I don't let go easily of the things I love. Ask anyone.
Way, way, WAY back in the day, I honed my storytelling skill with a growing population of Barbie dolls. I created this whole ongoing soap opera around characters I painstakingly created day by day, story by story. I didn't need to change anyone, I just added to the canvas. Ken and Barbie became David and Laura. When they were settled in marital bliss, I added Superman and Golden Dream Barbie as Robert and Jenny to their world, full of the excitement of new love, with a steady stream of supporting characters in a universe I built one story at a time. And I kept these stories going for *years*. It would take me months to work out a plot. My favorite example of this, mostly because it sticks out most in my mind, is when my model Jenny Gold was kidnapped by her stalker, photographer Kevin Sherwood, in the spring of 1982. He kept her on a private island almost the entire duration of her pregnancy, where he attempted to woo her and win her heart. Kevin was deranged and he thought if she had the baby there, with him, they could start over as a new family even though he wasn't the biological father. Over long, arduous months, Jenny had to get through to her abductor so he could return her to her husband, her daughter, her friends and family, and the entire world who believed she was dead.
Yes, I was twelve at the time I came up with this, but I grew up watching General Hospital. What, really, did you expect?
Day after day I would return to this story and these characters, excited to watch it play out. I would go so far as to tape tissue around her tummy in every so small increments to show the passage of time via her pregnant tummy, which - looking back now - was the mark of a budding screenwriter. Talk about "show don't tell."
I let this whole storyline blossom in real time, and yes, that means over nine months. I knew where I was going with it, but I cranked out that angst by the day as if I didn't. I had just way too much fun in the details of telling the story I didn't want to end. Jenny was one of my all-time favorite characters, wholesome, devoted, down-to-earth, much like my character Rachel grew up to be, and I loved watching her try every single day to fight for herself and her family as she dealt with a man so damaged that he didn't know how to love anyone or truly connect beyond some crazy sick power play.
Ah, me and my damaged men.
He went on to return Jenny home to her husband in time for the baby to be born, and ultimately changed enough and grew to find love again years later. Yes. Years. He had one disastrous marriage with an opportunistic starlet (Bambi) before he met the woman who was so damaged she needed *him* - and they saved each other.
You're going to see a story like that unfold in the near future, methinks.
Honestly I don't know how my crazy Barbie soap opera ended, or if it ever did. If I know me, it didn't officially end, it was merely abandoned. There was always a new story to tell, and I learned from my soap operas that there is no such thing as a happy ending. If your couple finally gets together, you better cut and run because things won't stay happy for long. Happy people make for boring stories. If you want to keep your favorite characters in the forefront, there has to be conflict. Period. That's what keeps you going back time after time. You just have to see how the story ends.
Makes me kind of sad to bid all my characters adieu because that means that excitement is over. N' I don't want it to be. I spent so much time with them and now they have to go away because that's just how books work. They need a beginning, middle and... sadly... an end.
When I got to Book #11, Mogul, I decided to start Stephen-Kinging things. Stephen King, for those who don't know, has callbacks in his books to OTHER books he's written, other places, other characters. It's just a little hidden gem that only the true fans will see and "get", which made me feel special. So I decided if I couldn't indulge my characters beyond a HEA without throwing a lot of drama their way, meaning a never-ending saga with cliffies and frustration galore, they could make guest appearances in books so my fans will know what those characters are up to.
I figure if I want to know, maybe you do too.
I ended up building this universe of interconnected characters. I write a lot about music, so my mogul Graham Baxter shows up on the regular, as do his biggest stars like Vanni Carnevale and Jace Riga. I wrote a book about caterers, so now I have people to cater all of these big events. I created a club just for the kinds of characters I love to write (big girls and the gay men that love them.) Through it all you get peeks at the life beyond the HEAs where I begrudgingly said goodbye to in their own books, simply because I had to abandon the story before it took another rocky turn.
This left me only one rule to abide by: I couldn't change their story. I could add to it, I just couldn't undo what I had already set in stone in previous books, because you know what that means. More books. Lots and lots of books. Books with lots of loose ends that drive many readers of romance up a tree, who expect you to follow two strict rules: write primarily about one relationship and end it happily.
Here's the thing about rules. They're meant to be broken. Story, which is my only master, sometimes demands it.
MASKED IN THE MUSIC was never meant to be just another romance who happened to star two hot men this time around. The thing that plants my butt in the chair is if I have something to add to the conversation about what is going on in our world. After Orlando I knew I had some things to say, particularly about the violent hatred that surrounds our LGBT brothers and sisters. See, I remember quite well leaving a gay bar in Amarillo, Texas, where beefed up macho dickheads in their Douche Trucks surrounded around the joint, yelling epithets and waving baseball bats, ready to do some damage because they thought one group in particular deserved it. You'd think, some twenty years later, our conversation would have evolved. But when so-called men of God use the massacre in Orlando, that some have called the worst terrorist attack since 9/11, to drive this hateful agenda home, you know things are as bad as they ever were.
