awkwardness is a perfectly-placed quip, but the boy in the mansion next door might just turn out to be the one thing that keeps you grounded when reality sets in. A memorable story about one memorable summer.
6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency?
I’m thrilled that my novel is being published by St. Martin’s.
7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Years and years!! I began work on this novel back in 2007, after I finished my first novel. But I don’t think I was ready to write this story just yet. I picked it back up after finishing my second novel, which was published in 2008 and worked on it for years. In the time since I began this novel, I met my husband, got married, and had two children. So, yeah, I guess you could say it took a long time.
8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I really love books by Emily Giffin, Julie Buxbaum, Jennifer Weiner, and Allison Winn Scotch, so those were the authors who served as my inspiration as I wrote. I hope that readers will find the warmth, truth and laughter that are the hallmarks of these authors in my book as well.
9: Who or what inspired you to write this book?
See question number 2: my grandma Dorothy! But becoming a mother also inspired me, as did my own mom, who is my best friend.
10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The description and gorgeous cover didn’t do it?! Man, you guys are a tough audience. I think what readers will like most is that it’s a story with lots of heart which will also make you laugh.
Below you will find authors who will be joining the blog hop next Wednesday. Be sure to bookmark and add them to your calendars for updates on WIPs and New Releases! Happy Writing and Reading!
Malena Lott (Facebook)Jacqueline Luckett (Facebook)Jennifer Miller
Ka Hancock
Samantha Wilde
Christa Allen
January 16, 2013
Tag, you're it!
I'm so excited because I've been invited to participate in the Next Big Thing blog hop!
So, I guess the first thing you’re thinking is: what the heck is a blog hop?!
A blog hop is like a giant game of tag to help readers discover authors who are new to them. This week, Judith Arnold is "it" and so on her blog today, she's answering a bunch of questions about her current work in progress. She's tagged me for next week, so next Wednesday, I'm "it" and I'll be here answering questions about my most recent project.
Fun, right? So, head on over to Judith's blog and check out what she's working on. And then check out everyone who's been tagged.
Don't forget to come back here next Wednesday-- I'll be answering all of your deepest, darkest questions. Okay, might've taken that too far, but you get my point. Come back!!
January 9, 2013
To write or not to write? That is the question...
Ah, holiday time. Even though we're technically on to the new year, I'm still in that holiday mindset. Hard to sit down and get things done, harder still to write. Fellow girlfriend Amy Sue Nathan suggested that we read our way through the holidays, so I've done that (and am continuing to do that!), and I've really been lucky to read some amazing books in the past week and a half.
My editor suggested I pick up SEATING ARRANGEMENTS by Maggie Shipstead, which I loved. The story of a WASPy family getting together on a WASPy island to celebrate a WASPy wedding weekend, it's a smart, funny read. Every character felt so real to me, the plot felt fresh. When I finished reading, I just wanted more.
Next, I read UP FROM THE BLUE, by the totally amazing Susan Henderson. It's a book about mothers and daughters, the way we see the past, and how we come to terms with it. Heartbreaking, haunting, and beautifully written. It's a book you won't soon forget.
I then read MAINE by J. Courtney Sullivan, which had been on my bookshelf for a while. I don't know why it stayed unread for so long-- I loved this book!! The story of three generations of women and a very special summer house in Maine, it's one of those books that you can't put down. You'll see so much of yourself and your family in the Kelleher women. An editor once taught me that the more detail a book has, the more universal it becomes, and that's true here.
After that, I picked up THE AGE OF MIRACLES by Karen Thompson Walker, a book I'd be hearing about for a while. It's now on all of the top books of 2012 lists, and I can see why. It's so many different things-- a coming of age story set against the backdrop of a science fiction conceit. I just couldn't put this book down. I was obsessed with every part of it-- the implications of the earth's rotation beginning to slow, every detail of this 11 year old girl's life, what would happen to her family, would she get the boy? Even though I've finished it, I can't stop thinking about it.
Now I'm reading Mindy Kaling's IS EVERYONE HANGING OUT WITHOUT ME? (AND OTHER CONCERNS) and I'm just loving it. It is, as you might expect, laugh out loud hilarious. Mindy is charming, adorable, and says everything that I'm thinking. I'm so glad I picked this one up!
Next up for me are the two books currently in transit from Amazon.com-- ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE by our very own girlfriend Jess Riley, and GIRLS IN WHITE DRESSES by Jennifer Close.So, what did you read over the holidays? And what are you reading next?
July 11, 2012
Once more with feeling....
Okay, so true confession time: I'm really having a blast with these trunk novels we've been publishing on Girlfriends Book Club. And it's not just because it allows me to procrastinate when I should be writing novel #4 (Dear Editor: if you are reading this, I am *totally* kidding!!).
There's just something about these old novels that we've tucked away in the trunk. It's like being with an old friend again. THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB got such a nice response that I decided to post Chapter Two here, and now I'm doing the same thing with LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP. If you haven't read Chapter One, it's right here.
So, without further ado, here's Chapter Two!
LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIPBy Brenda Janowitz
Chapter two
“Those guys this morning were hot,” Heavenly says as the frat boys file out of the shop. “I suppose they were if you like trust fund babies who live of their father’s money and have no regard for human life,” I say, finishing the paperwork on their bond. Heavenly shrugs her shoulders as if to say, ‘What’s wrong with that?’ “So,” Heavenly says, pouring a cup of coffee for me and bringing it over, “I met these guys last night….” “No,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee and setting it down to get back to my work. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask you!” Heavenly says, “Destiny and I met these awesome guys last night at ghostbar.” “Double no,” I say, “definitely no.” Even Donny gives a tiny laugh in acknowledgment. I know that these “awesome” guys going to be a pair of old guys trying to score with younger women. Because that’s generally the type one meets at ghostbar. Especially, if like Heavenly, you usually go out at night with your stripper friends. “Why can’t Destiny go with you tonight, then?” “She has to work,” Heavenly says, “You know what slavedrivers they are at Olympic Gardens. Every girl in town wants to work there, and they know that and they totally hold it over the girls’ heads.” I for, one, do not know what slavedrivers they are at Olympic Gardens, being that I’ve never been a stripper before. Heavenly, on the other hand, knows exactly what she’s talking about. “Get one of the other girls to go with you,” I say. “Chastity and Mercedes are doing a bachelor party, Dusty, Angel and Cinnamon are working a private party for some Tokyo businessmen, and Lola and Sugar are on the same schedule as Destiny at OG’s!” “Don’t you have any friends who aren’t strippers?” I ask. “Don’t you have any friends who aren’t me?” she says. Donny looks up from his paper and regards me. He instinctively knows when I’m about to get angry, when I’m about to need him. He once called me from the Federal Pen in Nevada after I’d been in an argument with my study group in Boston. It’s uncanny. “I don’t need friends,” I say. “I’ve got you two. Now, everybody back to work.” Donny puts his head back down into his newspaper and Heavenly gets back to her paperwork, making a big show of lifting her pen and flipping her papers. I sit at the front desk watching the door and waiting for the phone to ring. * Three hours later, Heavenly’s still at it. “I’ll wash your bike for the next three months,” she pleads as she does the paperwork on a three hundred dollar bond for a drunken bar fight. That’s the only other action we’ve gotten for the whole day, so I’m feeling bored and antsy. I could use a drink. Especially a free one, with the way business has been going. “I’ll come along,” I tell Heavenly, “but I’m just not going to the Bellagio.”“We’re not going to the Bellagio, baby,” Heavenly assures me as she touches up her makeup in the mirror she hung up in my office. “I will go anywhere in the city—no, in the entire state of Nevada—but I just will not step foot in the Bellagio.”“Not a problem. No Bellagio. You’re going to go home and change first, though, right?” she says, looking me up and down.“Jeans are very trendy nowadays,” I tell her. “As are wifebeaters,” I say, checking my pits for sweat marks.“You’re wearing combat boots,” she says.“Not everyone can wear four inch stilettos and a skirt as large as a grosgrain ribbon to work, Heav.”“That’s it!” Heavenly squeals running over to the front desk of our office, “You can wear these!” She pulls out a pair of five inch heels with Lucite soles—a holdover from her own stripper days of old.“I can not wear those. How can anyone wear those?”“Why are you always so difficult?” she asks, pulling out another pair of shoes. This time, it’s a pair of blood red three inch strappy heels. I had a feeling that they looked like stripper shoes on her, but I could see from the label they were Manolo Blahniks, so I figured that they were classy. “Got them at the Neiman’s sale last spring. Don’t ruin them!”“These will go great with my red leather jacket,” I say, slipping the shoes on. They fit like a glove.“You are not wearing that ratty old thing,” she informs me, “throw this wrap sweater on over your wife beater.”“What I’m wearing is fine,” I say, checking the shoes out in the mirror.“I’m not letting you wear that jacket,” she says, “so unless you want to freeze your ass off at dinner, I suggest you put on the sweater.”It was a nude colored cashmere wrap sweater with lace lining its edges. It still smelled faintly of Heavenly’s perfume.“I’m not wearing this,” I say. “I’m sorry. But I’ll take the shoes.” Heavenly rolls her eyes at me and goes to the front window to keep watch for our dates.*“Here they come!” Heavenly says a half hour later as the car pulls up to the shop. The guys have gone all out tonight and rented a fancy black limo which is equipped with lights that change colors every three seconds and a fully loaded mini-bar. Heavenly introduces me to our dates for the evening—two old dudes (as suspected) who are both named Dave.“I knew a guy named Dave once,” I tell Dave #2, as I grab my red leather jacket and get into the limo, “He tried to get onto a plane to Columbia at McCarren with a gram of coke stuck up his—““Cat!” Heavenly interrupts, “We see where you’re going with this one.” She laughs her coquettish laugh and the Daves laugh along with her. Dave #1 takes the opportunity to put his hand squarely on the inside of Heavenly’s thigh. She doesn’t even flinch.I continue, “Anyway, he was a good looking guy. Real popular in prison.”
Heavenly smiles an embarrassed smile to the guys and says to me under her breath, “Can’t you at least try to be a lady?” I tell her that I have big breasts—I don’t have to be a lady.
You may be disgusted with me right about now, thinking that I use my sexuality (read: large breasts) to get what I want, but don’t be. The way I see it, if society is going to put us in these fucked up gender roles, we may as well use precisely what is being used against us to help us out wherever we can. “Use what you’ve got.” My daddy taught me that. “As long as it’s legal.” That was his caveat. The limo turns onto Las Vegas Boulevard—The Strip—and I turn to Heavenly. Even though I just met these guys, already, I know them.“I’m not going to the Bellagio,” I say to her.The lights on the strip are blinding. So much so, that as the limo makes its way down the Strip, I want to yell and scream and tell this guy that I want to get out. I don’t belong here. But, I don’t want to make a scene. I figure, if I promised Heavenly that I’d go on a double date with her, it’s probably not appropriate to have a nervous breakdown the second the guy tries to take you to a nice place. I just wish we could’ve stayed downtown.“You’re going to love Picasso,” Dave #1 says to me as he leans into Heavenly. Heavenly looks at me with an apologetic smile. Picasso is the gourmet dining room at the Bellagio and I know it’s the sort of place that Heavenly would give her first born child to go to. “Who doesn’t love the Bellagio?” Dave #2 asks me, trying to do the same lean-in trick. I scoot back into my seat and regard him. “The Bellagio is classic Vegas.” The limo clumsily drives up the massive driveway leading to the Bellagio. Hoards of fat Americans are walking in and out of the front walkway and bunches of strippers, escorted by old men who are even older than our old men, are waiting at the taxi stand.“This isn’t Vegas,” I say as a look of horror crosses Heavenly’s face. She begins canoodling with her old man to distract him. “Vegas is where we work. Downtown. Old school Vegas. Where Sinatra and his friends used to play games and break hearts.”“The Bellagio isn’t Vegas?” Dave #1 asks me, gently removing Heavenly’s face from his, “What is it, then?” “Disney for adults,” I say. Both Daves are staring me down and I don’t back down one bit. When you’ve gone bounty hunting in Brazil with a three hundred pound former resident of the Nevada State Pen, very little scares you anymore.“We’re here!” Heavenly cries out, amping up her Southern accent for effect, as the Bellagio doorman opens the limo door. Dave #2 tries to get me to take his arm as we waltz into the Bellagio, but I’m having none of it. My skin starts to crawl the moment I see the Chihuly blown glass in the lobby and the orange and yellow striped awnings of the casino. “I don’t feel like gambling,” I tell Dave #2 and try to turn him away from the casino. “You have to walk through the casino to get to Picasso,” Dave #1 reminds me as he leads the group past the tables. He’s walking fast and has almost approached Pit 7. I do not want to be anywhere near Pit 7. “Let’s get a drink at Caramel first,” Heavenly says to Dave #1, diverting him from Pit 7. He obliges.“I’m going to hit the ladies room and meet you in there,” I tell Dave #2. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you,” he replies, and smacks me on the ass. I grab my ass in reflex and walk over to Jimmy Andrews, the pit boss at Pit 6.“Is he here tonight?” I ask Andrews.“No,” he says, smiling at me. “Why?”“No reason,” I say, “Don’t tell him I asked for him.” By the time I make it to Caramel, the Daves are ready to move. We make our way into the casino, and I’m grateful that Heavenly diverts them to the exact opposite side of the casino from Pit 7. Better safe than sorry. Dave #2 turns to me and asks if I like Roulette. I shake my head ‘no.’ Who in their right mind likes Roulette? It’s a sucker’s game. You can tell the type of man you’re dealing with by the game he choses to play. If he like to play Roulette, he’s a loser. He’s got no skills, no smarts, so he needs to play a game that relies solely on chance. “Real men play poker.” That’s what my daddy used to say. But, if pressed, Craps is the only acceptable game to play at a casino. Unless you’re a numbers guy, in which case Blackjack would be okay. Heavenly suggests Blackjack, which is in the heart of Pit 6 and barely visible from Pit 7, and we settle down at a table. Heavenly stands behind Dave #1 with her hands on his shoulders, but I sit right down at the table next to Dave #2. “I find a girl who plays cards very sexy,” Dave #2 says, leaning over to me. “You’re not allowed to touch the cards,” I say, pushing him back, even though he was nowhere near the cards. He leans back with a chuckle. “Hey, sweetheart,” Dave #2 calls out to a passing cocktail waitress, “we’ll take two Heinekens over here. Cat, would you like a glass of white wine?” “I’ll have a white wine spritzer,” Heavenly says. “May I please have a Grey Goose, rocks?” I ask and throw a $5 chip onto her tray. “Coming right up,” she says with a smile. “Oh, Kitty Cat,” a voice from behind the dealer says to me, “you’d better not hit or you’re going to bust.” I look up and it’s Dallas standing there with Andrews. “I thought you said he wasn’t here?” I say to Andrews. “He’s my friend, Cat,” Andrews says with a laugh and walks away to monitor the other tables in his pit. I should have tipped him. I thought he was my friend, but I should have tipped him. The truth is, everyone in Vegas is looking for a tip. And I’ve got my red leather jacket on over Heavenly’s sweater, so I’ve got no excuse. I put my singles in my left jeans pocket (valets, bathroom attendants), fives in the right jeans pocket (waiters, cocktail waitresses), tens in the left inside pocket of my red leather jacket (maitre d’s and minor tipsters), and twenties in the right inside pocket of my red leather jacket (major tipsters and informants). This would have taken a dip or two into the right inside pocket of my jean jacket. Rookie mistake. And now I’ve got to face the one person I want to see least in the world—Dallas. “Hit,” I say to the dealer. I know this is a mistake. I’ve got a fifteen, and the dealer has got the same. As a general rule, the easiest way to play Blackjack is to assume that the dealer’s got a ten under his cards, just dying to come out. With that in mind, conventional wisdom would tell me to stick, and not take any more cards, since the odds are in the House’s favor that I will bust on the next card I take. Furthermore, the House has to take cards until it hits 17—rules of the game—so I shouldjust sit patiently until the House busts. But I just can’t stand Dallas trying to tell me what to do. The dealer pulls out the next card in the shoe and it’s an eight. “Bust,” the dealer says as he whisks my chips away. Dallas gives me a sly smile and I want to vault my body over the Blackjack table and strangle him. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s gotten to me. This is why I hate the Bellagio.
There's just something about these old novels that we've tucked away in the trunk. It's like being with an old friend again. THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB got such a nice response that I decided to post Chapter Two here, and now I'm doing the same thing with LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP. If you haven't read Chapter One, it's right here.
So, without further ado, here's Chapter Two!
LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIPBy Brenda Janowitz
Chapter two
“Those guys this morning were hot,” Heavenly says as the frat boys file out of the shop. “I suppose they were if you like trust fund babies who live of their father’s money and have no regard for human life,” I say, finishing the paperwork on their bond. Heavenly shrugs her shoulders as if to say, ‘What’s wrong with that?’ “So,” Heavenly says, pouring a cup of coffee for me and bringing it over, “I met these guys last night….” “No,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee and setting it down to get back to my work. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask you!” Heavenly says, “Destiny and I met these awesome guys last night at ghostbar.” “Double no,” I say, “definitely no.” Even Donny gives a tiny laugh in acknowledgment. I know that these “awesome” guys going to be a pair of old guys trying to score with younger women. Because that’s generally the type one meets at ghostbar. Especially, if like Heavenly, you usually go out at night with your stripper friends. “Why can’t Destiny go with you tonight, then?” “She has to work,” Heavenly says, “You know what slavedrivers they are at Olympic Gardens. Every girl in town wants to work there, and they know that and they totally hold it over the girls’ heads.” I for, one, do not know what slavedrivers they are at Olympic Gardens, being that I’ve never been a stripper before. Heavenly, on the other hand, knows exactly what she’s talking about. “Get one of the other girls to go with you,” I say. “Chastity and Mercedes are doing a bachelor party, Dusty, Angel and Cinnamon are working a private party for some Tokyo businessmen, and Lola and Sugar are on the same schedule as Destiny at OG’s!” “Don’t you have any friends who aren’t strippers?” I ask. “Don’t you have any friends who aren’t me?” she says. Donny looks up from his paper and regards me. He instinctively knows when I’m about to get angry, when I’m about to need him. He once called me from the Federal Pen in Nevada after I’d been in an argument with my study group in Boston. It’s uncanny. “I don’t need friends,” I say. “I’ve got you two. Now, everybody back to work.” Donny puts his head back down into his newspaper and Heavenly gets back to her paperwork, making a big show of lifting her pen and flipping her papers. I sit at the front desk watching the door and waiting for the phone to ring. * Three hours later, Heavenly’s still at it. “I’ll wash your bike for the next three months,” she pleads as she does the paperwork on a three hundred dollar bond for a drunken bar fight. That’s the only other action we’ve gotten for the whole day, so I’m feeling bored and antsy. I could use a drink. Especially a free one, with the way business has been going. “I’ll come along,” I tell Heavenly, “but I’m just not going to the Bellagio.”“We’re not going to the Bellagio, baby,” Heavenly assures me as she touches up her makeup in the mirror she hung up in my office. “I will go anywhere in the city—no, in the entire state of Nevada—but I just will not step foot in the Bellagio.”“Not a problem. No Bellagio. You’re going to go home and change first, though, right?” she says, looking me up and down.“Jeans are very trendy nowadays,” I tell her. “As are wifebeaters,” I say, checking my pits for sweat marks.“You’re wearing combat boots,” she says.“Not everyone can wear four inch stilettos and a skirt as large as a grosgrain ribbon to work, Heav.”“That’s it!” Heavenly squeals running over to the front desk of our office, “You can wear these!” She pulls out a pair of five inch heels with Lucite soles—a holdover from her own stripper days of old.“I can not wear those. How can anyone wear those?”“Why are you always so difficult?” she asks, pulling out another pair of shoes. This time, it’s a pair of blood red three inch strappy heels. I had a feeling that they looked like stripper shoes on her, but I could see from the label they were Manolo Blahniks, so I figured that they were classy. “Got them at the Neiman’s sale last spring. Don’t ruin them!”“These will go great with my red leather jacket,” I say, slipping the shoes on. They fit like a glove.“You are not wearing that ratty old thing,” she informs me, “throw this wrap sweater on over your wife beater.”“What I’m wearing is fine,” I say, checking the shoes out in the mirror.“I’m not letting you wear that jacket,” she says, “so unless you want to freeze your ass off at dinner, I suggest you put on the sweater.”It was a nude colored cashmere wrap sweater with lace lining its edges. It still smelled faintly of Heavenly’s perfume.“I’m not wearing this,” I say. “I’m sorry. But I’ll take the shoes.” Heavenly rolls her eyes at me and goes to the front window to keep watch for our dates.*“Here they come!” Heavenly says a half hour later as the car pulls up to the shop. The guys have gone all out tonight and rented a fancy black limo which is equipped with lights that change colors every three seconds and a fully loaded mini-bar. Heavenly introduces me to our dates for the evening—two old dudes (as suspected) who are both named Dave.“I knew a guy named Dave once,” I tell Dave #2, as I grab my red leather jacket and get into the limo, “He tried to get onto a plane to Columbia at McCarren with a gram of coke stuck up his—““Cat!” Heavenly interrupts, “We see where you’re going with this one.” She laughs her coquettish laugh and the Daves laugh along with her. Dave #1 takes the opportunity to put his hand squarely on the inside of Heavenly’s thigh. She doesn’t even flinch.I continue, “Anyway, he was a good looking guy. Real popular in prison.”
