Ginger Voight's Blog, page 13

"Infinite Possibilities": One Writer's Journey and the Importance of Literacy

On September 28, 2015, I was invited to speak to Altrusa International of Anaheim on the importance of literacy, one of the ways this great group of women work to improve the community. It was my very first speaking engagement since becoming a published writer in 2011, so to say I was a little nervous was an understatement. I don't think my voice stopped shaking the entire time. But they were so warm and gracious to both me and my "assistant" (my son's girlfriend basically got volunteered for the job.) Several wanted me to publish this speech, which is basically one writer's story of how a passion for literacy changed my life.

So here without further ado... my speech.

Good evening. Thank you so much for inviting me to speak tonight. As a full-time writer, I'm a bit like that troll that lives under the bridge, so this gives me the rare opportunity to actually 'human'. I don't get out much. In fact, I call my work schedule my "vampire" hours, so if I start smoking suddenly do not be alarmed. My assistant knows my safety protocol.

I should preface this to say that I do not get paid to speak. Whenever I communicate with others, there's usually a computer in front of me. This includes my family. Having said that, thank God for technology [hold up phone.]

As someone who doesn't get paid to speak, I really had a time figuring out what I wanted to talk about tonight. I'm passionate about so many things, activism and community chief among them. I thought I'd just keep it simple and talk about the importance of literacy. As both a reader and a writer, it is an issue that means a lot much to me and has since I was a little girl. While I may have been invited because I create books, the simple truth is: books created me.

I grew up with the idea that Reading Was Fundamental. From my very first Sesame Street, to the weekly installments of Schoolhouse Rock, I’ve been a glutton for the written word since I first learned to read. I discovered at a very young age that books are magic. You can go anywhere you want to go and be anyone you want to be. Whether you’re battling dragons or falling in love, or doing both at the very same time, books transport you from the ordinary to the extraordinary. There are infinite possibilities.

Needless to say, I read a lot as a kid, but it really went into overdrive when I was in the fourth grade. My teacher, Mrs. Borger, spotted my passion for reading and wisely nourished this hobby that was dangling dangerously close to becoming an addiction. Nothing excites me more than walking into a large library or bookstore. You know the kind I’m talking about, the ones with shelves right up to the ceiling. Or maybe a dinky little used bookstore, with narrow aisles and filled with rows of books three stacks deep, where you really have to dig to find your treasures. I loved all of these places where I could browse titles for hours and walk away with a stack of books under each arm. Then and only then could I go anywhere and do anything.

It’s important to have that kind of magic in your hands, particularly if you’re unhappy with where you are. I learned this lesson when I was eleven years old, and my beloved father passed away. By the early 1980s, I routinely lost myself in books, so it became my refuge almost immediately. My aunt, who babysat me in those dark, depressing days following my dad’s death, used to get scads of books thanks to subscriptions to certain romance publishers. It was one of the emptiest times of my life, and thanks to those stacks of books, I could be transported anywhere. I could find love, even when I felt so alone. As a pre-adolescent girl, this was a big deal. I needed some fairytales to get me through a pretty harsh reality. My dad was a stay-at-home dad, so losing him meant I lost my best friend, and that’s a tough thing for a kid.

So I filled my world with fictional people in fabulous places. Romances are good for that. When I was depressed whenever I walked into our empty house, I could pick up a book and travel anywhere. And what I really wanted was to be anywhere *else*. It was around this time I found Janet Dailey, who had traveled all over the United States to write her stories. She published her Americana series, with romances set in each and every state. Thanks to her, I was able to see things and places an 11-year-old from Texas might not normally see. Later, I’d discover authors like Danielle Steel, who would write stories set all over the world, and in various historical periods. Whether I was on a ranch in Oklahoma or Russian nobility on the cusp of a revolution, I was encouraged to live a life bigger than my own. The possibilities were endless.

I loved stories so much that writing a story of my own didn’t really intimidate me much when I was first given the opportunity. It was a writing assignment in October of 1981. We were all given a drawing of a house, which we could color however we saw fit to honor the Halloween season. Part of the assignment included coming up with a corresponding story. Despite having creative playtime with my Fisher Price Little People and my Barbie dolls, where I routinely made up stories all the time just for the fun of it, I had never actually written a story of my own before. I wasn't even sure that I could. But I was a good student who always excelled in whatever academic endeavors were put before me, so I wasn’t that worried about pulling off a simple story about Halloween.

The minute I put my pencil to paper, however, the story ceased being simple. I really did want to write a scary story about a haunted house, but something happened once the pencil started moving. I wanted to go left. My muse decided to go right. A story began to emerge about a couple so in love that the husband built a big house for them to share lots of children. Sadly, they never had any kids at all, and after the couple died years later, it was turned into an orphanage in their honor. It just sort of happened, and I just sort of went for it, even though it was pretty far removed from any Halloween story I’d ever read.

Still, I finished the story, colored in the drawing with happy, pretty colors and submitted my paper. Only after it left my hands did I worry if I had really screwed up. I was used to entertaining infinite possibilities, you see, so in my creative world all was permissible. The people pleaser in me quickly became neurotic that I may have messed up by coloring outside the lines. By the time our papers were passed back, I was one anxious little sixth grader. That I didn’t get my paper back and everyone else did only made the anxiety worse. I needed confirmation I had aced it like every other English assignment. And I needed it yesterday.

I’m pretty sure my knees literally knocked when I walked up to Mrs. Adams’ desk to ask her, in a halting, shaking voice, where my paper was since mine was never returned. She indicated to the wall behind her. It was the part of the wall where all the important things were kept, and there was my paper, with my happy, cheerful house right as the cover. Circled in red ink was a big, bold A. It was like angels parted the heavens and sang a chorus of hallelujah. Here I was, worried sick that I hadn’t colored within the lines and the universe was about to teach me the best lesson ever in infinite possibilities. Not only could I transport through the books I read, I could then transport others with what I wrote.

My pencil became a magic wand in an afternoon.

Over the next few years, I courted all sorts of writing to find the one that fit me best. Poems were first, quick little kisses where I could examine a feeling, just a spark of an idea. In Spring of 1982, one of my poems graduated to the big wall in the lobby of my elementary school, to show off exceptional achievement. My mother’s company included my poem in their newsletter, meaning I was published by the time I was twelve.

I finished my first novella when I was 14, inspired totally by the Barry Manilow song “Ships” which I found myself daydreaming to one afternoon as I entertained endless possibilities. It never dawned on me that I couldn't or shouldn't reach out to Mr. Manilow to get permission to use his song in my book. I wasn't afraid to ask for that permission,and it was generously and graciously granted.

Like I said... No limits.

By no surprise I finished my first full-length novel by the time I was twenty-one. I started this story when I was nineteen years old, when I was living out of my car. Call it escapism. Call it therapy. But there's nothing better to get a creative through a crises than allowing them to create.

See there’s only one thing better than losing myself in a book I read, and that’s losing myself in a story I’m writing. You want to talk about infinite possibilities? There’s nothing like creating a world, and all the people that populate it, out of nothing at all. It’s magic. Powerful, powerful magic. Within the pages of a book, I could write about a homeless girl who happened upon a savior, who rode in on her shiny Harley Davidson and saved my sweet clueless runaway from the heartless and cold city streets. I needed to believe it was possible. Best of all I got to embody both the clueless runaway as well as the brave heroine, which I needed more.

Thanks to the infinite possibilities of books, I could be both, which reminded me how truly powerful I was. Powerful enough to change my circumstances - which I ultimately did.

In fact, the only real limit I found with the writing was earning the right to do it for money. Hobby writing, I had down. I fit it in wherever I could, writing a total of eight novels between 1989 and 2011. Those twenty-two years were mostly spent raising a family and keeping a roof over our heads. But whenever I needed to escape from my ordinary existence, writing gave me refuge. When my nine-day-old son died in 1995, I wrote two books in one year. I desperately needed the empowering magic of creativity. It was the only way to fight against the limitations we’re force-fed every single day.

I'm ashamed to admit that one of those limitations I even attempted to perpetuate myself, when I started writing romance novels of my own in the mid-90s. I had read more than my share, so I thought I knew what the readers wanted. I created books very much like the Janet Daily books, or the Danielle Steel books, or the Jackie Collins books (God rest her soul) that I had read all my life. One of these stories actually got the interest of a literary agent, who tried to shop it around for me, only to be told that my heroines were "too" perfect. I wrote that, because I read that. Anyone who has ever read any romance novel knows the heroine is generally beautiful without the benefit of knowing she's beautiful.

It took me until 2007 to realize it was just one more limitation. Why was I perpetuating this myth that only one type of woman is beautiful? What if we were ALL beautiful without the benefit of knowing it? What if we were ALL worthy of starring in our own love stories?

Though I had found love and passion and romance throughout my life, even though I didn't look like I was supposed to look, I usually had never read about women who did the same. Up until the 2000s, all the books I read about overweight women in particular usually delegated women like me to the plucky co-star, the funny fat friend - the DUFF who makes the women around her more beautiful and more exciting by default. I started to entertain the possibilities of what it could mean to society - and women in general - if that message changed. What if I demolished the limitations on the romance genre and wrote about beautiful women of ALL shapes and sizes, who didn't have to change to be swept off of their feet by a handsome, wealthy, exciting alpha male?

Why on earth would I limit myself to just one type of heroine, if I didn't limit myself to one type of story?

People suggested that readers wouldn't want to read about my atypical heroines, because it just wasn't realistic. But my love story was real. I was real. And I was ready to kick free from these limitations. I just needed the opportunity.

In 2011, I learned about self-publishing, which pretty much obliterated all the accepted limitations to making this my career. Between 1991 and 2011, my biggest problem was getting past a gatekeeper, who got to decide for themselves whether I had anything anyone wanted to read. In 2011, I could get those books right to the reader, and they could decide for themselves. That first year was pretty bleak. I only made $300, which is actually pretty common for self-published writers. Eighty percent of us make less than $1000 a year.

But there’s one thing we all still have – infinite possibilities.

All it takes is one reader, one blog, one opportunity to change it all around. In late 2012, I started getting some buzz about a series I had written – one where I broke a few ‘rules’ (as I’m known to do). This included writing about a size-16 girl-next-door who won the heart of a sexy rock star, because why not? Since I have no one to answer to but the readers themselves, I had the freedom to color outside the lines. In a story that I worried would (and did) alienate readers, I actually landed on a popular blog and watched my sales skyrocket as a result.

Thanks to that blog, I graduated into the top 20% of all indie writers, where I've stayed for the last three years. Thanks to that milestone, I started making an actual living with my books. I earned passionate fans who love the fact that I write about women who look like them. I was invited to book signing events. I even got an agent at last, where I published my first traditional title – a rewrite of that original story I wrote when I was nineteen, while living out of my car.

I became everything I wanted to be because of the limitless nature of books. I endured great tragedy and crisis, and got through it because of books. I overcame my circumstances because of books. They truly are magic to me. When we teach our kids that literacy is important, we’re doing more than instilling a passion for reading. We’re teaching them about infinite possibilities. Kids who read learn how to be successful as adults, because their minds are opened to the Great What If. We’re teaching them how to think critically to resolve conflict, since that is all fiction really is. We're teaching them to empathize, by living in the skin of another person. Most of all, we're giving them permission to dream of a life much bigger than what they could have imagined. When you give a kid a book, you’re giving them more than a passport to travel between worlds. You’re giving them the tools to build a world of their very own.

Whether you read them or you tell them, stories give us all tools to create our existence. And you never know, the very next child you entrust with a book can be the next Charles Dickens or Jane Austen or Stephen King… or Ginger Voight.

So thank you for allowing me to share my story, and thank you for the work you do promoting the importance of literacy. Long live books. Long live the magic. Long live the infinite possibilities.

A Date with Devlin. Are you ready for October 9?? #Teaser #AdultsOnly #Sale #Kindle

She paid $800 for one date; one chance to get everything she always wanted, no questions asked.

Little did she know, Devlin Masters was about to give her so much more...