The conversation still rages on.
When I stepped into the shoes of a young gay man, I knew I couldn't shy away from these painful realities and scary possibilities. And, in true Ginger fashion, I tossed it all in a pile, covered it with gasoline and set it on fire. To change the conversation, the story has to have an impact. And it has to hurt in order to make that impact.
I wasn't afraid to show the consequences of what happens when we allow blind, bigoted hatred to fester. It shattered my heart to realize I needed to risk some of the characters I loved most to do it.
Warnings on books drive me crazy, but I'll break my own rules here and offer you one. (Again, story demands it.) Someone you came to love in a previous book will pay the ultimate price when everything explodes at the end of MASKED. And to raise the stakes I make sure *everyone* is there during this critical moment. Vanni, Graham, Andy, Rachel... No matter what book you read - all of your favorite characters are present when the shit hits the fan.
You want a warning about my books? Here it is: From now on, all standalone books that have a complete story are part of a bigger book universe. If you want to know more, the "more" is out there. If you want to stop at the HEA, or HFN, then you have that option too. (Mostly. As always, I cannot and will not ensure each book ends with a HEA.)
Welcome to my universe. Enter if you dare.
Sneak Peek from MASKED IN THE MUSIC, which releases THIS SUNDAY, September 25th.
I met the guys at Graham’s downtown office at eight-thirty in the morning. We were ushered into the enormous waiting room with a view stretching all the way to the ocean. The furniture was fine leather, and the walls were covered with photos of Graham’s twenty-year success as a record mogul. There were platinum albums from all his biggest acts, including Dreaming in Blue, Jace Riga, Jordi Hemphill, and Eli Blake. There were photos from the hit TV show he produced, Fierce, and the up-and-coming acts he had discovered there, like Jonah Riley and Lacy Abernathy. There were also movie posters of several award-winning movies he produced, as well as photos taken with heads of state and A-list celebrities.
All of these documented his years of successes, showing that he had the Midas touch when it came to popular music and popular culture.
This could be our future.
I was increasingly nervous as each minute ticked by. Though he tried to play it cool, one look in those stunning eyes of his showed Tony was feeling the pressure too. In another world I may have reached for his hand, to give it a reassuring squeeze.
But Lando sat between us. As always.
Finally Graham’s assistant called us into his office. Like the waiting room, it had a spectacular view facing west all the way to the Pacific. More photos and awards lined the walls, with every statuette from every major awards show lining his bookshelves.
And then there was Graham, sitting behind his large desk that was littered with personal photos, including his wife Maggie. He stood as we entered.
Honestly, he was a beautiful man. He was tall and trim, his lithe body wearing his forty-plus years every bit as well as he wore that thousand-dollar designer suit. When he reached for my hand, I could feel the power within him, confidence earned over decades of carving his way in this world. When he looked at me, I could tell he was assessing everything and missed nothing. I felt a tremor run through my body, which I’m sure he felt. His mouth turned upwards in a slight smile.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said as he sat, giving us permission to do the same. We had already sent over a press kit, which he had open on his desk in front of him, studying our bios and pictures. One of Tonos de Oros’s independently produced CDs, which had been made before I came along, played in the background.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Tony replied.
“I won’t waste a whole lot of your time,” he said as he turned off the music. You could almost hear the air escaping from every single one of our balloons. “As I already told Rudy some weeks back, I felt the band was a little too generic for my label.” He handed over the CD. “There was nothing special about it, nothing that distinguished it from the rest of the bar bands out there.”
I could feel Lando bristle from two chairs away. I prayed he’d keep it together just long enough for Graham to make his point. He didn’t call us in here just to tell us he wasn’t interested.
Graham leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped together. “But something changed in Las Vegas. I saw a glimpse of what you could be. Sure it was still banal covers and live karaoke for a bunch of easily entertained drunk gamblers. But every now and then, I felt the music trying to break out of the mold. A lot of that has to do with Rudy,” he said, glancing at me. “Your talent on the guitar, especially given your age, is undeniable. The problem as I see it is that you don’t know yet who you are.”
He glanced at the rest of the band. “I can forgive Rudy’s ignorance as a byproduct of his age. But for the rest of you, you have to purposely decide what kind of music it is you want to play. You can’t just grit your teeth through a pop song, waiting to hit your own solos in the harder stuff,” he added, looking straight at Lando. Every single one of us glanced his way, silently pleading that he not blow his top. “I mean, that’s fine if you’re okay with being some mediocre band that gets by from gig to gig but never plans on going anywhere. Some people play as a hobby, and that’s okay. But I have to tell you. From what I saw in Vegas, I think you’d be selling yourselves short.”