Heavenly smiles an embarrassed smile to the guys and says to me under her breath, “Can’t you at least try to be a lady?” I tell her that I have big breasts—I don’t have to be a lady.
You may be disgusted with me right about now, thinking that I use my sexuality (read: large breasts) to get what I want, but don’t be. The way I see it, if society is going to put us in these fucked up gender roles, we may as well use precisely what is being used against us to help us out wherever we can. “Use what you’ve got.” My daddy taught me that. “As long as it’s legal.” That was his caveat. The limo turns onto Las Vegas Boulevard—The Strip—and I turn to Heavenly. Even though I just met these guys, already, I know them.“I’m not going to the Bellagio,” I say to her.The lights on the strip are blinding. So much so, that as the limo makes its way down the Strip, I want to yell and scream and tell this guy that I want to get out. I don’t belong here. But, I don’t want to make a scene. I figure, if I promised Heavenly that I’d go on a double date with her, it’s probably not appropriate to have a nervous breakdown the second the guy tries to take you to a nice place. I just wish we could’ve stayed downtown.“You’re going to love Picasso,” Dave #1 says to me as he leans into Heavenly. Heavenly looks at me with an apologetic smile. Picasso is the gourmet dining room at the Bellagio and I know it’s the sort of place that Heavenly would give her first born child to go to. “Who doesn’t love the Bellagio?” Dave #2 asks me, trying to do the same lean-in trick. I scoot back into my seat and regard him. “The Bellagio is classic Vegas.” The limo clumsily drives up the massive driveway leading to the Bellagio. Hoards of fat Americans are walking in and out of the front walkway and bunches of strippers, escorted by old men who are even older than our old men, are waiting at the taxi stand.“This isn’t Vegas,” I say as a look of horror crosses Heavenly’s face. She begins canoodling with her old man to distract him. “Vegas is where we work. Downtown. Old school Vegas. Where Sinatra and his friends used to play games and break hearts.”“The Bellagio isn’t Vegas?” Dave #1 asks me, gently removing Heavenly’s face from his, “What is it, then?” “Disney for adults,” I say. Both Daves are staring me down and I don’t back down one bit. When you’ve gone bounty hunting in Brazil with a three hundred pound former resident of the Nevada State Pen, very little scares you anymore.“We’re here!” Heavenly cries out, amping up her Southern accent for effect, as the Bellagio doorman opens the limo door. Dave #2 tries to get me to take his arm as we waltz into the Bellagio, but I’m having none of it. My skin starts to crawl the moment I see the Chihuly blown glass in the lobby and the orange and yellow striped awnings of the casino. “I don’t feel like gambling,” I tell Dave #2 and try to turn him away from the casino. “You have to walk through the casino to get to Picasso,” Dave #1 reminds me as he leads the group past the tables. He’s walking fast and has almost approached Pit 7. I do not want to be anywhere near Pit 7. “Let’s get a drink at Caramel first,” Heavenly says to Dave #1, diverting him from Pit 7. He obliges.“I’m going to hit the ladies room and meet you in there,” I tell Dave #2. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you,” he replies, and smacks me on the ass. I grab my ass in reflex and walk over to Jimmy Andrews, the pit boss at Pit 6.“Is he here tonight?” I ask Andrews.“No,” he says, smiling at me. “Why?”“No reason,” I say, “Don’t tell him I asked for him.” By the time I make it to Caramel, the Daves are ready to move. We make our way into the casino, and I’m grateful that Heavenly diverts them to the exact opposite side of the casino from Pit 7. Better safe than sorry. Dave #2 turns to me and asks if I like Roulette. I shake my head ‘no.’ Who in their right mind likes Roulette? It’s a sucker’s game. You can tell the type of man you’re dealing with by the game he choses to play. If he like to play Roulette, he’s a loser. He’s got no skills, no smarts, so he needs to play a game that relies solely on chance. “Real men play poker.” That’s what my daddy used to say. But, if pressed, Craps is the only acceptable game to play at a casino. Unless you’re a numbers guy, in which case Blackjack would be okay. Heavenly suggests Blackjack, which is in the heart of Pit 6 and barely visible from Pit 7, and we settle down at a table. Heavenly stands behind Dave #1 with her hands on his shoulders, but I sit right down at the table next to Dave #2. “I find a girl who plays cards very sexy,” Dave #2 says, leaning over to me. “You’re not allowed to touch the cards,” I say, pushing him back, even though he was nowhere near the cards. He leans back with a chuckle. “Hey, sweetheart,” Dave #2 calls out to a passing cocktail waitress, “we’ll take two Heinekens over here. Cat, would you like a glass of white wine?” “I’ll have a white wine spritzer,” Heavenly says. “May I please have a Grey Goose, rocks?” I ask and throw a $5 chip onto her tray. “Coming right up,” she says with a smile. “Oh, Kitty Cat,” a voice from behind the dealer says to me, “you’d better not hit or you’re going to bust.” I look up and it’s Dallas standing there with Andrews. “I thought you said he wasn’t here?” I say to Andrews. “He’s my friend, Cat,” Andrews says with a laugh and walks away to monitor the other tables in his pit. I should have tipped him. I thought he was my friend, but I should have tipped him. The truth is, everyone in Vegas is looking for a tip. And I’ve got my red leather jacket on over Heavenly’s sweater, so I’ve got no excuse. I put my singles in my left jeans pocket (valets, bathroom attendants), fives in the right jeans pocket (waiters, cocktail waitresses), tens in the left inside pocket of my red leather jacket (maitre d’s and minor tipsters), and twenties in the right inside pocket of my red leather jacket (major tipsters and informants). This would have taken a dip or two into the right inside pocket of my jean jacket. Rookie mistake. And now I’ve got to face the one person I want to see least in the world—Dallas. “Hit,” I say to the dealer. I know this is a mistake. I’ve got a fifteen, and the dealer has got the same. As a general rule, the easiest way to play Blackjack is to assume that the dealer’s got a ten under his cards, just dying to come out. With that in mind, conventional wisdom would tell me to stick, and not take any more cards, since the odds are in the House’s favor that I will bust on the next card I take. Furthermore, the House has to take cards until it hits 17—rules of the game—so I shouldjust sit patiently until the House busts. But I just can’t stand Dallas trying to tell me what to do. The dealer pulls out the next card in the shoe and it’s an eight. “Bust,” the dealer says as he whisks my chips away. Dallas gives me a sly smile and I want to vault my body over the Blackjack table and strangle him. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s gotten to me. This is why I hate the Bellagio.