**************************************************************************************

Devlin shadowed me as I walked Gus and Lucy to the door. I stood waving after them long after they disappeared down the pathway and into the darkness beyond. Devlin finally reached around me to close the front door with one hand, which ultimately pinned me between the solid, hard wood of the door and the solid, hard wall of his chest. He towered above me, so close that I could feel the heat from his incredible body. His gaze swept over me, as if peeling away every inch of my clothes with nothing more than a look, before it finally settled on my face.

My eyes met his. This was where it got complicated, I knew. We could spend the rest of our night ‘talking’, but I hadn’t paid to talk. I could have had that with Oliver without paying one thin dime. I had wanted something more than that, and had for a long, long time. I knew it, and I suspected that Devlin knew it, too. He was, after all, a professional.

So what now? Did I take a green light for granted here, or what? Did I simply ask for sex? Or did wait for him to make a move? Did we talk about it, or just go at it like a couple of people might on a “real” date? The clock was ticking and I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

He answered my silent questions with a slow, confident smirk as he locked the door behind us with a resounding click. He leaned forward, his mouth so near to my skin I could feel his breath against me. My knees nearly gave way when he said, “Alone at last.”

I nodded, gulped hard and licked my lips. He chuckled a bit before he turned back to the living room, tugging my hand in his so that I would follow. “You should get us some glasses, Coralie,” he murmured as he reached for the bottle of champagne to uncork it.

I nodded dutifully and scurried around the corner to the kitchen, returning with a couple of cobalt blue champagne flutes. He shrugged out of his jacket as I perched on the sofa to pour us our wine. It was a wonder I didn’t spill it everywhere. I couldn’t wrench my gaze away from his body if I tried. Those broad shoulders… that solid chest…the promise of that bulge in those slim-fitting pants…and for the next couple of hours or so it was all mine, bought and paid for.

#NNNff…

My pulse raced as he sat next to me, so close that I became intoxicated on the spicy, woodsy scent of his cologne. I was sure he could see my hand tremble when I handed him his glass.

Those sultry eyes rendered me mute as he stared at me. Finally he raised his glass. “To old friends and new beginnings,” he said in a voice so soft, it felt like an actual caress.

I nodded as I clinked our glasses together. I couldn’t tear my eyes from his supple mouth as he drank. Again, I drained another glass. I reached for the bottle, but Devlin leaned forward to grab my hand. “You’re not going to need that,” he murmured in a low voice that sent a shock wave to my core.

“I’m–I’m not?” I stammered.

He shook his head. My head was floating as high as a cloud as he took the glass from my hand and set it on the coffee table in front of me. He eased back against the couch, capturing my face with his hand. His thumb brushed rhythmically over my cheek as he stared down into my face. “I think I know what you want, Coralie. I definitely know what you need. The question is… do you trust me to give it to you?”

My eyes widened as I stared up at him. Slowly I nodded. I stared at his mouth as it descended towards mine, closing over my lips finally in a soft, sensual kiss. My insides went up just like kindling as his broad tongue parted my lips and darted inside. He tasted like champagne. It only made me feel drunker.

And I blame the alcohol for the wanton way I threw my arms around his neck and kissed this enticing stranger back. I mean, I was only human for crying out loud. This man looked like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine, and here he was kissing me. He was kissing me. Me! His lips on mine, his hands on my body, his tongue penetrating my mouth with all the passion I’d only read about in romance novels. His fingers tangled in my hair as he deeply explored my mouth with that skilled tongue, and I felt my whole body come to life as a response.

I wanted more, and I was in the very unique position to take it, no questions asked.

He held me close, with one broad hand sliding up my side to cup the full curve of my breast. I gasped into his mouth as he thumbed my nipple through the fabric. He pulled away to stare down into my face. “You spent all your life taking care of everyone else, but no one has taken care of you, have they?”

I couldn’t even speak. I just shook my head.

“I’m going to change that,” he promised as he reached for another kiss. “I’m going to change everything.”

**************************************************************************************

The $0.99 pre-order sale for MASTERS FOR HIRE expires this weekend! Get your copy now. ;)

A Date with Devlin. Are you ready for October 9?? #Teaser #AdultsOnly #Sale #Kindle

She paid $800 for one date; one chance to get everything she always wanted, no questions asked.

Little did she know, Devlin Masters was about to give her so much more...

**************************************************************************************

Devlin shadowed me as I walked Gus and Lucy to the door. I stood waving after them long after they disappeared down the pathway and into the darkness beyond. Devlin finally reached around me to close the front door with one hand, which ultimately pinned me between the solid, hard wood of the door and the solid, hard wall of his chest. He toward above me, so close that I could feel the heat from his incredible body. His gaze swept over me, as if peeling away every inch of my clothes with nothing more than a look, before it finally settled on my face.

My eyes met his. This was where it got complicated, I knew. We could spend the rest of our night ‘talking’, but I hadn’t paid to talk. I could have had that with Oliver without paying one thin dime. I had wanted something more than that, and had for a long, long time. I knew it, and I suspected that Devlin knew it, too. He was, after all, a professional.

So what now? Did I take a green light for granted here, or what? Did I simply ask for sex? Or did wait for him to make a move? Did we talk about it, or just go at it like a couple of people might on a “real” date? The clock was ticking and I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

He answered my silent questions with a slow, confident smirk as he locked the door behind us with a resounding click. He leaned forward, his mouth so near to my skin I could feel his breath against me. My knees nearly gave way when he said, “Alone at last.”

I nodded, gulped hard and licked my lips. He chuckled a bit before he turned back to the living room, tugging my hand in his so that I would follow. “You should get us some glasses, Coralie,” he murmured as he reached for the bottle of champagne to uncork it.

I nodded dutifully and scurried around the corner to the kitchen, returning with a couple of cobalt blue champagne flutes. He shrugged out of his jacket as I perched on the sofa to pour us our wine. It was a wonder I didn’t spill it everywhere. I couldn’t wrench my gaze away from his body if I tried. Those broad shoulders… that solid chest…the promise of that bulge in those slim-fitting pants…and for the next couple of hours or so it was all mine, bought and paid for.

#NNNff…

My pulse raced as he sat next to me, so close that I became intoxicated on the spicy, woodsy scent of his cologne. I was sure he could see my hand tremble when I handed him his glass.

Those sultry eyes rendered me mute as he stared at me. Finally he raised his glass. “To old friends and new beginnings,” he said in a voice so soft, it felt like an actual caress.

I nodded as I clinked our glasses together. I couldn’t tear my eyes from his supple mouth as he drank. Again, I drained another glass. I reached for the bottle, but Devlin leaned forward to grab my hand. “You’re not going to need that,” he murmured in a low voice that sent a shock wave to my core.

“I’m–I’m not?” I stammered.

He shook his head. My head was floating as high as a cloud as he took the glass from my hand and set it on the coffee table in front of me. He eased back against the couch, capturing my face with his hand. His thumb brushed rhythmically over my cheek as he stared down into my face. “I think I know what you want, Coralie. I definitely know what you need. The question is… do you trust me to give it to you?”

My eyes widened as I stared up at him. Slowly I nodded. I stared at his mouth as it descended towards mine, closing over my lips finally in a soft, sensual kiss. My insides went up just like kindling as his broad tongue parted my lips and darted inside. He tasted like champagne. It only made me feel drunker.

And I blame the alcohol for the wanton way I threw my arms around his neck and kissed this enticing stranger back. I mean, I was only human for crying out loud. This man looked like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine, and here he was kissing me. He was kissing me. Me! His lips on mine, his hands on my body, his tongue penetrating my mouth with all the passion I’d only read about in romance novels. His fingers tangled in my hair as he deeply explored my mouth with that skilled tongue, and I felt my whole body come to life as a response.

I wanted more, and I was in the very unique position to take it, no questions asked.

He held me close, with one broad hand sliding up my side to cup the full curve of my breast. I gasped into his mouth as he thumbed my nipple through the fabric. He pulled away to stare down into my face. “You spent all your life taking care of everyone else, but no one has taken care of you, have they?”

I couldn’t even speak. I just shook my head.

“I’m going to change that,” he promised as he reached for another kiss. “I’m going to change everything.”

**************************************************************************************

The $0.99 pre-order sale for MASTERS FOR HIRE expires this weekend! Get your copy now. ;)

Let me tell you a little bit about Devlin Masters. He really can't wait to meet you. ;)

Devlin Masters has one job. For $400 an hour, he gets to bring a woman’s deepest, dirtiest fantasies to life, no judgment, no complications–no regrets. And Devlin Masters is very good at his job.

Good Girl Coralie Cabot decides to rent this bad boy and bring a little excitement into her boring, conventional life, but she has no idea just how intoxicating it could be to meet someone that dedicated to making her lascivious dreams come true.

She thinks she's hiring him by the hour. He's about to change her life.



***

“This is Devlin.”

I thought I was prepared to hear his voice, but I was mistaken. It was deep and rich and textured, like pure velvet. Its timbre reverberated across my senses, sending a shiver right to my toes. I could still picture his piercing gaze as my eyelids fluttered closed. I cleared my throat. My mouth was suddenly dry.

“Hello, Devlin,” I greeted, almost haltingly. “This is Coralie Cabot.”

His voice softened. I could almost hear his smile. “Ms. Cabot. Thank you for calling me back. I had actually given up hope you would.”

I glanced at the clock. It was after eight in the evening, and he had sent his email at roughly eight o’clock that morning.

I thought about the dress and Lucy’s hair. Apparently it takes time to burn bridges. “Sorry about that. I was busy finalizing some of the details for the party.”

“Of course,” he replied. “So tell me some details about this party.”

“It’s a fundraising benefit,” I started. “We’re raising money for children affected by neurological disorders, to help their families pay for the cost of care, and provide therapy and support. Friends of the family are hosting at my family home in Bel Air.”

“Sounds wonderful,” he said. “I assume it’s black tie.”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Do you have a dress already?”

I blinked in confusion. It seemed such an odd question. “I… well… I’m torn between two,” I finally admitted. And it was true. I really was. As much as I liked the one that Lucy found for me, I didn’t know if I could show up at the party in a dress that didn’t come from Cabot’s. It was a big deal.

“I can make that choice a little easier for you. What’s your size?”

I nearly choked on my saliva. Was this an insidious way to figure out what kind of heavy lifting he’d have to do on the date? “Depends on the store,” I finally replied.

“What are your measurements, then?” he persisted. It immediately set off warning bells. All this time I had pretended that his desire for me was a given, simply because he was getting paid to bring my fantasy to life. It never occurred to me that he would actually have to pretend to be interested. That took a little wind out of my sails.

I cleared my throat, suddenly very self-conscious. “It’s, um, 46/34/44,” I finally managed, feeling, for the first time in my life, embarrassed to answer the question.

That he hesitated didn’t help matters at all. “So, size 14, then?”

I cleared my throat again. “Like I said, it depends on the store and the designer. Thanks to…,” I swallowed hard, “thanks to my bust size, it can fluctuate between a 14 and a 16, possibly an 18 if they even keep the size in stock.”

I hadn't meant for it to sound as bitter as it did. Fortunately Devlin didn't miss a beat. “Did you have a particular color scheme in mind? Did you want classic or modern?”

“Whatever makes me look beautiful,” I answered in a near squeak. I almost–almost–wanted to add, “If such a magic dress exists,” but I stopped myself. Why I felt I had to throw myself on the grenade of his rejection was a mystery to me, as if making fun of myself first would make it hurt less if he did it. I hadn’t pulled such a juvenile stunt since I was in high school, when I tried to be the quirky, funny sidekick to Lucy’s pretty Queen Bee. And why was I trying to impress him anyway? He was the one who needed the job.

He chuckled then, which took me by surprise, as if he could read my thoughts. “All women are beautiful if you just know where to look.”

It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “That has to make your job a little easier.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “I tell you what. Send me photos of yourself in the outfits you’ve already purchased.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a few ideas how to make you feel beautiful.”

I couldn’t help but notice he said ‘feel’ instead of ‘look.’ There was probably a very good reason for that. “You don’t even know what I look like,” I pointed out.

“Hence the photos,” he replied, humor lacing his tone.

“You know, I’m not even really convinced that I can go through with this,” I started. He was quick to cut me off.

“Of course you can. Now send me your photos, Coralie.”