It was the first positive thing he had said. We all pounced on it like the last floating door in the freezing Atlantic.
He stood and walked over to the window. I couldn’t help but marvel how handsome he was, like a movie star himself. “I love this town. I love how it is a melting pot for all kinds of races and cultures. Everyone lives and works side by side, like this sweeping mosaic of humanity. We’re trend-setters. We blaze new paths for the rest of the country to follow. We’re not afraid to be different. I can tell you from experience producing Fierce that is exactly what Middle America wants to hear. There are places where the menu offers nothing but boring old white bread. People hunger for flavor, for spice. For uniqueness and individuality.” He turned back to us. “And for those who are unafraid to give it to them.”
He walked back to his desk. “With Rudy’s inclusion, your band is a lot like Los Angeles. He can play any type of music and I know it’s still him. That’s what I want from Tonos de Oro.”
“How do we do that?” Tony asked, before Lando could say anything.
Graham sat at his desk. “You do that by playing to what makes you so interesting. You’re a family band with a rich Mexican heritage. Your father plays mariachi, for fuck’s sake. Why isn’t there more Latin flavor in your covers?”
Tony was speechless for a moment. “I didn’t want to copy my dad,” he said at last.
“I’m not saying you have to copy anyone,” Graham clarified. “In fact, I advise strongly against it. But that music is in your blood. You’re bilingual. Sing a cover in Spanish. Toss everyone on their ear.”
“Isn’t that going to make us some niche band?” Lando finally asked, with an edge in his voice that I could tell Graham noticed.
“Aren’t you already?” he shot back. Lando’s jaw clenched, but Graham kept going. “When Rudy plays a cover, he doesn’t play it note by note like the original. He uses a little flair, interjects his own personality whenever he gets the opportunity. That is what an artist does. And artists,” he said, referring to his walls and awards, “make hits. They don’t just cover them.”
He leaned forward onto his desk, resting on his elbows. “You show me that kind of artistry, the kind I think that you’re capable of, and I’d sign you in a heartbeat. You’re good. You’re a good, solid rock band. You work well together. You’re all hot as hell and would attract groupies of every age and color.”
I could feel us all exhale in relief at the same time. This was what we had hoped this meeting would yield.
But he wasn’t done.
“The only thing is… I don’t sign ‘good’ acts. I sign great ones.” Again our balloons deflated. “And truth is I could use a great act right about now. I have a hotel in Las Vegas, where we use a lot of live music. I have Fierce, which goes into production again in September. This could put guest acts in front of a worldwide audience numbering in the millions. I’m considering at least three scripts which need scores. And there’s the charity fundraiser at the end of September at FFF, one of L.A.’s hottest night clubs, where all my big acts will be performing. You show me that you can stand out, be different, be uniquely you in a way no other band can copy, and I’ll put you to work, giving you every opportunity you’ve only dreamed of.” He called his assistant into the room. “I know the promoters who hired you for the summer. They tell me you could sign on for eight weekends. I think this is critical for the growth of your band.” His assistant handed him an envelope, which he offered to Tony. “I’ll come and see you at the end of summer, just to see where you are and what you’ve learned.”
“What’s this?” Tony asked.
“Accommodations at my hotel for the next eight weekends. Two suites you can split between you. All expenses paid. Vouchers for the restaurants, and permission to use the stage downstairs in the showroom to rehearse your act.”
We all stared at him dumbfounded. He smiled as he sat back in his chair.
“I don’t mind investing in my talent, especially one that shows as much promise as you do. This is your opportunity to wow me, with zero excuses why you can’t give it one-hundred-percent of your resources. But if I come back in two months and it’s the same ol’ same ol’, any further offers and opportunities with my label will be rescinded.”
We all nodded. We understood. He was giving us the opportunity of a lifetime. He saw us to the door, but held me back for a moment, closing the door between me and my band. He stood close and bent to speak softly, so no one else could hear. “I want you to know that I’m not making this offer because of the band. I’m making it because of you. You’re extraordinarily talented. I could make you a star in less than a year. But you’ve chosen to stay faithful to this band, for whatever reason, and I have decided to trust you. You see something I haven’t yet seen.” Those eyes pierced mine. “I’m counting on you to bring it out of them. If you can get them on board with what you’re doing, great. I’ll make you an offer by the end of summer. If not, then the only offer I can ever make is to you alone. Do you understand, Rudy?”
I nodded, breathless. He was offering me everything I thought I had always wanted. But now, with Tony, I wanted it all. “I won’t let you down, Graham.”
He smiled as he patted me on my shoulder. “Just be yourself, Rudy. That’s all you ever need to be for me.”
He opened the door and pushed me through so I could join my band mates.
MASKED IN THE MUSIC releases September 25th. You can pre-order it now for the discounted price of $1.99. It goes up to regular price after release.
Fair warning... if you need a warning to read a book, this will NOT be the book for you.
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