July 3, 2012
More junk in the trunk!
So, I told you about what we're doing on Girlfriends Book Club-- dusting off those old trunk novels that were relegated to the bottom of a drawer (or, ahem, trunk) and giving them new life. Well, I've posted sample chapters from two different trunk novels already and people seem to really be responding.
I thought it would be fun to post a little more!
Today, I've posted the first chapter of THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB over on Girlfriends Book Club, and all of the positive response has been amazing. So, for those of you who want to read a bit more, here's another chapter!
THE LONELY HEARTS CLUBBy Brenda Janowitz
I Love Rock-n-Roll
“You got fired by your own father?” my best friend, Chloe, asks me. “I know,” I reply, “It’s a new low. Even for me.” “What a dick move,” my boyfriend, Jesse, says. Thank God I still have Jesse. I don’t know what I would do without him. He understands me in a way that no one else ever has before—and I like to think that I understand him in that same way, too. Jesse is looking over Chloe’s shoulder to see if the band is about to start. We are at a tiny Lower East Side club that is packed to capacity to see The Rage, one of our favorite local bands. “He could have at least had your dick brother do it.” “Andrew isn’t really a full partner in the practice yet,” I reply. “You’re allowed to screw the Barbie doll nurse before you’re a full partner?” Chloe asks, brushing her silky black hair off of her shoulders. Andrew’s girlfriend—the office’s head nurse—does bear a striking resemblance to a Barbie doll. But, to be fair, my brother does look quite a lot like Ken. Still, it’s pretty tough talk coming from a woman who’s only five foot two. “At least you still have the Beemer,” Jesse says. “Forget the Beemer, at least you still have a parking space in the garage of your building,” Chloe says, “that’s an even more elusive asset in Manhattan than an actual car.” “You’re right,” I say, “I guess.” “Still,” Jesse says, looking into my eyes. I love it when he burns his eyes into me. Even in the dark, I can see them clearly—a deep sapphire blue, framed by thick black lashes, just like Jakob Dylan. He has a thick black curl falling to the center of his forehead. He flips his head back quickly and it falls back in place with the masses of other curls piled on his head. “It still sucks.” “I would rather have my father fire me than my brother, I think,” Chloe says to no one in particular. The waitress—who I recognize as the bassist in the band that plays the Lion’s Den on Sunday nights—comes to our table. Jesse and Chloe order beers (Chloe’s is a light) and I order a vodka tonic. “Well, I’d rather not be fired at all,” I say as soon as the waitress leaves. “It’ll give you more time to focus on your music, babe,” Jesse says as he puts his index finger gently under my chin, angling my face upward for a kiss. It makes me smile and Chloe blush. I always meant to get a real job. But there was always something in the way. Something more important to do. Something left that I had to do, like get my MFA in music, or some reason that I had to wait, like when my band nearly took off and we almost landed a record deal. Life is different for people like me. Artists. I could never work for the rest of my life in an office, toiling away day and night at a job that I wasn’t passionate about. I need passion in my life. Excitement. Adrenaline. Sure, everybody says they want passion and excitement in their lives, but I really mean it. The bug hit me when I was five years old. My parents were having a dinner party and my father encouraged me to sing a song for his guests while he accompanied me on his prized possession—his baby grand piano. He began to play “Hey Big Spender” from the musical Sweet Charityand the feeling overcame me. All eyes were on me and it felt like magic. I opened my mouth, improvised some dance moves I’d picked up in my ballet class and belted it out. The rest is history. I decided right at that very second that singing was what I wanted to do with my life. The only thing I wanted to do with my life.I’ve been working my ass off since then to try to make a go of it. Nothing compares to the feeling I get when I’m on stage. The stage is my true home—it’s where I come alive, where I feel the most myself, where I can do anything.My parents encouraged me for a while. They even dragged me, Gypsy Rose Lee style, to the Star Search auditions back in the 80’s. I made it through the entire season, leveling the competition with my killer rendition of “Hey Big Spender.” By the Finals, I thought I had it in the bag. I was going against a corn fed blonde from Kansas who had never been out of the Midwest her whole life. She had buck teeth and a flat chest—no match for my retainer and burgeoning bosom. I belted out “Hey Big Spender” and she did a shy rendition of “Over the Rainbow” and, in so doing, stole my crown from right under me. My parents fought for three weeks—my mother accusing my father of pushing me into a song that was “too adult” and my father accusing my mother of pushing me into a business that was full of rejection. One of my clearest childhood memories is overhearing him tell my mother that he was happy that I lost.The irony of that little Pollyanna stealing my Star Search crown is that the girl who beat me was Amber Fairchild. Yes, that Amber Fairchild. The pop sensation who flew to stardom at age fifteen singing “I want you to keep me up all night (all right).” Otherwise known as the bane of my existence. I hate her brand of slutty bubble gum pop, but what I hate more is that this girl made it and I did not. I often wonder what would have happened if I had won Star Search instead of Amber. I should be the one with the record deal, production company, fan club and slacker husband who mooches off her. Well, my current boyfriend mooches off me, so the way I figure it, I’m part of the way there. The record deal has so far eluded me, but I know that it’s just around the corner.My first band—my only band really—was on the cusp of breaking through about two years ago. We called ourselves The Lonely Hearts Club Band. Together since college, we had it all—the talent, the drive, and even the requisite bad boy drummer with a drug problem. We were just beginning to have a bit of a following in Manhattan. Our bass player, Kane, had a girlfriend who set up a website for us and we posted photos of ourselves, my song lyrics, and our show dates. I wrote a web log about trying to make it in the music industry. The blog barely ever got any hits, but it made us all feel more legit. We had a gig at the C Note in Alphabet City, and a friend of a friend of a friend’s pet dog had arranged for an A and R guy from Pinnacle to come hear us play. The night before, we all went out to play a gig at a small club in Chelsea to get ready. We were all so young then. We still felt invincible in that way that you do before anything really bad has ever happened to you, before you’ve really had a chance to see the way life really is. I don’t remember much about that evening, but I know that I went home early to try to get some sleep before the big day. Billy, our drummer, must have stayed out at the club without the rest of the band because the next night, he didn’t show up at the gig. Two days later, we got a call from New York City Hospital telling us that Billy had overdosed and died. The hospital staff didn’t even know for sure who had brought him in to the hospital. The record company wouldn’t take us without him. I thought we were Blondie, but I guess even Blondie wouldn’t have been signed without Chris Stein. It would be like the Doors without Krieger, the Stones without Richards. Would it be the same band? I could debate stuff like this for hours, but, the point is—they wanted nothing more to do with us. And then, when we all found out what had happened to Billy, we all wanted nothing to do with each other. The next Monday, I went to work for my dad.I am currently without band. And now I find myself on the brink of 30 with no real job and no real prospects. And even if I did have prospects, who on earth would hire a loser who’s been recently fired by her own father? “Hey, China Doll,” Chloe’s Flavor of the Week says, pulling a chair up to our table and kissing her on the cheek. I don’t even remember his name. It’s never a good idea to get too attached to any of them anyway, seeing as their time with us is generally very brief. They’re always the same—anti-establishment, angry, too young for her, and unbelievably hot. I can spot ‘em a mile away. “Hey, yourself,” Chloe says back. She doesn’t seem to mind this ridiculous ‘China Doll’ nickname even though she is actually Korean. “Hey, man,” Jesse says as he puts his hand out for the Flavor of the Week to grab. Even though Jesse calls everyone ‘man,’ I can tell that he doesn’t know this guy’s name, either. After two and a half years together, I know one ‘man’ from the other.