I gulped hard. It was unusual to hear anyone call me that name, aside from my father. And there was nothing at all fatherly about the commanding tone of his voice, which flipped the script immediately. No longer was I the one hiring someone who needed a job. I was being commanded, taken in hand, by a man who knew damn well how to do that very thing. I found myself stammering in response. “I’ll have to go change.”

“Fine. You have ten minutes. Then call me back.”

“Okay,” I found myself replying, though I didn’t know why. This was pure craziness, which was exactly what I said to Lucy when she entered the room. She handed me a frothy, frozen pina colada with a smile.

“Here's to getting a little crazy.”

***

Author Ginger Voight (that's me) brings all her amazing readers (that's you) another epic saga starring an flawed, mysterious Book Boyfriend named DEVLIN MASTERS.



Here, at long last is the cover of my new book MASTERS FOR HIRE, Book 1 in the Masters series.



It's only a taste of what kind of things Devlin will do to you once you get cozy with him in between the (book) covers. Needless to say this read is intended for readers over 18. And for a LIMITED TIME ONLY, you can pre-order MASTERS FOR HIRE for only $0.99 before it goes back up to its regular price of $2.99.

Don't miss out on Devlin!! Add MASTERS FOR HIRE to your TBR list NOW.

If you're a blogger who wants to participate in the book launch, either with a release day blast or a review, please use the sign-up sheet here.

It's #NationalReadaBookDay HURRAY! Here are some of my faveys.

Finally! A "National [Celebrate Something Here] Day" that won't make you gorge on unhealthy food! Way to go, America! Not sure why we need a national day to celebrate things like donuts, pancakes, hot dogs and pie in this country, but almost daily I find out what kind of "National" day something is, where something ordinary is given the royal treatment and made star for a day.

I like some more than others. National Hug Day, National Kissing Day, National Orgasm Day, National Leave a Review for Your Favorite Author on Some of Her Books Day...*ahem*...

You get my drift.

If anything should ever be given the royal treatment, it's reading a book. I was a reader long before I was a writer. Thanks to my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Borger, I took my natural affinity for reading and turned it into a passion. I wasn't just reading textbooks at the top of my grade (or higher,) I learned how to read for nothing more than sheer enjoyment. I grew up with these...



... so I understood the importance of reading. I also learned the magic of reading very early on, when I realized all I had to do was crack open a book and I could go anywhere, do anything-be anyone. Imagine a magical pair of shoes where you can step into them and live the life as a whole other person. That's magic! Books are passports, and nothing... I repeat NOTHING... holds more promise than a book in your hands. Yes, I'm old school. I like actual books. I will prowl bookstores for hours. When I was a kid, there was nothing more exciting to me than going down the Scholastic list and picking out which books I wanted to read next.



Like Lays potato chips, man. You can't stop with one. And unlike potato chips, you don't have to. The more you read, the bigger your world gets, and that's a good thing. No. That's a GREAT thing.

So in honor of this fantastic day where reading is rightly celebrated, here are a few special titles that reminded me just how magical finding that perfect book can be.

One question we're always asked as authors is, "What is your favorite book?" I have a bunch I love for various reasons, but if you nail me down to a favorite, there's only one:



THE BLESSING STONE by Barbara Wood is the story of a stone that crashed to earth millions of years ago, and was intercepted by a long line of women at various stages of our history. I can't even get into how much I love historical fiction, it's honestly surprising to me that I don't read more of it. Give me a book where I can get emotionally involved with characters trying to survive the things we only learn about as facts and figures, and I'm a happy girl. It breathes new life into something stale, something that I normally wouldn't care to read otherwise. A book about the Civil War, not so much. NORTH AND SOUTH, with all its human complexity, conflict, sex and drama? Sign me up. Sign me up yesterday. It makes the past come alive for me and makes me feel connected to something so much bigger than my own small life.

Believe it or not, Danielle Steel was the one who originally introduced me to this concept (and she's on this list too, for that very reason,) so I was excited to read this book recommended to me by my best friend (and fellow bibliophile,) Jeff.

THE BLESSING STONE is one of those books that widens perspective, which is a beautiful thing. This stone landed in the hands of women who were pushing the boundaries of what was traditionally accepted of them. It started with the Homo sapian girl on the African plain who, though she couldn't talk or really apply deductive reasoning past their own limited experience/knowledge, understood that the leader of their tribe was dooming them to certain death by not turning away from the distant plumes of an active volcano. In a world where they depended upon tradition, Tall One, as she was known, was being compelled by an entirely new human trait that developed long before civilization, religion or democracy, simply because it had to.

She, instead, was being compelled by intuition. And she had to learn what all of us humans have had to learn. Do we trust that inner inkling that something isn't right, that those constructs we had always trusted and never questioned might actually do us more harm than good? Or do we follow tradition blindly, even if it means heading right off a cliff?

Delicious conflict, no? And that's only the first story of many.

This stone ends up passing through the hands of many diverse and interesting characters who defined our journey, particularly as women, as we shaped the changing world around us, from the ancient world to the 20th Century. This sweeping saga is filled with beautiful, empowering stories that touch upon several key points in history, everything from the time of Jesus to the irresistible call of Manifest Destiny, and as such touch upon the key emotional and practical evolution we've experienced as a unique species upon planet Earth. I love, love, love this book so much I can't believe I've only read it once. Might be time to correct that, and what better day than #NationalReadaBookDay?

If you want a light and easy read, this ain't it. But if you want to read an important, perspective-altering book you'll remember for years after you read it-do yourself a favor and get this book.



As much as I loved reading as a kid and young adult, writing screenplays did a lot to wreck my stamina. I was retrained on the concept of "economics," which bled over into everything else. I process information much differently now, particularly stories. I need to connect the dots quickly and keep moving, so there are a lot of writers I used to read I haven't been able to read for a long, long time (even cherished favorites) because they take a little longer than I can stand "getting there."

Honestly, I thought this would doom me for reading books ever again, especially the big, dense books I used to inhale in one sitting. I still read, but not as much, and it's a lot easier for me to abandon a book rather than see it through to the end. I have shelves of unread books because of this. On one hand I hate this, because like I said before, there's nothing more promising to me than an unread book in my hands. I want to go wherever it leads, and nothing disappoints me more than running out of gas in the first few chapters. It takes a really freaking special book to pull me in and keep me vested from the start.

On the other hand, though, finding that rare and special book is like finding a forgotten hundred-dollar bill in my pocket, which makes the whole experience that much better. Hell, I'd even say it's magical. And that's exactly what happened with WATER FOR ELEPHANTS.

If you haven't read the book or seen the movie, I highly recommend you read the book first. The two are completely different experiences because they had to be, and I really, really want you to experience the book in its most beautiful form. Let the story unfold page after gorgeous page and hook you in, just like it hooked me.

Truthfully I didn't read WATER FOR ELEPHANTS because I was captured by the blurb. It's about circuses, and I could give a rat's ass about that. No, I read this book because it is a NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH (NaNoWriMo) success story, and that interested me way more.

***MINOR RANT***

If you're not familiar, NaNoWriMo is the much-maligned annual event where optimistic writers the world over attempt to write a 50,000-word novel in just 30 days. It's maligned because for some weird reason, we like to discourage writers from, you know, actually writing. In every other endeavor, the more you do something, the more you're regarded as an expert in your field. In writing, however, we treat authors like they're given one tiny speck of brilliance that they only get one or two shots at harnessing, and even if they DO harness it, we expect them to take years and years to make it marketable.

There are a lot of folks out there, both readers and writers alike, who believe that it takes years to write a book worth reading. I hate this kind of mentality usually, because the writing process is one of those things that differs for each and every writer, and lumping us all together like that is unfair to the point of being offensive. The more you throw a ball at the basket, the more you're going to sink it thanks to the experience and training. Excellence, therefore, isn't some accident. It's the product of lots of hard work to prepare one to be as skilled as they can possibly be. If a talented, seasoned writer can sit down at a computer and bang out a book in a month, we should all get out of the way and let them do it.

I honestly don't know where we came up with this wretched, small-minded idea that all writers need to pull every single word they write from their soul with a dull butter knife, and if, by some miracle, a writer can produce faster or easier than that, it's clearly not any good. Some people just write faster, or are filled with stories they need to tell or it'll drive them insane, so they're driven by their muse like a pack animal to write, write, write before their she takes off again like the flighty bitch is known to do.

Some writers have a couple of books in their soul. Some have a hundred. And it's okay either way.

Brilliance is unpredictable, which means there's no paint-by-number formula or one-size-fits-all way for any one writer to produce any one book. Genius can and does happen in a flash. ROCKY was written in a week. THE BREAKFAST CLUB was written over two days. A CHRISTMAS CAROL, which has given birth to many other incarnations of the story since, was written in six weeks.

Is everything written in such a short time frame fabulous? Of course not. But neither are books that take years to write, either. Time is not the important variable here. Each writer should be given the freedom to manage their Muse however way they see fit. The opinion that matters beyond that belongs to the readers themselves, who pay their hard-earned money for these books, who don't care how it was written as long as the book was good. They realize the quality of any book depends entirely ON. THE. BOOK. If you haven't read it, then you can't assign a value to it based solely on how long it took the author to write it. What a ridiculous, silly standard.

This is why I needed to read WATER FOR ELEPHANTS myself.

***END OF MINOR RANT***

I believe I was traveling when I first started reading the book, either on a bus or on a plane. Given that I'm a captive audience in those situations, that's usually where I start (and likewise abandon) books. I bravely opened the flap on that book and started to read, hoping beyond hope I'd make it past the first chapter.

Boy, did I! Sara Gruen delivered with a prologue that practically punched me right in the face. It plopped me down in the middle of the action where, thanks to her finesse, I *thought* I knew where I was going from then on, and thereby locking me in to her roller coaster immediately just to see if I was right. (In fact, reading this book is what inspired how I wrote GROUPIE, among others.)

Of course, I wasn't right about where we were going from that prologue, and that, my dear readers, is what I loved most about it. As I impatiently crawled through the rest of the chapters to fill in a story that I thought I knew, Ms. Gruen was preparing me steadily and surely so she could yank the rug out from under my feet when I least expected. And it was glorious. I prepared for one thing, she delivered another... something better, something I didn't even know I wanted till we got there. WATER FOR ELEPHANTS singlehandedly restored my passion for reading in one beautiful book. If you haven't read it, stop reading this blog and get thyself to Amazon ASAP. You can read it for free on Kindle Unlimited. And I'm pretty sure you'll thank me for it, even if you don't care for circuses.



Another story that circumvented my expectations was THE FAULT IN OUR STARS, a young adult romance that centers around two kids afflicted with cancer. Yes, it is a heavy topic and yes, you're going to need your hankies for this one. It leveled me, even though I thought I spent the whole book preparing for what I thought would happen. (John Green is as crafty as Sara Gruen, maybe even more so.)

But though it is a heavy, even depressing read, it is also beautiful. The characters are so well crafted and engaging. I wanted to know them. I wanted to spend time with them. And I don't know that there is a more romantic book boyfriend anywhere as Augustus Waters. Just thinking about him makes my heart melt and my eyes water. He was absolute perfection in how he plopped into our heroine's life and made her world better for having done so. He wasn't the bad boy, she was the damaged one. And he healed her, as much as anyone dying of terminal cancer can be healed. You know what? I can't even talk about it. It's beautiful. Go read it. But have tissues handy.



For a lighter read, which I read around the same time as I read TFIOS, pick up THE ROSIE PROJECT. It's a romance too, but it's atypical, which is why I love it. If you are a fan of Sheldon from THE BIG BANG THEORY, you'll love this book. It's funny. It's quirky. It's smart. It's also brave, because it centers on a character that, like Sheldon, can be quite off-putting. Don Tillman is quite open from the start that he has difficulty fitting into polite society because he has difficulty empathizing with others. It also makes his quest to find a female companion a lot more challenging. Since he's getting a little long in the tooth, this learned man decides to approach the whole endeavor logically. He makes a list of all the qualities he'd require in a mate.

Enter chaotic Rosie, who tears that list a new one in the space of a date. He realizes at once that she is NOT the one for him, but decides that he can help her with her own project, instead. In doing so, he learns a lot more about empathy, about relating to another person, about love and desire and how we choose our life partners for real, than he ever expected.

