Guest Blog: Autumn Rosen

Today's guest is Autumn Rosen who has taken time out of her busy schedule to share an extract from her novel, My Novel Affair. Welcome to The World According to Dave, Autumn, and many thanks for the novel extract. It sounds fantastic, especially the dwarf with the bazooka! I could use one of those at home when our six cats are running riot! I also love the book cover. My Novel Affair is available on Amazon and Smashwords so be sure to check it out. 

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First I would like to thank you, Mr. David Brown, for this opportunity.

I would like to promote my book, My Novel Affair.

My Novel Affair is about one author's big imagination and how she uses it to change her life. This little romantic comedy includes a bazooka wielding dwarf, a great white shark and love.

ONE

I Hate Casey Lattimer!

 

The note simply read:

Dear Casey Lattimer,

I'm going to kill you.

Sincerely,

Your Creator

Startled, Detective Lattimer dropped the note on her desk and looked around the mysteriously vacant office. Something was wrong, was she in one of her visions? She looked down at her watch; the second hand was still making its way around the dial. Time was moving forward, so this was not one of her visions. Hearing the elevator bell echo across the otherwise empty homicide floor, Casey stood up, her hand on her sidearm.

The doors opened. A woman stepped off, her gaze fixed on the New York City detective.

Lattimer mentally collected the physical traits of the stranger and set it to memory. The five-foot tall blond, had a pale complexion and did not seem to be much of a threat. She wore a tailored red business suit and her red lipstick painted a suspicious smile.

"Hello Casey."

"Who are you?" asked Lattimer nervously. The two of them being alone in the usually bustling office, set her on edge.

The woman stepped out of the elevator, her three-inch heels meeting the floor in audible clicks as she walked toward Casey. With a smirk, she spoke with clear, concise English, giving Lattimer no clue of her origin. "You may call me, 'Sick of You.'

Lattimer frowned, confused. The woman stopped in front of, her partner, Detective Lorenzo's desk.

"Do I know you?"

"No, why would you? I'm no one, just a writer with no real significance. They want you, not me."

The detective raised an eyebrow, confused. "Who wants me?"

The woman placed her hands on Lorenzo's desk and leaned forward, slyly smiling at Casey. "All your adoring fans, Detective Lattimer."

Casey crossed her arms, "I don't have fans, I'm a detective and I put away serial killers. Trust me, they don't like me."

"I know. And no matter how truly evil each and every one of them are, I have always let you win. You solve the case, get a pat on the back from your co-workers and Captain Phillips. Then the commissioner announces the end of 'the worst terror' ever unleashed on New York. You follow that up by having earth-shaking sex with your lover of choice and I type 'The End'." The woman rested one hip on Lorenzo's desk as though it were a familiar seat. "Hardly seems fair to me Detective Lattimer."

Casey shook her head confounded by the woman's words, "Did you escape from Bellevue's psych ward or something?"

The stranger in red then stood up and laughed. "See, this is why I have to kill you, you're a bitch."

Detective Lattimer drew her weapon and pointed it at the woman. "I'm going to guess that you are 'My Creator'."

The blond smiled and pulled open one side of her jacket, and reached into the inside breast pocket.

Lattimer took a firing stance and shouted, "Put your hands where I can see them!"

Rolling her eyes at the detective, the woman pulled a full sized laptop from her jacket much to the surprise and disbelief of Casey Lattimer, who once again shouted to the stranger to show her hands. Instead, the woman laid the computer on the vacant desk and opened it.

Not knowing what the stranger was about to do, Detective Lattimer, feeling she had no other choice, fired her weapon."

The bullet struck the woman in red, directly in the center of her chest, knocking her off her feet.

Casey rounded the desk and looked down at the woman lying on the floor. She struggled to speak through the blood filling her throat. "I freaking hate you, Casey Lattimer and I will end you," the stranger gurgled, and took her last breath.

Detective Lorenzo suddenly appeared. He looked down at the body and then at Lattimer. "You're cleaning blood spatter off my desk, and when you're done, I'm going to take you right here." He smiled mischievously, pulled Casey into his arms and kissed her passionately.

 

Damn it! Even when I'm daydreaming, she still kicks my ass. I really need to imagine a faster, easier method of doing her in.

Frustrated by the loss of my mental cat-and-imaginary-mouse game, I focused on my surroundings. The store had cleared some shelves out of the Fiction section, allowing more room for the fans of my novel nemesis and creation, Detective Casey Lattimer. Checking my watch, I noticed I had a little less than ten minutes until my scheduled reading. I cursed to myself. Next time Lattimer, next time.  