“So, have you heard what our ape ex-president did today?” Flavor of the Week asks, leaning over our table. It is not fashionable to like George Bush (either of them) on the Lower East Side. My father has a signed photograph of him (W) in his office.“I heard about it on CNN,” Jesse replies. “It’s an atrocity,” he says, giving a sly smile in my direction. Jesse knows about the photograph.“Freaking W,” I say, trying not to laugh.“No, honey,” Jesse whispers to me, “the Senior Bush.”“Really?” I ask, taking a sip of Jesse’s beer.“No, not really,” Chloe chimes in, “He’s being a dick. Not as big of a dick as your dick brother, but a dick nonetheless.” Jesse laughs under his breath and kisses me on the head as the lights dim.“Don’t be mean to me!” I whine. “I was fired today!” No sympathy from the people at our table. “By my dad!” I cry out. Heads turn. That’s true star power—commanding an audience even on your worst day.The band begins to play and Jesse and I jump to our feet. Chloe and Flavor of the Week sit and make out, oblivious to their surroundings. Chloe is always making out with her Flavor of the Week. Jesse and I dance, singing along to the chorus. I begin to feel the tensions of the day fade into the music.Four songs in, the redheaded lead singer takes a break to talk to the crowd. “Hey, we’re The Rage and we just want to thank you all for being here and supporting the band,” she says and the crowd goes wild. The light hits her hair and it looks like fire. “A friend of ours—a very good friend of the band—has asked us for a favor tonight. And for this guy, well, for this guy we’d do anything.” More screams from the crowd. “His friend is having a pretty awful day, and the only thing that would make her life better is to sing to you lovely people tonight.” The crowd goes nuts. “Can you believe that? I hope you’re flattered,” she says, flirting with the crowd. “Jo, are you out there? Jo Waldman?”I turn to Jesse.“No fucking way,” I say. The edges of his mouth curl slightly and he shrugs his shoulders. I put my hand around the back of his head and pull him to me and kiss him hard. “Thank you.”“It’s nothing,” he says, “I just wanted to do something for you today. It’ll get you jump-started.”“Jump-started?” “Yeah, now that you won’t be working for your dad any more, you can focus on your music,” he says and he doesn’t need to say anymore—I know where this is going. It’s the same discussion we’ve had over and over since my band broke up. I consider defending myself, telling him that I have a gig or two lined up and that I’ve even been working on a new song lately, but instead chose to take the high road and not turn this into a heated argument. I try to remember that he’s doing something nice for me on a bad day.“Thank you,” I say as I walk around the table and smooth out the front of my used Levi’s. I am thankful that I am dressed in my usual uniform of black leather motorcycle boots, ripped vintage jeans and fitted concert tee over a white long sleeve T shirt. Running my fingers though my hair to mess it up a bit, I walk to the stage. My black hair tops off the look—the bangs and layers around my face are Joan Jett, circa 1982, and the rest of it, all tangles and curls, is pure Stevie Nicks. As I discuss song selection with the band, all I can think about is how lucky I am to have Jesse. We debate The Pretenders vs. The Kinks, and I turn around to sneak a peek at him. He’s staring at me. I wink at him and wonder if he can see me through the darkness. Jesse and I met at a Battle of the Bands competition out in the suburbs of New Jersey, just a stone’s throw from the George Washington Bridge. This was just before Billy died, back when my band was still together, before I went to work for my dad. It was at a dive bar called “Treble” that was rumored to have been owned at one time by Ritchie Sambora. Each July, they ran a Battle of the Bands contest and the prize was $10,000. All of the bands that played the downtown clubs went—any band that was anyone at all was there. Debbie Harry used to say that she and her band never went to high school, they went to Rock and Roll High School. Well, this was a week long competition that sort of felt like summer camp for rockers.Jesse’s band and mine were the two bands left in the finals. We won, of course, but who’s keeping track? What I remember most about it was how goddamned romantic the whole thing was. I noticed Jesse on the first day of competition, tapping his drumsticks on a table in the back of the bar to Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire.” When he glanced up and saw me staring at him, he knocked over his beer bottle with his drumsticks and it spilled all over the spiral notebook he was writing in. Billy caught this little exchange out of the corner of his eye and quickly ushered me away, lecturing me on messing around with the competition.Through each of the rounds, I could see Jesse staring at me from behind his massive drum set, eyes burning into me like they always did. Every time I was on stage, I found myself always singing to him. “So, are we the Montagues or the Capulets?” Billy asked me as we walked off the stage on the second night of competition. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him, even though it was obvious that Jesse and I were into each other, but trying to pretend that we were not. We were nothing if not loyal to our bands. I started wearing tighter and tighter jeans each round in the hope that Jesse would notice me. Any time he tried to approach me, one of our band members would be there, seemingly out of nowhere, to tear us apart and remind us that we were there to compete. On the last night of the competition, I even had my hair done, a fact which Chloe has never let me live down. Right after my band was announced as the winner and we all hugged and mugged for the audience, I marched right off the stage and into Jesse’s arms. It was like something out of a movie—or so Chloe told me—with him waiting in the wings and everyone in the room watching us, just waiting for it to happen. I ran to him and we fell into each other’s arms and began kissing like it was the end of the world. After that night, we spent every night together, either attending each other’s gigs or meeting up late night after our respective gigs, and we haven’t been apart for one night since. Through the crowd, I see Jesse staring offstage. I turn back to The Rage as we decide upon “I Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick as a compromise.I spin around to the crowd as the band begins to cue up the song. The lights hit my face and I feel the energy building up inside of me. The music penetrates my bones and I can’t help but smile. This is where I belong—under the burning lights with tons of eyes focused on me—not in some doctor’s office wishing the hours of my life away. I can hear Chloe and Flavor of the Week screaming my name. I can’t see Jesse anymore, but I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. The band plays the last eight bars before the first verse and I cock my right hip, ready to go.I adjust the mike and begin to sing.