(*There's now a book 2, which I didn't realize... this is great news for #NationalReadaBookDay!!)



Ok, I told you earlier that I love historical fiction. I adored Danielle Steel for years because of the magical way she could combine exciting fictional characters against the dramatic backdrop of factual events. Thanks to her, I was able to board the Titanic, survive the great San Francisco earthquake, endure World Wars I and II, survive and rebound from the stock market crash in '29 and walk in the shoes of nobility and royalty. Danielle's books are lavish. Granted they all follow the same kinds of patterns. Girl has everything, loses everything, gets everything back, loses it again, finds love, loses love and finds it again. These are more than just "romances," though that's where you'll often find them shelved. These are about the lives of these women, who become the focus of the book regardless of the men they love. (Again, I applied that same idea to one of my own books, SOUTHERN ROCKER CHICK, because these are the books that I love to read.)

Of all of these historical sagas, FULL CIRCLE is my favorite. (PALOMINO is my favorite romance, because its plot is mostly contained to one primary relationship. HEARTBEAT comes a very close second to that.) In FULL CIRCLE, however, the story is about four tumultuous decades of one woman's entire life. I fell in love with Tana Roberts almost immediately, because as a young woman she goes through a traumatic experience similar to one I had experienced. And if I was raised in a different era, I can see myself forging a very similar path, where she uses her negative experience to promote positive change. I mean, I do that now, only instead of marching with Dr. Martin Luther King for civil rights, I'm banging the gong for marriage equality.

Still, we were both crafted into fire-breathing feminists who wanted to change things that needed changing, and we weren't afraid to get our hands dirty doing the hard work to make it so. We may have been victimized, but we were strong women determined to make a difference, to conquer our pasts and define our futures.

Needless to say, I identify with Tana in many, many ways, particularly in that her most important relationship is the one she shares with her best friend. In fact, I had planned to live my life in much the same ways she did, by moving across the country and moving in with my buddy, going to law school and changing the world. Everything I thought I wanted to do with my life, I got to do with Tana. So I felt every single emotion right along with her, even when they crushed me. (And they did.)

I read this book once every few years, just because I love it so. It's one of those books that is a part of me. And believe it or not, it took writing this blog to figure out why. FULL CIRCLE works like any portal to an alternate universe should; it allows me to peak on on the other side and see what I might have been doing if my life had worked out according to my original plan. Where else can you get that kind of emotional fulfillment for $7.99? Full circle, indeed.



Speaking of emotional fulfillment, I would be remiss if I didn't include WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS in my list. I mentioned Mrs. Borger before, and she was the one who turned me onto Wilson Rawls in the fourth grade, when she recommended I read SUMMER OF THE MONKEYS. I thoroughly enjoyed the book, which took me deep into the Ozarks for an atypical adventure with a young kid and some escaped monkeys from the circus. When, a year later, my English teacher decided we were all going to read another Rawls classic, WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS, I was all about it. I couldn't wait to get started.

Ah, ignorance truly is bliss.

There are two things you need to know about me if you didn't. One, I love dogs. I love most animals, really, but I truly, really love those who go beyond pet to four-legged friends. Two, I'm a softy. I'm sentimental. I'm emotional. I cry at sad movies. Hell, I cry at sad anything. I cry at happy stuff. I cry all the time.

So it should come as NO surprise to anyone that when we got to the end of this book, I sobbed my fool heart right out. I had to do it covertly because it was fifth grade and, you know, kids are cruel. I just laid my head on my arms on my desk and tried not to weep loud enough for those around me to hear.

It was the first time, ever, that a book had made me cry. What a wonder that was! A book is filled with stories that some author just made up out of nothing. And it made me feel. It made me feel a lot. That is magic, my friends. Pure, unadulterated magic. If you can find that in a book, how can it not land on your list of favorites?

GO READ THIS BOOK. And read give it to your kids to read when you're done. Hell, give it to anyone to read when you're done. It will remind anyone what it's like to be a kid. It'll remind you what it's like to want something really bad, bad enough to make it happen no matter what it takes. And it'll remind you of the purest love you'll ever know, the love between a kid and his dogs, who would risk their lives to keep him safe.

Seriously. I'm crying already. Go get this beautiful, beautiful book.



I have a confession to make. I used to read VC Andrews books like I was popping Pringles out of a can. There's a little embarrassment with this because these books are not literary classics by any stretch. They are brain candy, pure and simple, written mostly for a young adult audience who gets off on lots of angst. These are larger than life stories that take you right to the line of social acceptance and demand you choose a side. I read FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC first, which, if you've read it, is an icky little sojourn into darkness of the worst kind... the kind that perverts innocence and damages kids. Because of this, I stopped reading this series with book 1.

I don't know that I would have read another of her books if it weren't for the bestie handing me the first book of a new series, the Casteel books, which started with HEAVEN, the story of a beautiful girl trapped in the ugliest of places. Heaven Leigh Casteel was raised in a one-room shack in the hills of West Virginia. The struggle was real, y'all. You name it, this girl went through it. This was angst to the nth degree, and I just absolutely fell in love with the whole sordid tale.

My life had been no picnic, but it had nothing on this poor girl. Walking in her shoes gave me much-needed perspective that it could be worse, and I could get through worse. Thanks to my love for this character, who went through hell and back just in book one alone, I embraced the idea of book series that allowed me to continue the story wherever it may lead. I wanted more. I needed more. Some stories just don't end at the last page of one book, and I would never want them to. Because of this, I write series books of my own now. More often than not, I think much larger than one story or one plot. I want to build worlds, the kind that march you right up to the line of what you think you can take, where I can watch what you choose.

(This will be especially true with my newest series, one that will release this fall. But we'll talk more about that later. #DevlinisComing)

In the meantime, you can read the five books in the CASTEEL SERIES and rest assured that I won't take my new series THAT far.

Or maybe I will. Who knows?



I can't close my blog of favorites without talking about the Master, Stephen King. My favorite book of his is actually the first book I read, which I did almost entirely upon accident.

When I was a teen, I used to hang out with another bestie at her house in the country, where we would make cookies from scratch and watch movie after movie that they had taped from cable TV thanks to their new-fangled VCR. (It was 1984, these were indulgences at the time.) They had dozens and dozens of tapes filled to capacity with any movie that tickled their fancy. My friend especially liked horror movies, so I got my first education on such things courtesy of these sleepovers.

I'll set the scene for you. I'd head over to her house on the outskirts of town while it was still daylight. We would listen to music or she'd play the piano for me, which was awesome, since I love art in all its forms. We'd bake cookies, we'd eat pizza. You know, girl stuff. Then, after her mother had gone to bed, we'd go out into the living room to start our movie marathon. She'd set the ambiance by turning off all the lights, and we'd huddle there together next to that console TV in the dark, just the two of us. Since she'd seen a lot of these movies, she'd generally go to sleep first, and I was riveted to the TV in that dark living room, listening to the wind blow through the cracks in the windows, which had been insulated with plastic.

In other words, they breathed.

Another thing you need to know about me: I'm a wuss. Actually, I'm a wuss with an overactive imagination, which is even worse. Needless to say, I didn't make it through a lot of those movies before I woke up my friend and we finally went to bed. One such movie was CHRISTINE, which was based off of a Stephen King novel.

Since I enjoyed what I did see of the movie, I decided to get the book to fill in the rest. I had to know what happened, but in a safe environment, i.e., a book. I was entranced from the very first chapter. I loved the conversational tone of it, like I was sitting right next to these characters as they shared their stories. I loved that it included pop culture references, like rock music and even a nod to the movie GREASE. I tore through that book in a couple of days flat, and from then on I was a SK-devotee. I felt wooed and courted by Mr. King, taken in hand and guided along the path wherever he wanted to go. Instantly I trusted him. I read everything I could get my hands on, even though I wasn't necessarily what you might call a traditional horror/science fiction fan.

My favorite story of his wasn't horror at all. RITA HAYWORTH AND THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION, compiled with other short stories in DIFFERENT SEASONS, knocked my socks off. As you can probably already tell from my list, I like stories best when they circumvent my expectations, and that is what he did masterfully in that story. Even in short format it was one of the best things I ever read.

In fact, I haven't even watched the movie yet, because that's how sacred the story is to me. I want to preserve the vision I created with SK as the author/reader experience. That's a very intimate relationship to my mind, especially when the writer in question cultivates and tends to that relationship like the special gift that it is. SK does that better than most, which is why he HAS to be on any reader's list. In so many important ways, he taught me what it was to be a writer just because he took care of me as his reader, and that's a beautiful thing.

And in honor of all these amazing authors and their incredible stories, and #NationalReadaBookDay itself, I'm offering my entire GROUPIE SAGA on sale through Labor Day. You get four titles GROUPIE, ROCK STAR, MOGUL and VANNI for under $5, so you can catch up on one of my most popular series and my most popular characters.



Everything I learned from all my favorite books I applied in that groundbreaking saga, which helped put me on the map. It may not change your life, but hopefully it'll sprinkle a little fairy dust your way.

No matter what you read, or who you read, I hope you enjoy this amazing, wonderful day within the pages of a book, any book. And feel free to share any recommendations you have! (And don't forget to leave reviews!)

#SnippetSaturday - An Ode to My Love on our 14th Anniverary.

Today is a special day. Not only is it Jordi's birthday, but it is the anniversary of the day I wed my love, Steven, in 2001.



I would tell you about my love, but truth is, you've already met him in various ways throughout many of my stories. Any time any of my Book Boyfriends have made you laugh, have supported their heroines, making them believe that they could be anything they wanted to be, who deserved to be loved and romanced and valued despite what they were taught to believe by society at large, you've seen Steven peeking from behind the facade. Fun... romance... unconditional love and unyielding support? This is his fingerprint on my life. He's literally made so many of my dreams come true.



Since Steven is my idea of a HEA, he has influenced and inspired so many stories, so many characters and so many experiences that I have written in dozens of books since we met. If I get stuck on an idea, I turn to Steven, thrusting pages of raw material under his nose to get his input. Because of him, I'm not sure I would have written THE GROUPIE SAGA as truthfully as I did. When he got to the end of book one, he told me what I already knew (which is why I was stuck there, toiling over the ending.) He told me I could not end it the way I had planned because it would cheapen the characters and fall flat, and he was absolutely, positively, 100-percent right. I knew that I was breaking a few rules when I completed the novel, but - much to my surprise - this was the series that first "landed" me my first real writing success.

Honestly, I don't even know if I'd have the career I have without him, since he has been one of my biggest cheerleaders, and often financier, of this crazy, wacky dream I have to become a best-selling writer, award-winning screenwriter.

I dream big, what can I say?

Truth is, Steven is kind of the reason I dream big. I mean, I always dreamed big, but I was always afraid to share those dreams with just anyone, because I was afraid of hearing what I always heard. "Who are YOU to do anything so special?" Well, love kind of shows you how big you can dream because it shows you how truly special you are to the right people. I knew Steven was "the right people," almost from the moment we met. He's got all the nice guy stuff going on, but he's also brave enough to tell me the truth, whether I want to hear it or not. Not a lot of people do that, and the last thing I needed was yet someone else patting me on my head and pacifying me just to shut me up. Not Steven... he's always - always - endeavored to make me better, mostly because he's always believed I could do all the amazing things I wanted to do.

This is not just some biased opinion, by the way. Since he's been a voracious reader all of his life, I knew I could share my meager little stories with him from their infancy, and he could give me the critical feedback I needed to grow. When he told me I was talented enough to make this whole crazy thing work, I knew I could believe him. I started writing more, branching out to the even scarier, wackier dream of screenwriting, and pursuing opportunities I wouldn't have had the ovarian fortitude to chase without his encouraging voice in my ear, telling me I've got the goods and I can totally make it happen. He never once tried to talk me down to planet Earth, suggesting that I needed a Plan B if this didn't work. In fact, he's the one who says, repeatedly, that the best is yet to come.

This kind of has been the theme of our whole marriage.