Sitting back in my chair I placed bookmarks in the novel I was about to read aloud to the people filing in. Five years ago, the crowd forming in front of me would have caused the hiccups. My curse, when I get nervous, is hiccups that can't be cured by holding my breath or drinking water.

I can thank the eardrum-piercing voice of Beverly Provost, my agent, for pushing me into these book readings and signings. Don't get me wrong, outside of my circle of friends, Beverly is my favorite person.

To be honest, I avoided doing publicity for a while, hoping my writing alone would merit a sale. Beverly eventually wore me down by telling me repeatedly during that second year, I should meet my fans in person and enjoy what was then a budding celebrity status. She made me choose. It was selling novels from the grave, (after jumping off a bridge to escape her glass-shattering octaves), or just sucking it up and doing some readings. So, I sucked it up.

Because of this, I am sitting in Barnes & Noble in Manhattan waiting to read the first two chapters from "Lattimer Haunted." The bookstore is near the NBC news studios, where this morning, I sat during an interview with Ann Curry on the Today Show.

I don't mind interviews, and I love talking about writing, because it is my passion. From experience, I realize no one cares about who created these people. Fans want the character, not the author. Readers want the detective who shoots the criminal in the head in self-defense — followed by hot, steamy sex scenes. Damn you, Casey!

The crowd in the bookstore is large. Even with a dreary fall rain outside, many people have gathered around the already filled chairs to listen to me read about how Detective Casey Lattimer successfully busts the latest serial killer.

Casey has this extraordinary ability to see through the eyes of the dead and things they touch and of course, always saves the day. To top it off, she has an incredible on-off relationship with a shockingly hot detective, who touches her in all the right places, and does not snore or talk about the golf green in his sleep.

I hate her!

Tomorrow, I will fly home. If Gary, my spouse, is there, I will most likely fall over the golf bag that he always seems to leave in the foyer. My husband will peck me on top of my head as he leaves—if he can find the time to hunt me down in my office.

Yeah, Casey gets to shoot people, while I get to trip over their crap.

If Gary is not on his way out to a golf course, he will have his phone plugged into his ear. He does this so he can yell at his assistant, Joyce, mostly about the choice of manuscripts she sends him. With him, it's all work, or golf.

My thoughts return to loathing my novel nemesis. Maybe I will let Detective Lattimer have it. For a year, I have been tossing around the idea of killing her off, just so I can sleep at night.

After the most difficult of cases and narrow escapes that might have ended her life, she is always, at the last minute, somehow saved. I could just drop her down an elevator shaft. Because she'd be too busy living her perfect existence, and would miss seeing the elevator is not there when the doors open.

Oops.

I would be courteous enough to write myself in, so I could wave to her as she plummets.

Phil, the store manager, stands up in front of me in very loose Dockers. His pants make it seem as though someone has stolen his ass. If you are going to put your ass in front of someone, at least have one.

"Hello and welcome to our latest reading and book signing for the exciting new novel Lattimer Haunted. This is the sixth installment of the Casey Lattimer series by Sinara Ellis!"

There was a round of applause as the store manager moved out of the way and I stepped up to the podium. I smiled at the crowd, "Hello, I'm Sinara Ellis. I want to thank all of you for coming to my book reading today. I'll be signing books and answering your questions after the reading." I stopped to reach for my water bottle. "One minute." I took a drink from my Evian and placed it back under the podium. "I'll be reading from the first two chapters of Lattimer Haunted. I hope you enjoy it." I pushed my glasses up on my nose so the print was clear, and I began.

After finishing chapter one, where Casey complains about not having her lover with her, and a new homicide case, I read into chapter two for my audience. In it, Casey is called to another murder scene. The killer, watching the cops arrive at the building, spots Detective Lattimer. He chooses her to be his next victim and starts planning his hunt for her.

Casey is everything I'm not. I can best describe her as a man with a vagina. Deep down, she is aware that she's phenomenal. Detective Lattimer is not afraid to shoot a man for letting her win an arm-wrestling match to protect her ego. She worships the New York Yankees and sleeps with a gun under her pillow. She is also a sexual deviant. Real women are not like that—this is why most of my fans are men. Casey Lattimer is the woman they want. She stands for truth, justice and getting laid.

Do not get me wrong, women are just as guilty of reading books to find that missing pleasure in a nonexistent man. We will spend two bucks at a resale bookshop because we are ashamed to pay full price for the lusty words to describe the sex we genuinely want.