I thought it would be fun to post a little more!
Today, I've posted the first chapter of THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB over on Girlfriends Book Club, and all of the positive response has been amazing. So, for those of you who want to read a bit more, here's another chapter!
THE LONELY HEARTS CLUBBy Brenda Janowitz
I Love Rock-n-Roll
“You got fired by your own father?” my best friend, Chloe, asks me. “I know,” I reply, “It’s a new low. Even for me.” “What a dick move,” my boyfriend, Jesse, says. Thank God I still have Jesse. I don’t know what I would do without him. He understands me in a way that no one else ever has before—and I like to think that I understand him in that same way, too. Jesse is looking over Chloe’s shoulder to see if the band is about to start. We are at a tiny Lower East Side club that is packed to capacity to see The Rage, one of our favorite local bands. “He could have at least had your dick brother do it.” “Andrew isn’t really a full partner in the practice yet,” I reply. “You’re allowed to screw the Barbie doll nurse before you’re a full partner?” Chloe asks, brushing her silky black hair off of her shoulders. Andrew’s girlfriend—the office’s head nurse—does bear a striking resemblance to a Barbie doll. But, to be fair, my brother does look quite a lot like Ken. Still, it’s pretty tough talk coming from a woman who’s only five foot two. “At least you still have the Beemer,” Jesse says. “Forget the Beemer, at least you still have a parking space in the garage of your building,” Chloe says, “that’s an even more elusive asset in Manhattan than an actual car.” “You’re right,” I say, “I guess.” “Still,” Jesse says, looking into my eyes. I love it when he burns his eyes into me. Even in the dark, I can see them clearly—a deep sapphire blue, framed by thick black lashes, just like Jakob Dylan. He has a thick black curl falling to the center of his forehead. He flips his head back quickly and it falls back in place with the masses of other curls piled on his head. “It still sucks.” “I would rather have my father fire me than my brother, I think,” Chloe says to no one in particular. The waitress—who I recognize as the bassist in the band that plays the Lion’s Den on Sunday nights—comes to our table. Jesse and Chloe order beers (Chloe’s is a light) and I order a vodka tonic. “Well, I’d rather not be fired at all,” I say as soon as the waitress leaves. “It’ll give you more time to focus on your music, babe,” Jesse says as he puts his index finger gently under my chin, angling my face upward for a kiss. It makes me smile and Chloe blush. I always meant to get a real job. But there was always something in the way. Something more important to do. Something left that I had to do, like get my MFA in music, or some reason that I had to wait, like when my band nearly took off and we almost landed a record deal. Life is different for people like me. Artists. I could never work for the rest of my life in an office, toiling away day and night at a job that I wasn’t passionate about. I need passion in my life. Excitement. Adrenaline. Sure, everybody says they want passion and excitement in their lives, but I really mean it. The bug hit me when I was five years old. My parents were having a dinner party and my father encouraged me to sing a song for his guests while he accompanied me on his prized possession—his baby grand piano. He began to play “Hey Big Spender” from the musical Sweet Charityand the feeling overcame me. All eyes were on me and it felt like magic. I opened my mouth, improvised some dance moves I’d picked up in my ballet class and belted it out. The rest is history. I decided right at that very second that singing was what I wanted to do with my life. The only thing I wanted to do with my life.I’ve been working my ass off since then to try to make a go of it. Nothing compares to the feeling I get when I’m on stage. The stage is my true home—it’s where I come alive, where I feel the most myself, where I can do anything.My parents encouraged me for a while. They even dragged me, Gypsy Rose Lee style, to the Star Search auditions back in the 80’s. I made it through the entire season, leveling the competition with my killer rendition of “Hey Big Spender.” By the Finals, I thought I had it in the bag. I was going against a corn fed blonde from Kansas who had never been out of the Midwest her whole life. She had buck teeth and a flat chest—no match for my retainer and burgeoning bosom. I belted out “Hey Big Spender” and she did a shy rendition of “Over the Rainbow” and, in so doing, stole my crown from right under me. My parents fought for three weeks—my mother accusing my father of pushing me into a song that was “too adult” and my father accusing my mother of pushing me into a business that was full of rejection. One of my clearest childhood memories is overhearing him tell my mother that he was happy that I lost.The irony of that little Pollyanna stealing my Star Search crown is that the girl who beat me was Amber Fairchild. Yes, that Amber Fairchild. The pop sensation who flew to stardom at age fifteen singing “I want you to keep me up all night (all right).” Otherwise known as the bane of my existence. I hate her brand of slutty bubble gum pop, but what I hate more is that this girl made it and I did not. I often wonder what would have happened if I had won Star Search instead of Amber. I should be the one with the record deal, production company, fan club and slacker husband who mooches off her. Well, my current boyfriend mooches off me, so the way I figure it, I’m part of the way there. The record deal has so far eluded me, but I know that it’s just around the corner.My first band—my only band really—was on the cusp of breaking through about two years ago. We called ourselves The Lonely Hearts Club Band. Together since college, we had it all—the talent, the drive, and even the requisite bad boy drummer with a drug problem. We were just beginning to have a bit of a following in Manhattan. Our bass player, Kane, had a girlfriend who set up a website for us and we posted photos of ourselves, my song lyrics, and our show dates. I wrote a web log about trying to make it in the music industry. The blog barely ever got any hits, but it made us all feel more legit. We had a gig at the C Note in Alphabet City, and a friend of a friend of a friend’s pet dog had arranged for an A and R guy from Pinnacle to come hear us play. The night before, we all went out to play a gig at a small club in Chelsea to get ready. We were all so young then. We still felt invincible in that way that you do before anything really bad has ever happened to you, before you’ve really had a chance to see the way life really is. I don’t remember much about that evening, but I know that I went home early to try to get some sleep before the big day. Billy, our drummer, must have stayed out at the club without the rest of the band because the next night, he didn’t show up at the gig. Two days later, we got a call from New York City Hospital telling us that Billy had overdosed and died. The hospital staff didn’t even know for sure who had brought him in to the hospital. The record company wouldn’t take us without him. I thought we were Blondie, but I guess even Blondie wouldn’t have been signed without Chris Stein. It would be like the Doors without Krieger, the Stones without Richards. Would it be the same band? I could debate stuff like this for hours, but, the point is—they wanted nothing more to do with us. And then, when we all found out what had happened to Billy, we all wanted nothing to do with each other. The next Monday, I went to work for my dad.I am currently without band. And now I find myself on the brink of 30 with no real job and no real prospects. And even if I did have prospects, who on earth would hire a loser who’s been recently fired by her own father? “Hey, China Doll,” Chloe’s Flavor of the Week says, pulling a chair up to our table and kissing her on the cheek. I don’t even remember his name. It’s never a good idea to get too attached to any of them anyway, seeing as their time with us is generally very brief. They’re always the same—anti-establishment, angry, too young for her, and unbelievably hot. I can spot ‘em a mile away. “Hey, yourself,” Chloe says back. She doesn’t seem to mind this ridiculous ‘China Doll’ nickname even though she is actually Korean. “Hey, man,” Jesse says as he puts his hand out for the Flavor of the Week to grab. Even though Jesse calls everyone ‘man,’ I can tell that he doesn’t know this guy’s name, either. After two and a half years together, I know one ‘man’ from the other.