I won't say that things have been perfect. We've had our share of hard times and pitfalls. Several notable years - which were always odd-numbered for some reason - we flew by the seat of our pants, juggling chainsaws, flaming swords, piranhas and scorpions in order to get from one day to the next. The road has been way rockier than it has ever been smooth. But thanks to my honey, my eternal Peter Pan, I've always had someone to pick me up when I fell. (And vice versa.)

We are the perfect fit. Where I'm high-strung and emotional, he's laid back and rational. We both share the same playful sense of humor, which keeps our spirits light no matter what shit storm we might be enduring at the time. And granted, there have been times of great frustration on both of our parts, but they have never shaken our core commitment to each other. We both know how lucky we are to have found each other. We'd rather be together and struggling than apart and "safe." At the end of the day, there's no one I'd rather come home to. There's nothing anyone else could ever offer me that would improve on what I have now. It's a million-dollar match without the million dollars. (But we're working on that. Take note, Universe. #powerofattraction #nameitandclaimit)



So this might explain why I became a little peeved in the early 2000s that women who looked like me in romance novels were *not* the ones walking away with Top Prize. *I* fell in love with, and caught, a Prince Charming, despite the fact I'm dismissed as "less than ideal." (I'm wording it nicer than it's ever felt, by the way.) So if *I* can do that, why was I not seeing that in the books I read? My story is just as true and just as valid as anything I'd ever read, so why was I reading about the Fat Girl who couldn't find herself a sweetie the way I had?

Especially the sweetest sweetie of the bunch, who makes me feel sexy and beautiful and valued with every kiss, every touch and every smile.

It really gave me a bad taste in my mouth regarding all those traditional romances I read growing up, the ones I thought I wanted to write. It took Steven to see that I didn't have to write about the perfect girl who didn't know she was beautiful, who was fawned over by the handsome, perfect man, who somehow deserved her happily ever after more than the normal girls, the average girls, the atypical girls, the alternative girls... the invisible girls.

As a protest to this, I penned my first Rubenesque Romance, LOVE PLUS ONE, in 2007, where I wrote the kind of story that I wanted to read. It was more sweet than sexy, because that's the gentle introduction into the world of romance that I wanted to make. I knew I'd have to ease readers into these waters. You may not know this, but there are readers who will bypass a book with a larger heroine because they think they would hate to read about sex scenes with larger, imperfect bodies. Sadly, many readers avoid books about atypical heroines because "it's not the fantasy," and that is why so many read romance in the first place. But see, that's the great thing about fantasy. The world is big enough for all of them, even *my* fantasy - which was falling in love and being loved in return, to be deserving of that love because she is so much more than a paper doll prototype, a true flesh-and-blood woman who wants only to be desired and chosen by the perfect man.

Way back in 1997, I landed my first agent, who shopped around an early draft of my book PICTURE POSTCARDS. Several publishers came back with the same criticism: the heroine is *too* perfect. Back then I was writing stories like I read, where authors like Danielle Steel dominated my TBR list. I bought into the hype of the standard fantasy forced down our gullet from Cinderella to Barbie to any number of popular heroines in mainstream fiction and movies: that women have to be beautiful to be loved. So I imagined what life would have been like had I been born one of the fortunate few. The reason that book failed to land an audience was because that is not my story to tell, so it wasn't authentic and fell flat. I don't know what it's like to be the beautiful girl who doesn't know she's beautiful, who lands the rich, handsome guy because of pure physical attraction. I'm the quirky, funny DUFF, whose qualities are hidden a little more under the surface. I know what it's like to fall ass backwards into love, where I question each and every suitor because I am never entirely convinced they could ever want someone like me, someone normal, someone average, someone atypical or alternative...

Someone invisible.

Enter Shannon McKenna and LOVE PLUS ONE. Shannon knows all about being invisible. As a size-12 awkward geek with an insanely perfect sister, she was used to being delegated back to the shadows, where she could write and daydream about a HEA, but never for once thought she'd find one of her very own. This is where Jake Dalton stepped in, her best friend, her biggest supporter - her Prince Charming in Waiting. Jake is patterned almost exclusively after my honey. Here are some key snippets where you'll see Steven waving from behind the words.

***
Jake infuriated her sometimes. He was so level-headed. If A happened, do B. No sweat. Well, dammit, she thought to herself. Sometimes there was some sweat.
***
“You look great,” he said. He always said that. She could be in curlers and a green mud mask and he’d say that, except he’d amend, “for an alien.”

***
The limo came to a halt in front of an outdoor recreation center. Shannon got the nagging feeling Rex was up to something dirty. When she saw the rock wall, she was certain of it.

Shannon wasn’t exactly the outdoorsy type, and there was that near pathological fear of heights thing. And she knew that Rex knew that because when Dixie had researched her show about phobias she grilled her entire staff out of curiosity, to see how common phobias were and how they affected daily life.

Despite that show, Shannon never really saw the need to tackle this particular fear. She had been very careful to cultivate an existence that didn’t move more than two feet off the ground. No high rises, no planes, no juggling act while balancing on a high wire. She even chose a ground floor apartment and worked in a one level studio. She had convinced herself it wasn’t really a phobia. It was a choice. A choice she made again and again in her life, usually through white-knuckled, hyperventilating terror.

Jake had absolutely no idea, but she had a sneaky suspicion he was about to find out.

Conversely, Jake was stoked as he surveyed the wall. He loved physical activity that tested his limits, and this was right up his alley. He listened intently and nodded with enthusiasm as their guide gave them the rundown. Shannon plastered a smile on her face, but inside she seriously fought coming unglued. She glanced up at the wall that had to be at least forty feet high, which was funny because that’s exactly forty feet higher than she wanted to go.

Before she could protest, she was trussed up in a harness and face to face with the Wall of Doom. Suddenly her arms felt like jelly and she just knew, without any doubt, that she was going to puke.

Jake had already crawled up on the wall. He glanced back at her. “Come on, Shan! I’ll race you.”

“Let’s not and just say we did,” she muttered. She tried to will herself to move but it just wasn’t happening.

“Chicken!” he called down. It was a friendly dig meant to get her up on the wall, but it didn’t work. She’d much rather be a live chicken than a scrambled egg.

The guide came over. “Everything okay?”

No, she wanted to say. Everything is not okay. Instead she made a joke, which was the Shannon way. “How strong are these things?” she asked and motioned to the harness.

He just smiled. He knew the type. He also knew if she gave it half a chance she’d have a great time and gain a new hobby.

With the patience of a saint he showed her again where to step and where to grab on. With his help she managed to make it off the ground. “Just concentrate on your next step,” the instructor told her. She looked no further than that.

It was slow going, especially with the way Jake was scaling the wall like some kind of superhero. But she didn’t feel she was doing too badly given the circumstances, and called back to the guide to say so.

That was when she realized the ground was about fifteen feet down. If she’d have stopped to think about it, it was really not that far away, just one little ol’ story really, but to her frantic mind she felt like she was on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Suddenly her heart thumped against her ribs and her limbs began to shake. She couldn’t breathe and it felt as though she might actually be having a heart attack.

She looked up, but that only gave her a mean case of vertigo. The world spun around her and all she could do was hold on.

She promptly closed her eyes and began to scream.

“Jake!”

Like a flash he propelled down to where she sprawled frozen against the wall. She was white as a ghost and shook so badly he worried she might be having a seizure of some sort. Tears poured down her face despite how tightly she clenched her eyes shut. “Shan?”

His soothing voice only made her cry harder. She shook her head. All she wanted was to get down, but she just didn’t have the guts. She may have only been fifteen feet off the ground, but it felt like she was on top of the Empire State Building.

He tried again. “What’s wrong?”

She barely opened an eye. “Heights.” It was all she could muster.

“You’re afraid of heights?” he asked, then glanced down at how far she’d come.

She nodded. “I want to get down.”

He touched her shoulder. “Okay.”

Only she didn’t move.

“Do you know how?” he asked finally.

She nodded again and cried even harder. Her hands gripped the wall so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Honey, you gotta let go,” he said softly.

She shook her head. She couldn’t even handle the thought. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he soothed. “Look how far you came. Getting down will be a cinch. You’ll be on the ground before you know it.”

Intellectually she knew that, but it was another matter convincing her body. Her heart raced. She couldn’t breathe. She visibly shook as she clung to the wall. “I can’t let go.”

He placed his hand on hers. “Then hang on. To me.”

She looked into his face. He was her Jake. She knew he’d never let her down. Finally she allowed him to take her hand in his.

“Trust me?” he said. She nodded. Together they kicked away from the wall and propelled down to the ground in one jump.

***

In fact, one of the key moments in their journey was a spectacular date at the Hollywood Bowl, which, aside from the obvious embellishments, was lifted directly from my courtship with Steven, who took me to the Hollywood Bowl in one of our first dates in 1999 to see John Williams conduct the LA Philharmonic under the stars. (And yes, this means that the Star Wars theme is unofficially one of our 'songs.')

The other key scenes heavily *heavily* inspired by my romance with Steven were the ones in Vegas. Vegas is our town. We fell in love there. We got engaged there. We got married there and renewed our vows there. We both even got our first tattoos there. Any chance I have to go to Vegas in any of my books is an homage to my darling hubby.



Because of Steven, you all got Jake Dalton, Graham Baxter, Jace Riga and Jonah Riley. (In fact, it occurs to me just now that the hero I wrote in 1995, when I wrote PICTURE POSTCARDS, ultimately came true with Steven four years later, like I had ordered him straight out of a catalog. See? Law of attraction. Thank you, Universe!)

These book boyfriends are my "nice guys," the sweethearts of the pack. They don't often get the same kind of following as my bad boys, which I think is a shame. The nice guys are the ones who help you raise your children. The nice guys are the ones who offer unwavering support as you follow your dreams, who never make you question their love or commitment. They're the ones who love you during all those crappy moments where you can't love yourself, and God knows a few of my heroines had a hard time with that. To me, these are the qualities that define a romantic hero. Each and every word they uttered was inspired by my real life Prince Charming, and so I kinda love them more. Loving a bad boy is easy. Finding a good man is a miracle... and has been my fantasy since I was a hopelessly romantic pre-teen girl.

So happy 14th anniversary to my love, who made that dream come true. You are my love, my friend, my soul's perfect mate. You truly are the reason I believe in love. From this moment on... and for always.

Vanni is HERE!! (I'm so excited. Are you excited??)

Back before Andy and before Dreaming in Blue, Vanni was just a regular Joe with a dream much bigger than anyone close to him (aside from his beloved aunt) thought he could actually manifest. A lot of women came through his revolving door, some angels, some lil devils, but the one who started him on the road to his beloved Andy was actually a simple barkeep named Pam.

A lil teaser, and one of the many reasons I love this man...

***
When I get back to the neighborhood, I can’t even go home. I head to my local haunt, Fritz’s, for a beer. The cute black waitress is there, as is a heavier girl with a shock of red hair and tattoos along her chest and arms. She wears black-framed glasses, and when she smiles it makes me smile too. As different as she is from her bartender, I find this other girl just as cute. Of course, that’s usually how it is with me. Call me a romantic, but I’ve always found women fascinating, like mysterious puzzles that are so much fun to unlock. I’m an Italian, for fuck’s sake. This is what we do. We appreciate the finer things in life, those beautiful things that make life worth living. For me that has always been wine, women and song.

Like ol’ George Thorogood, I like ‘em all. Tall girls. Skinny girls. Curvy girls. Blondes, brunettes and redheads, and girls of every race. They can be tattooed or plain, serious or silly, but every single one of them shines like a diamond when they smile, or their eyes flash, or they walk by in a perfume-scented breeze. Their curves invite to be held. Their voices invite to be heard. Their skin begs to be touched. Far too many guys don’t get this. They see women as paper dolls to collect, pretty or perfect little badges of honor they wear with pride.

The way I see it, every single woman is pretty if you know where to look, and I don’t mind looking. Nothing has ever meant more to me than finding that treasure everyone else forgot. I was the kid who would send anonymous valentine’s cards to the girls in my class I knew wouldn’t get any otherwise. Their smile was often reward enough. A girl is always prettiest when she knows she’s appreciated.

This new girl takes my order as I perch on one of the barstools. I get the feeling she hasn’t been appreciated for a long, long time. “You’re new here,” I say, still wearing my smile from before.