I believe there should be a law that all men read sex scenes in romance novels, where the studs on the covers are physical gods with perfect bodies and turgid members that are always the right size. They could learn so much.

Okay fine, you do not have to be the guy on the front wearing only a cowboy hat, or that loincloth that seems to be blowing in the wind, but never quite high enough to give us a peek. Just learn to have the sex that will make a girl scream—instead of screwing it up and climaxing before we are even close. This leaves us frustrated as you roll over and fall asleep.

Let's face it guys, if you were willing to satisfy, women would be less likely to let themselves go. We would not be sitting at home eating ice cream because it is pretty much the only thing that seems to satisfy us other than cookie dough and shoe shopping—neither of which compares to the ultimate earth-shattering orgasm.

Ouch, the truth hurts!

Both men and women spend our lives dreaming that we will find something we do not. In the end we end up settling, don't kid yourselves; you know, deep down you did too. 

I know I did.

I have not climaxed in five years with Gary. That's right—I have been married six years and unsatisfied for most of them. Before our marriage, we spent entire weekends in bed. He was still wooing me and the sex could move planets in my head. Then again, I told the truth about my sexual satisfaction back then. 

We can blame the monotony of it all on travel, or our careers or half-a-million other things. I don't know what happened. I faked it for a while, hoping that my moans of pleasure would cause him excitement, like positive reinforcement for dogs, thinking maybe he would try harder—but no.

I love Gary—I think. We work together and that relationship is strong, he's my editor. I cling to the hope that when I finally let Casey Lattimer go off to wherever I send her, Gary and I can be the people we were five years ago. However, it is a struggle. He keeps pushing for more novels and I keep trying to kill her. Thankfully, there is light at the end of the tunnel. My contract only has one more book for the series. Although my publisher has offered me another four-book deal for the Lattimer series, I have yet to respond.

 

After signing about a hundred inside pages of Casey Lattimer novels and chatting up my fans, I thanked Phil and hailed a cab to my hotel.

I met Beverly for a quiet dinner that evening, if you can call dinner with her voice's pitch, quiet.

"Sinnie, I'm so excited to hear how the next book is coming. Do you have a title yet?"

I smiled at her, while on the inside, I wanted to stab my eardrums with my salad fork. "I'm still working on that Bev. I want it to be just right." I don't have a real title, not one I want to give her. I doubt that she would like Lattimer Falls Down and Goes BOOM!

Beverly took a drink of her wine and looked at me with a smile, "Alright Sinnie, you have to tell me, is Casey going to wear that red wedding dress you wrote about in Lattimer Haunted? I have to know. Does Lorenzo finally get her to cave? He's so hot, I would."

I took a long drink from my wine glass until I emptied it. Why does she do this to me? "I'm not at fifty pages yet, and you know the deal. I don't show and tell until I have a comfortable start. This tour has really cut into my writing time." Beverly usually accepts this excuse for my lack of literary output. Besides, I don't know yet. I am still thinking about the elevator shaft scenario. I guess I could be cruel and have Detective Lorenzo drop her down the shaft after they get married.

I apparently started to staring into space, because Beverly startled me. "Sinnie, don't go into la-la land on me. You have to give me something. I want to keep the publisher excited."

This was my agent's very bad excuse and a total lie. Beverly would make a horrible lawyer. For those that know her well, it is easy to hear that squeaky-door pitch at the end of a fib she tells. Yes, her pitch gets higher when she lies, dogs howl in pain in the distance, glass shatters and small children's ears start bleeding. "I know better, Beverly. I live with my editor."

Beverly sighed and drank more wine, looking rather hurt. "Sinnie, it's so hard to wait. And with only a few weeks left until it's due, I was just hoping you could give me a little clue. Maybe just a little taste really; can't you tell me anything?"

I sat thinking of a way to say 'Casey turns into a klutz at the wrong time.' Then I lied to her, mostly because I was unwilling to make her cry in public. "Casey is going to surprise everyone in a big way. That's all I'm saying, Beverly."

The broad smile that came across her face immediately told me I had chosen my words well.

"I'm so excited! You have no idea Sinnie."

We finished dinner with small talk and another bottle of wine.

I said my good-byes to her and promised to call her when I returned to Arizona. Then waving down a cab, I headed back to my hotel to pack and sleep. This was the last city in the tour for Lattimer Haunted, unless the book went to a second printing, like the last one did.

I checked my phone to find no calls from Gary, not even a call to ask how it went. Have we already reached this point? He knows it went well, as usual, so why ask? He is probably sitting at the clubhouse drinking and screaming into his Bluetooth at someone, most likely his assistant.