“So, have you heard what our ape ex-president did today?” Flavor of the Week asks, leaning over our table. It is not fashionable to like George Bush (either of them) on the Lower East Side. My father has a signed photograph of him (W) in his office.“I heard about it on CNN,” Jesse replies. “It’s an atrocity,” he says, giving a sly smile in my direction. Jesse knows about the photograph.“Freaking W,” I say, trying not to laugh.“No, honey,” Jesse whispers to me, “the Senior Bush.”“Really?” I ask, taking a sip of Jesse’s beer.“No, not really,” Chloe chimes in, “He’s being a dick. Not as big of a dick as your dick brother, but a dick nonetheless.” Jesse laughs under his breath and kisses me on the head as the lights dim.“Don’t be mean to me!” I whine. “I was fired today!” No sympathy from the people at our table. “By my dad!” I cry out. Heads turn. That’s true star power—commanding an audience even on your worst day.The band begins to play and Jesse and I jump to our feet. Chloe and Flavor of the Week sit and make out, oblivious to their surroundings. Chloe is always making out with her Flavor of the Week. Jesse and I dance, singing along to the chorus. I begin to feel the tensions of the day fade into the music.Four songs in, the redheaded lead singer takes a break to talk to the crowd. “Hey, we’re The Rage and we just want to thank you all for being here and supporting the band,” she says and the crowd goes wild. The light hits her hair and it looks like fire. “A friend of ours—a very good friend of the band—has asked us for a favor tonight. And for this guy, well, for this guy we’d do anything.” More screams from the crowd. “His friend is having a pretty awful day, and the only thing that would make her life better is to sing to you lovely people tonight.” The crowd goes nuts. “Can you believe that? I hope you’re flattered,” she says, flirting with the crowd. “Jo, are you out there? Jo Waldman?”I turn to Jesse.“No fucking way,” I say. The edges of his mouth curl slightly and he shrugs his shoulders. I put my hand around the back of his head and pull him to me and kiss him hard. “Thank you.”“It’s nothing,” he says, “I just wanted to do something for you today. It’ll get you jump-started.”“Jump-started?” “Yeah, now that you won’t be working for your dad any more, you can focus on your music,” he says and he doesn’t need to say anymore—I know where this is going. It’s the same discussion we’ve had over and over since my band broke up. I consider defending myself, telling him that I have a gig or two lined up and that I’ve even been working on a new song lately, but instead chose to take the high road and not turn this into a heated argument. I try to remember that he’s doing something nice for me on a bad day.“Thank you,” I say as I walk around the table and smooth out the front of my used Levi’s. I am thankful that I am dressed in my usual uniform of black leather motorcycle boots, ripped vintage jeans and fitted concert tee over a white long sleeve T shirt. Running my fingers though my hair to mess it up a bit, I walk to the stage. My black hair tops off the look—the bangs and layers around my face are Joan Jett, circa 1982, and the rest of it, all tangles and curls, is pure Stevie Nicks. As I discuss song selection with the band, all I can think about is how lucky I am to have Jesse. We debate The Pretenders vs. The Kinks, and I turn around to sneak a peek at him. He’s staring at me. I wink at him and wonder if he can see me through the darkness. Jesse and I met at a Battle of the Bands competition out in the suburbs of New Jersey, just a stone’s throw from the George Washington Bridge. This was just before Billy died, back when my band was still together, before I went to work for my dad. It was at a dive bar called “Treble” that was rumored to have been owned at one time by Ritchie Sambora. Each July, they ran a Battle of the Bands contest and the prize was $10,000. All of the bands that played the downtown clubs went—any band that was anyone at all was there. Debbie Harry used to say that she and her band never went to high school, they went to Rock and Roll High School. Well, this was a week long competition that sort of felt like summer camp for rockers.Jesse’s band and mine were the two bands left in the finals. We won, of course, but who’s keeping track? What I remember most about it was how goddamned romantic the whole thing was. I noticed Jesse on the first day of competition, tapping his drumsticks on a table in the back of the bar to Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire.” When he glanced up and saw me staring at him, he knocked over his beer bottle with his drumsticks and it spilled all over the spiral notebook he was writing in. Billy caught this little exchange out of the corner of his eye and quickly ushered me away, lecturing me on messing around with the competition.Through each of the rounds, I could see Jesse staring at me from behind his massive drum set, eyes burning into me like they always did. Every time I was on stage, I found myself always singing to him. “So, are we the Montagues or the Capulets?” Billy asked me as we walked off the stage on the second night of competition. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him, even though it was obvious that Jesse and I were into each other, but trying to pretend that we were not. We were nothing if not loyal to our bands. I started wearing tighter and tighter jeans each round in the hope that Jesse would notice me. Any time he tried to approach me, one of our band members would be there, seemingly out of nowhere, to tear us apart and remind us that we were there to compete. On the last night of the competition, I even had my hair done, a fact which Chloe has never let me live down. Right after my band was announced as the winner and we all hugged and mugged for the audience, I marched right off the stage and into Jesse’s arms. It was like something out of a movie—or so Chloe told me—with him waiting in the wings and everyone in the room watching us, just waiting for it to happen. I ran to him and we fell into each other’s arms and began kissing like it was the end of the world. After that night, we spent every night together, either attending each other’s gigs or meeting up late night after our respective gigs, and we haven’t been apart for one night since. Through the crowd, I see Jesse staring offstage. I turn back to The Rage as we decide upon “I Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick as a compromise.I spin around to the crowd as the band begins to cue up the song. The lights hit my face and I feel the energy building up inside of me. The music penetrates my bones and I can’t help but smile. This is where I belong—under the burning lights with tons of eyes focused on me—not in some doctor’s office wishing the hours of my life away. I can hear Chloe and Flavor of the Week screaming my name. I can’t see Jesse anymore, but I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. The band plays the last eight bars before the first verse and I cock my right hip, ready to go.I adjust the mike and begin to sing.
June 26, 2012
The trunk novel!
Every novelist has one. Some even have two or three. And over on Girlfriends Book Club, we're talking about them.
Trunk novels. Novels that were relegated to the drawer because they never got finished, never sold, or just never quite worked. Today, I'm posting an old trunk novel of mine called LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP. Hop on over to check it out!
Trunk novels. Novels that were relegated to the drawer because they never got finished, never sold, or just never quite worked. Today, I'm posting an old trunk novel of mine called LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP. Hop on over to check it out!