I can tell from the sparkle in her eye that she likes what she sees. “Not so new. It’s my dad’s bar. He’s finally decided I’m old enough to work in it. Happy thirtieth birthday to me.”

I laugh as I reach across the bar. “Nice to meet you. I’m Giovanni. Friends call me Vanni.”

“Pam,” she says. I like the way that sounds. Sweet and simple, like swinging on a hammock on a perfect summer afternoon. “What can I get you?”

I lean forward, my arms crossed over each other. “Let’s test your muster behind the bar. Guess.”

She laughs. It’s a hearty, robust sound. Like music. “Challenge accepted.” She turns her back for a moment and then returns with my favorite beer on tap. I take a sip. It’s right on the money. “Okay, I was kidding. How did you do that?”

She shrugs with another smile. “No big deal. That’s our most popular beer with the regulars. Local brewery and all that.”

“And here I thought you were psychic,” I say as I bestow a cocky smirk. “I was going to ask you what to do with my future and everything.”

“Oh yeah?” she says as she leans across the bar to face me. “Life got you down, gorgeous?”

I shrug. “Torn by what I want to do and what I need to do.”

She laughs. “I know what that’s like,” she says.

“Oh yeah?” I echo. She nods. I rest my chin on my hand. “So what did little Pam want to be when she grew up?”

She laughs more. I love the sound. It makes me happier just to hear it. “First of all, I’ve never been little. Secondly, I’m not telling you because it’s silly.”

“Well, now I gotta hear it.” She shakes her head, giggling to herself. “Tell me.”

She leans towards me, to whisper as loud as she can over the jukebox in the corner. “Fine. But if you laugh, I’ll charge you double.” I lock my lips with an imaginary key and toss it over my shoulder. She glances both ways before she leans even closer. She smells like peonies. “I wanted to be a Rockette.”

I immediately purse my lips so that I don’t laugh. She reaches for her water nozzle and sprays me. I laugh as I reach for a stack of napkins to dry myself.

“Okay, hot shot. What did you want to be?”

I smile. I’m having a good time. The best time I’ve had in quite a while, in fact. “Guess.”

Her big green eyes travel over me. “Well, lemme see. You’re dressed like a corporate flunkie, but you have hair straight out of the 1980s. Those soulful brown eyes tell me you’re generally up to no good.” I can’t help but chuckle. “And that mouth is pure sex. I can so see it just behind a microphone.”

My eyes widen. “Okay, you’re kind of freaking me out a little, Pam.”

“Come on, dude. Look at you. Who would you be if it wasn’t a rock star?”

I sigh and take another swig of beer. “That’s what I keep asking myself.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

I shake my head. I can’t even remember anymore. I open my mouth to talk about my aunt, but I can’t yet. The pain is too fresh. “I’m twenty-six. I have a house. I have two jobs. I have a girlfriend.”

She nods. She gets it now. “Let me guess. Your girl doesn’t want to share you with the world.”

“My girl doesn’t think I’ll get that far.”

“Well, that’s kind of shitty.”

My eyes dart to hers. I’m surprised by her reaction. “She just wants us to be practical. It’s really hard to make it. I mean, when did you give up on your dream to be a dancer?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure that I ever gave it up entirely. It’d be a sad existence if we give up hope in our dreams.” I continue to stare at her, waiting for her answer. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “It just ceased being a priority, I guess. It just fell further and further down the list until it slipped off of it entirely. I don’t think I even noticed. In fact, I kind of forgot about it until you asked.”

That instantly depresses me to hear it. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Depends. What are you going to do about it?”

I smile. She reminds me a lot of my aunt, but for once it doesn’t hurt. I hold up a finger, indicating I need a minute. I reach into my pocket and pull out some money for the jukebox. She watches as I peruse the selection, and then Queen’s ode to fat, luscious bottoms blasts from the speakers. She laughs as she realizes what I pick. I wear a smile as I walk back to the bar, my hand outstretched. “I’m going to ask you to dance.”

She only thinks about it for a moment before she wads up her towel and tosses it on the bar. She takes my hand and I lead her to the small, deserted dance floor. I grab her by the waist and lead her through some sexy moves to the pulsating beat. Her hips undulate under my palms to the music with natural grace. How could she ever think her dream was silly? I lean forward to tell her in her ear, “You really can dance.”

Her eyebrow cocks. “Can you really sing?”

I hold her close and pick up on the next verse. I can feel her practically swoon against me, which makes me feel like the most powerful man on the planet. That’s not a rush I get delivering mail to scowling businessmen in stuffy suits. It emboldens me. She reaches up to say in my ear, “You should never give that up. You have a gift.”

God, I hadn’t heard that in so long. I realize now it’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear, ever since my aunt passed. “And you shouldn’t give up dancing,” I tell her. “You can really move.”

“For a fat girl,” she fills in but I shake my head.

“For anyone.” I hold her closer, unafraid of those full curves. They’re sensual. Womanly. “You don’t see me complaining, do you?”

She shakes her head and laughs, as if I’ve told her a funny joke. “You are a shameless flirt, Giovanni Carnevale. Maybe you should take some of that charm home for your girlfriend.”

I pout. I’m not ready to leave. For the first time in months, I feel like someone actually gets me. But she has a point. The dance and flirting have been fun up till now, but it can’t go anywhere.

I’m a lot of things but I’m not a cheat.

After the dance is over, we return to the bar where she tends to more customers. I fish my pen out of my jacket and grab some extra napkins from the tray. I jot down all the lyrics I had memorized on the ride home.

I come up with a solid chorus, which I copy onto another napkin. I take ten dollars out of my wallet and place it on top of the folded napkin. On the top I write, “See you at Rockefeller Center.”

***
VANNI is LIVE now. So what are you waiting for?? Go get him!

AMAZON

B&N

iTUNES

It's the time of the season...for Vanni. The countdown begins NOW.

In just ten days, you will get to know the man behind the music, the romantic behind the manwhore. Find out all Vanni's dirty little secrets with VANNI: A PREQUEL, the fourth book in the beloved GROUPIE SAGA!!

Here's a lil' taste to whet the appetite.

***
By the time I make it back to Brooklyn, I’m ready to celebrate. I head straight to Fritz’s, which is abuzz courtesy of a new karaoke machine to turn up the volume on 80s night. The bar is so full I can barely squeeze between the bodies. I hold up a finger to Pam, who knows already what I order. She nods and gives me a wink. I turn around to face the happy folks crowded around the tiny stage erected on the limited dance floor. Some woman nearing her 40s is massacring “Open Arms” by Journey. I grimace through it, while everyone else claps and encourages her on. They’re all happily under the influence, which I presume makes it easier to enjoy the show.

Pam appears like an angel beside me, offering me a frosty mug of beer. I lean down so she can hear me. “When did you decide to go karaoke?”

She laughs. “This is the first weekend. It’s sort of a trial run.” We glance around the crowded bar, which is more business than this neighborhood haunt has seen in quite a while.

“Looks like it was a successful experiment,” I say.

She shrugs. Her lovely apple cheeks flush with a faint hint of pink I can still detect under the colorful lights. “It was my idea,” she says. “Confession, you kind of inspired it.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.” Her bright eyes sparkle up at me. “You should totally go up there. Show them how it’s done.”

“You think?”

“I know,” she says. “You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand, Vanni.”

With a shrug, I figure what the hell? I get in line and set up my song. I dig back in time a little deeper and pick “Time of the Season” by the Zombies, because I’ve always thought it was a sexy song. A sexy song deserves a sexy delivery, and I’m more than ready to shed that rat race idiot who used to work at McKinley, Donnelly and Roth. I toss my hair with my fingers, and I untuck my dress shirt, which I unbutton halfway down my chest. I almost wish I could shed it completely, but that seems too much.

Maybe one day…

As soon as I hit the stage, it’s as natural as breathing. I look out at the expectant faces in the crowd, like a lion surveys a pack of juicy wildebeests. The girls in particular are ripe for the picking. They brazenly scope me up and down, sending me suggestive smiles as they stare up at me. Well, what do you know? The girls I love actually love me back. They’re not looking down their noses at me like Stu. They’re not rolling their eyes at me like Lori. They look at me like I’m interesting, fascinating, appealing, and all I had to do was step on this stage. How fucking wonderful is that? The minute the song starts, I’m somebody else. Only this somebody isn’t some pathetic little automaton punching a time card. I wield power like a magician, and the microphone is my wand. I hear my voice through the speakers. It doesn’t even sound like me. It sounds better than me.

It’s him, the New Vanni who has finally given his last fuck.

***Watch Giovanni Carnelvale claw his way out of obscurity in VANNI: THE PREQUEL, available now for pre-order on Amazon, coming very soon to iTunes and B&N!

A #TBT post ten years in the making; or, how @HalSparks changed my life.

Way back in 2002, life was pretty mundane. I was a wife and a mother. I worked hard, supported the family, retained a few close friendships, including one with my ex that no one could understand.

And like all periods of life that are marked with perspective-changing events, the way I look at pre-2002 life has changed pretty significantly because of the way my life has gone post-2002. I don't even know if I'd recognize that Ginger anymore. A LOT has changed. You know how it is. Something monumental happens and it changes your world so much that you can't even really remember what life was truly like before that event. You're a different version of yourself, changed and altered forever, unable (and unwilling) to go back to the way you were.

My life could be marked in many significant ways, with pivotal relationships that could be used as mile markers along the journey. Things before my dad died versus after my dad died. Things before I met my best friend Jeff, and things after. Things before my worst mistakes or biggest blessings, and those things afterwards.

These relationships and events refined me, whittled me down to where I'm supposed to be, whether they burn long like a fuse, or explode like dynamite.

This month marks the ten-year mark anniversary of one such fortuitous meeting, and I am humbled to honor it today.

Like I said, life in 2002 was about as normal as normal gets for me. I was working from home, my kids were in elementary and middle schools. Steven worked varying jobs and my ex, Dan, lived right down the street, spending a great deal of time at the house so he could bond with the kids.

It was one of those rare times where I actually lived in the same town as my best friend, so we'd occasionally hang out or do stuff, like go to the bar or maybe a joint shopping spree at the local Walmart at two o'clock in the morning. (Hey. If it was good enough for Oprah... it was good enough for us.) Mostly we chatted online like we had since 1996, through instant messages that are an ever present corner at the top corner of my computer screen.



Despite my rather ordinary existence, I still harbored extraordinary dreams. I knew something was missing. I knew what I wanted, of course, but I wasn't entirely convinced that someone like me could get it. Like I said, things were a lot different back then. There were ten times as many gatekeepers as there were cheerleaders. Jeff thought I could get it. Steven thought I could get it. But there was that hidden part of me that wondered if they weren't just telling me what I wanted to hear just to make me happy, since agents, production companies and publishers remained unconvinced.

I mean, I wanted some pretty crazy stuff, and I began to think all those gatekeepers were in place to show me I was in no way prepared to make those things happen.

Still, thanks to Steven's influence, I was writing a lot back in those days. From January of 2002, I tinkered quite a bit with screenwriting. I joined online groups, I shared my work with a lot of other writers who helped me hone the craft. Back then the conventional wisdom was that you had to live in Los Angeles to make it as a working screenwriter, and I had just moved the year before. I wasn't in any mood to return. I still held onto my dream though, working diligently on producing the best content I could as I toiled at my craft, waiting for the Great Until to make all my lofty dreams reality.

If you've read FIERCE, then you already know about The Great Until. It's where most of us scaredy cats loiter, waiting for permission to chase after our dreams. The more stuff you put in between you and your dream, the longer get to entertain the fantasies of it coming true. It's like Schrodinger's Cat. The longer you keep your dream in the box, the longer you get to believe there's a chance it's still alive and well. Sure the hard reality and grim statistics suggest that your dream has suffocated and died a horrible death, but as long as you don't open that box, you'll never know which is which. "They" say never to ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to. Well, something on the "To Do" list is a lot shinier than something painful and disappointing listed in the "Fail" column, which was where most of my aspirations were destined to fall.

Let's face it. I was chasing an industry that says no way wore than it says yes. To stand out, I'd have to be special, and I was wholly unconvinced that I was. Nothing in my life supported the idea that I was one of the scant percent who could make a career out of writing. Everything "realistic" scoffed that I could beat the odds.

I had accepted the limits and was "realistic" about my journey; which is to say I downplayed and normalized the dream as some happy accident that might happen someday, rather than a plan with a purpose I could control if I put my mind to it. The way I was raised, however, believing in anything fantastic or extraordinary seemed stupid or arrogant. I mean, who did I think I was for cryin' out loud? I'd need some kind of proof that I wasn't just some average, ordinary girl, entertaining foolish dreams before I could really let myself commit to following them. Otherwise I'd just get my hopes up, and standard human logic advises against that.

I believed, like so many believe, that big things like that can't happen to someone like me. It would take a significant event, or at the very least, an objective observer, to convince me otherwise.

Funny thing about those events. You can never really predict in what kind of package they come. You think you know what it will look like (in my case, getting any traction from anyone in the industry on anything I've written,) but that's the thing about serendipity... it's supposed to surprise you. It happens by chance, and, in my case, from a completely unexpected source.

In 2002, I happened stumble across a 10-episode special called I Love the 80s on VH1, where various celebrities waxed nostalgic about a decade I knew all too well. I was in my early 30s then, so the nostalgia didn't quite hurt yet. It wasn't as long of a reach as say, my 40s, so it was fun to look back and reminisce.

Seeing as how I love comedy, it helped that the show was funny. Most of the talking heads were comedians of some sort, which I think was the bigger draw of the series. Yes, I could remember Trapper Keepers, who shot J.R., Tom Cruise dancing in his underwear or a variety of movies and songs I enjoyed throughout the decade, but to have all that funneled through the brilliant mind of a talented comedian was just icing on the proverbial cake.

One such comedian stood out among the rest almost from the beginning. It didn't take very long at all (about ten minutes into Episode 1, 1980, in fact, when he was talking about Strawberry Shortcake dolls,) before I found myself looking forward to what he would have to say about a topic. And I'd be disappointed if they didn't include anything from him at all. He was like Steven and Jeff all rolled into one. He was smart. He was funny. He was quick-witted. And he always said things about these topics that I could hear me or my friends saying. (Just probably not as funny.)

His name was Hal Sparks... and I knew instantly that he was a-freakin-dorable and double-dipped in awesomesauce.



I enjoyed those first 10 episodes of nostalgia mostly because of him. I was pleased when they decided to come back with even more 80s hilarity in I Love the 80s Strikes Back. Eventually they covered the 70s, the 90s and even the 2000s, and I watched every single one of them, both brand new and in reruns. I didn't pursue anything beyond that, really. There was no need. I didn't have premium channels, so I didn't get Queer as Folk, the Showtime series in which he starred from 2000-2005. After a cursory perusal through information online, I was pretty content to just enjoy him whenever he happened to pop up. This included a surprise appearance in Spider-man 2, where I may or may not have squealed in the theater like a complete dork of a fangirl. (Steven is currently under a gag order and not allowed to answer should you ask him about it. :-X)



What little I did learn about him over the next two years made me like him even more. It was really rather ridiculous how many new ways I found to admire him. He had a band, so that meant he was a rock star on TOP of being a comedian (which are two of my very favoritest things.)



He was even an accomplished martial artist, which... hot damn.



It was clear from the get-go that this was an exceptional human being. He cared about the world and the people in it, and was prepared and eager to do the hard work to change what needed to be changed.

Hal Sparks Talks Peace Semantics from nobody on Myspace.

What impressed me most, however, was the kindness that he showed to his fans. I was no stranger to fan clubs, especially online fan clubs. My experiences with such places were usually mixed. I'd usually find a few solid friends and then leave the group entirely thanks to some of the nastier, crazier members of the group.

And there were always nastier, crazier members of the group. Where do you think GROUPIE came from?

I didn't really see much of that when I did any initial research on Hal. (The crazies came later.) By 2004, when I would poke around Hal's message boards, I found that most of his most vocal fans were people like him; outspoken and driven and socially minded. This was a QAF audience, mostly. With QAF being such a progressive, fearless show, it would only stand to reason that the fans it attracted would be likewise.

So many of these folks had amazing stories to share. They would meet him and he'd be wonderful, which was important to me. I had already met one celebrity idol, only to watch him plummet off of the pedestal he had enjoyed for nineteen years. He dismissed me in one glance-over, simply because of how I looked. As groupies go, I'm not usually on the short list of folks who get handpicked for special treatment. Had my thinner, prettier friend not been with me, I'm fairly certain my toppled idol would have blown me off altogether, simply because he had the power to choose and plenty of options to choose from.

I knew I never wanted to go through that again. I get enough of that shit from "regular" people.

So I was perfectly content managing my growing fangirliness from afar. Things are just safer that way and, frankly, I'm used to it.

That all changed in November of 2004. I opened my email inbox and found a letter to me from the Hal Sparks website address. I thought maybe it was confirming my email address for the mailing list. I opened it and read, "A little birdie, and by little birdie I mean big birdie you're married to, told me it was your birthday!"

Unbeknownst to me, Steven had written Hal and asked him to wish me a happy birthday... which he did... cuz he's just that guy.

After that, I made the first timid steps to make contact myself. Hal was in the industry I aspired to enter myself, so I knew that I could learn a lot from him. What better teacher? He's smart and funny and fearless and accomplished... and I wanted to learn how to become a couple of those things. Like I said, I had big dreams. I wanted to write both books and movies, in whatever genre that tickled my fancy. I kept bumping up against walls that said I had to pick and choose, but I didn't want to do that. Hal could teach a master class about accepting no limits. And since he started his standup career at the tender age of 15, I knew damn well he certainly wasn't waiting around till the Great Until to get shit done.

How did he get so dadgum awesome? I had to know.

Thanks to a forum post he had written to tell folks about a brand new website called Myspace, I joined the burgeoning social media in its infancy. I was still insecure and self-conscious as hell. One of my Great Untils was when I'd look okay, more like everyone else, so that I could integrate myself into society. If any of you are old enough to remember early Myspace, it was like the land of Hotness over there. I knew I'd never fit in. So I created a profile and opted for good ol Opus as my avatar.



With my heart in my throat and trembling hands, I sent Hal that first "friend" request. I assumed he'd say no. I mean, why on Earth would he say yes? It seemed like such a pompous thing to do at the time. He didn't really know me from Eve and here I was, asking this famous guy I'd seen in movies and TV to be my friend? Even with his broad invitation issued on the fan forum, it seemed a little far-fetched, nay stupid and arrogant, to think someone like that could willfully accept me into his circle, even if it was in the hyper-reality of cyberspace.

Little did I know, this was Lesson #1. I now had the opportunity to chip away at my tiny, limited comfort zone. What I wanted was placed on the other side of what I thought I deserved or had earned. Asking for something just because I wanted it, and thinking I could get it just because I was little ol' me? Unthinkable!

It was because I really, really, wanted to be worthy of that circle that I sent that first request. Then I sat back... and I waited. And I waited. I waited some more. He never responded. I figured, well that's that. I reached for something I knew I didn't deserve and I got shot down. Score one for pessimism. I was ready to shrink back into my safe little comfort zone until I read one of his Myspace blogs about owning how ridiculously oddball unique we all are, even if we're wearing the Internet as a mask.

A mask, huh?

With all the bravery someone like me can muster, I replaced Opus for a picture of me at last. This time when I sent the request, it was approved.

This first lesson was absolutely circumstantial, granted. With as many people trying to contact him or friend him, it was entirely possible that he had never even seen the first request. Still, I took it as a sign from the universe that we get rewarded in this life when we're brave enough to be ourselves. And from then on, I was a little bolder as I interacted on his page. If I had a thought, particularly one that might make him smile or laugh, I'd put it in his comments section. No real reply needed. That helped stave off the fear of rejection, which allowed me to be more myself. My comfort zone expanded just as my margin of error shrank. Because of this, I found a lot of new friends, and readers, through those comments. They'd read my comments on his profile or blog, then check out my profile or blog - which I had already begun to use as an outlet for the writing, making my work public at last.

Little by little, I was being pointed in the direction of my dreams, forced to turn them into a plan of action to make those dreams come true.

I don't think I would have done that (as smoothly, wisely and as quickly) without Hal's influence leading the way. As usual, Hal was on the forefront of something amazing that was about to happen, in this case utilizing social media to build a brand for a creative artist. It was the dawn of the indies, which would eventually give way to YouTube and Facebook and Twitter. Everything I've done online to build my public brand started with that Myspace account, where I fearlessly posted my thoughts, my feelings and my creative endeavors for the masses, with all the stupid arrogance it took to assume I had a voice that demanded to be heard every bit as much as, well, Hal Sparks.



It was a great little playground. I felt my way around to figure out my voice, and what I wanted to say. I posted chapters from books for free, particularly during Nanowrimo season, and found myself with a following of my own. It was all the validation I needed from somewhere I never could have predicted way back in 2002, or 1996 or 1990, or even way back in 1981 when I figured out I had a talent wif dah wordz.

Just that one little change - coming out from behind the shadows - opened up a whole new world for me. Later I would write about that phenomenon in LOVE PLUS ONE, where my insecure heroine had to make some bold choices to claim what belonged rightfully to her. Her lesson... my lesson... was that inadequacy is a self-defeating perception. We both needed our eyes opened to another way.



(One guess who showed me that motivational vid.)

The lessons were there in so many places. I just had to be ready for them. I began to seriously contemplate going to see a show for Hal, but also to meet the friends I was making within the Hal World. I'm an antisocial girl, mostly. I have social anxiety and all kinds of fun little phobias. But within this safe, sheltering group, I was allowed to make a lot of real connections with folks, connections I'm proud to say have lasted to this day as well.

I was so empowered by these new friendships that I felt ready for my next lesson, pass or fail. I finally decided to go to see a Hal show in San Francisco in July of 2005. This allowed for a holiday vacation with Steven's family as well. I'd fly up to San Francisco while Steven and the boys got to visit his family. It was a win for everyone.

The trip getting there (we drove both ways,) was eventful in and of itself, where we drove through tornadic storms through Lubbock, Texas and Clovis, NM. I was selected for additional security in Vegas, where my companion and I flew to San Francisco while my guys headed south to Orange County. I missed my flight and got bumped for a later one, which spelled trouble for my plans to get to the city early and settle in before rushing to the show.

It felt like yet another obstacle course, wedging me even further out of my comfort zone. In the end, it didn't matter. Once Hal hit that stage, he was every bit as fantastic as all the evidence had suggested he'd be. He was and is, by far, the funniest stand-up comedian I've ever seen, well-worth the ticket price the instant he walked out onto the stage. The show was so great that I convinced myself I didn't even have to meet him in order to feel like I had gotten the most I could out of the experience.

I was still paranoid, so I was ready to bolt right back to my safe comfort zone if there was even a glimmer of rejection to be found. And I'm used to rejection, so the odds were definitely not in my favor to go well. I thought he'd look me over once and then his eyes would glass over with this unspoken and subtle disgust that I have seen in a LOT of men's eyes just passing them on the street. Such a thing would be devastating. Not only would it hurt my feelings in the moment, it'd make me question my judgment forever that he was just some pompous jerk and not the decent guy I thought he was. With all my experiences, I needed to know I could still spot a decent guy.

I think mostly I was looking for the cracks in the veneer. I mean, there had to be, right? With everything I had been through in my life, surely I couldn't get lucky enough that this would go well. Frankly, Hal was too good to be true.

It was during that second show of the night, where I watched him perform some of the same bits and laughed just as hard as if I had never seen them before, when I finally mustered the courage to meet him afterwards. (The twofour-drink minimum helped.) See, Hal usually does a Meet and Greet after every show, where he'll pose for pictures with the audience, taking time to say hello to every single person who wants to meet him. By the end of the second set, I knew I had some choices to make. I could either walk right out of that lobby, around the large group waiting to speak to Hal, and just be content that I got my money's worth with the show.

OR... I could take a chance, say hello, be myself and be okay whether he was a jerk or not, and just hope beyond hope that this time someone actually was what he appeared to be.

Despite the fact that I had developed an online relationship with him *avoiding* rejection to keep that damn cat in that damn box as long as possible, I opted for the latter.

I'm sure my knees clattered the entire time I stood in line, waiting my turn. The closer we got, the more nervous I got. I laughed a little too loud (and my laugh is obnoxious anyway,) which drew his attention to me. Our eyes met and there was this incredible moment when I knew I was looking at someone who didn't see me as inferior just because of how I looked. I can usually tell those things immediately - whether I'm looking for them or not. I knew it in that instant that he saw me as a person, which isn't always common with the men I meet - particularly the good-looking ones.

Hal wasn't like that at all. In fact, he kept looking over the gal's shoulder, almost as if he was including me in the conversation. Because he's that guy. He is a warm and open person who envelops the people around him. Back in 2004, when they organized a fan event for him around his birthday, he walked out of the venue and down the street to find someone who was too intimidated to meet him, just so he could say hi. He makes people feel welcome and important. He's completely and totally present in the moment in a way that you really can't predict from his machine-gun comic delivery and smartass persona. There's something genuine underneath, something undeniably attractive - but not necessarily in the sexual sense. You find yourself wanting to talk more, spend more time, linger in the conversation, because these are never light conversations. Even when he's making you laugh, he's making you think. And he is as generous with his time as we could ever hope someone in his position could be. I've been in lines that lasted for hours, simply because he won't rush anyone off or cheat anyone out of a 100% focused experienced, no matter how long it takes or how tired he might have been, or pressed for time.



When I finally got my chance to talk to him at last, I know I was a ridiculous doofus about the whole thing, stammering like an idiot and shaking like a leaf on a tree. I was right at that line of what I wanted vs. what I thought I deserved. Why should he be nice to me? Why should he care about me at all? I'm just some nobody, a face in the crowd. Still, I mustered all my courage and introduced myself as Ginger from Myspace. As many comments as I had left, I was sure he'd know who I was from that alone, and of course he did, because he's that guy. He might have even recognized my face from the photo, which would explain his instant and unconditional hospitality. He remembers things like names and faces and all those little details others might forget. He's genuinely happy to interact with those people who have come to see him. Thanks to this welcoming vibe, I blabbered immediately about the tornadoes (word vomit) and said that I needed a hug, which he promptly gave without any hesitation. He leaned in immediately for a picture.



As you can see, that's a genuine smile. There's nothing faked about about it. He didn't grab some random passerby to insert in between us so he didn't have to touch me like SOME celebrities who shall remain nameless (*cough*Neal Schon*cough*.) Instead, Hal gave me another hug as we parted, one for the road I guess, and I didn't even have to ask. Cuz he's that guy. I asked him before I left if my messages on his page bothered him and he said not at all, and that was that.

I was allowed - and welcomed - to be myself. Someone as smart, funny, fearless and accomplished as that didn't find it arrogant or stupid at all for someone like me to be, well, me. What a revelation. Walls around my comfort zone were demolished in the space of a hug.

Needless to say, I became a complete Hal Sparks comedy groupie.

In the past ten years, I've seen him perform more times than I can count, in cities all around the country, traveling to places I've never been, meeting people I never would have met otherwise. I've done a lot of promotional work for him, which trained me how to do stuff for myself when the time came. And thanks to these last ten years, and the most important lesson he's ever taught me, that time finally came. Thanks to him, I was actually trained for it and ready to work just as hard for it as he does.

That was yet another course taught at Hal Sparks U. Excellence doesn't come easy.



The greatest gift he ever could have given me was the ability to see myself as he saw me: a valuable human being whose worth was not conditional and whose dreams and ambitions were not silly. He basically erased that line between what I wanted and what I thought I deserved, changing the meme to: If you want it, go and get it. Not only was I empowered to believe in my crazy dreams, I was challenged, repeatedly, on what the hell I was waiting for to make them come true. It wasn't just that he believed I could amazing things, he never considered for one moment that I couldn't. What makes it even more special is that he doesn't just do it for me. He wants to get that message across to everyone, because he's that guy. When he meets someone, he doesn't put that person in a box. He allows you to be who you are and encourages you towards your own personal excellence.

He believes that everyone has the capacity to be awesome, so much so he will resist a lot of the credit folks like me try to give him when we say he's been an integral part of our growth. When I saw him in August of 2014, right after my agent told me she had sold my first book to a publisher, he reminded me that it was me who did that, and it is perfectly okay, even necessary, for me to own it. For someone who was raised to believe you needed to be humble and meek to be "good," it has been life-changing to meet someone who suggests that polite humility is a big fat waste of time.



(Okay, so that's a playful exaggeration. The song does remind me of Hal, though, who has a healthy self-esteem and a tongue-in-cheek sense of humor, and if you've ever seen him as Donald Davenport on Lab Rats, you'll get a chuckle out of it.)

In the end, his directives to live your best life are pretty simple. Own your accomplishments. Dare to be amazing. Fuck average.



For many, this kind of cocky arrogance can be off-putting. There's a fine line between awesome and asshole. The thing about Hal is that he doesn't think he's better than everyone else. He thinks everyone has the ability to be awesome. It's not a race. It's not a competition. He values the potential of people. Even if someone is an asshole to him, I've seen him spend time to explain a point of view or get to the root of a misunderstanding. He sometimes even gives people more respect than others think they deserve. But his patience is endless, even if it takes ten years to get all the lessons he's been subtly teaching.

*Ahem.*



Hal Sparks helped changed my world because he added a strong, sure voice to the chorus of people around me telling me I could change it; if I didn't like where I was then it was up to me to do something about it. Where I was worried endlessly I didn't quite make the cut to make my dreams come true, he's been a constant voice saying I have everything I need to do anything I want. Unlike so many, who blow off crazy ambition, he gets excited about it. He wants to see ordinary people learn how extraordinary they are, by doing things they can only dream of doing. He was a larger than life teacher for my larger than life ambitions, guiding me even when he didn't realize he was doing so.

There have been times I've learned more in the silence than I have in face-to-face conversations. He's on his own path, and he's striding confidently where he wants to go, with the assumption that we'll all keep up in pursuit of our own path. He doesn't have time to lag behind to wait for someone to "get it." He kinda marches ten steps ahead and says, "Hey, you should totally see what it's like up here!" You either join him or don't. (Basically, I run to keep up.)

He's always kinda known what I needed when I needed it, even if I didn't know what I needed at the time. When there have been misunderstandings or unintentional offenses, he's been gracious and forgiving of me if I messed up, or apologetic if he felt he had. We've finally reached a place where there are no expectations. We give what we want when we want to, and we both appreciate each and every kindness like the gift it is.

It's all very zen, part of how completely he accepts the people around him. This is mind-blowing for someone like me, who had lived my whole life thinking I had to work extra hard to be considered half as worthy. With Hal, and all the amazing, like-minded people I've met through him, I'm always accepted. I'm always welcomed. I'm always valued.

I can honestly say I never saw this coming when I was watching VH1 in 2002. But then... that's what makes life so freaking cool, isn't it?

And this month, I have the privilege of saying that I've known this amazing person ten incredible, life-changing years. So cheers to a remarkable man, an unexpected friend and an endless source of inspiration. There were things I would never have seen and done without him, and stories that I could have never told if I never met him. He's changed my perspective, and that is a priceless gift.

It's been quite a ride, Hal. And you know? I wouldn't change a thing.

#TBT - Once a groupie, always a groupie. #teamvanni

When I wrote a fanciful tale about an ordinary groupie getting her shot with a hot rock star, I had no idea how my life was about to change. I thought hey, it might be fun to have crazy wild sex with a hot rocker, and figured other readers might agree. I've been around fandoms for a long time, I know the kind of fantasies that are understandably entertained.

Oddly, though, the book morphed into something else entirely for me. The internal conversation when something like this:

"What happens when you finally get the guy everyone wants?"

"It ain't good, girl."

Truth be told, I ended up writing it mostly as therapy. I was going through some challenging times between 2009-2012, where my life was full of people that didn't always honestly represent who they were or what they wanted. This was tough for me because I kind of take people at face value. If you call yourself a friend, I'll treat you like one until you show me otherwise.

Between 2009-2012, there was nothin' but otherwise. And it sucked. BIG time.

Needless to say, I had a bitter taste in my mouth by the time I wrote GROUPIE, book 1, in 2011. After the lead-up and the conquest between the two primary characters, I was no longer enamored of the idea of sleeping with an idol. Where the plot went after that could only be blamed on how fed up to the eyeballs I was by people who "friended" me just because they wanted something they thought I had. (And I didn't, which makes the whole thing even more pathetic.)

Honestly it made me a little pathetic too. Everyone had a different story and I didn't know who to believe. Andy's wide-eyed, undying optimism from the story is pulled almost directly from real life. Yes, she was often an idiot. Write what you know and all that.

Like I always do, I work shit out when I write. Some people read to escape. I write to make realism bearable. I take my pain and make it work for me. And that's what GROUPIE was. It was inspired by the good, and not so pretty, parts of being involved in any fandom, or getting too close to any idol. There's the unattainable object of your attraction, yes, but there is also many folks who would smile to your face while stabbing you right in the back, for no particular reason really. You are just often in the way. It took me a long time to dissect my feelings and make sense of it all. Andy's and Vanni's world was a safe place to do that because it, unlike my own, was within my control.

When I put the GROUPIE TRILOGY to rest, I thought I had exorcised every single demon that had chased me to tell the tale. There didn't seem more to add because, thankfully, I had ended all the toxic relationships that had inspired a lot of the trouble found within the books. In that way, the story was very liberating. Even if I hadn't made a dime on it, I would have gotten something significant from it. It helped me cope and it helped me heal. I really can't put a price on what that meant for me.

Remarkably, the story I wrote to make sense of real life BS ended up being the one book out of all of my books to draw an audience. People loved the angst of it, which was as real as dared to make it. If you felt like tossing your Kindle across the room or shaking me senseless, rest assured - I had already had every single one of those feelings and then some.

Every character, every twist... and of course, Vanni himself... pulled readers every which way, just like the real life events that inspired the story.

Not bad for a story where I shamelessly and thoroughly explored the darker side of a long-standing fantasy of mine. That it could actually see a modicum of success was just the Universe's way of saying, "Yeah, I saw all that crap you had to go through. My bad. Here. Buy yourself something pretty."

In a very odd way, GROUPIE kept me grounded. It made me stronger. It made me wiser. It was not only a masterclass in becoming a professional writer (and all that entails,) but it was an eye-opening experience as I got to live in the skin of the people I hated or resented the most. At the end of the day, I felt empathy for the people had hurt me. (I was given advice by a principle player in this drama to always try to understand the other person's point of view and motivation, even if they're a "bad guy." Instead of torturing this character like any vindictive writer worth her salt, I began to understand why the character did the heinous things she did.)

It made it easier to put all the crap in the past at last.

I loved my GROUPIE family so much that I couldn't resist bringing them back again and again whenever I could, though. Vanni, especially, is a fan favorite every bit as much as he is mine. It always gives me a thrill when I can bring him back to tell new stories, usually as a supporting character or cameo. There never seemed much point in adding to his story, as the trilogy ended exactly the way I wanted (needed) it to end.

It began to dawn on me not too long ago that I might have been thinking much too small. There is more to explore than I originally thought, or so Vanni kept whispering in my ear. (And y'all know I can't deny that man.)

So I am BEYOND excited to announce that one of your favorite book boyfriends is BACK this July!!



Book 4 of the GROUPIE SAGA is not a rehash of what you've read before. It's a prequel, rather than an alternate POV. Instead, I get to dig deep in Vanni's history, and what made him the womanizing manwhore that kept us all in knots for three books straight.

As it turns out, he still has a lot to say.

So prepare your TBR list for July 24, 2015, when VANNI returns to your bookshelf with a brand new sexy tale of how he rose from a lowly waiter to a rock star poised to take over the music industry. There will be sex. There will be drugs. There will be rock and roll.

There will be Vanni.

And he can't wait to sing naughty things in your ear once more.



For those who have not yet met Vanni, you don't have to read the first three books to read #4. If you want to, however, GROUPIE, Book 1 in the saga, is now FREE on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes and Kobo.

It's not too late to board this train. But hold on tight... cuz it's going to get crazy.