#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.

#WriterWednesday Episode 2: I think it's time we have The Talk About Reviews.

I'm trying to structure these #WriterWednesday posts in order, so that I can properly prepare even the newest newbie to the life of a working writer. I was going to save The Talk we're going to have today for the upcoming weeks, past all the stuff about the craft, etc. You gotta crawl before you can walk, as it were. In my opinion reader reviews happen so far down the line after you publish, it's like putting the cart before the horse to talk about them while we're getting the whole writery thing ironed out.

This is Episode 2, where we're still in the "enlistment" part of process. This life isn't cut out for everyone. In Episode 1, we talked about what it takes to "make it," which encompasses a lo-ho-hot of work. This is not a career for the fainthearted, and you need to know that from the jump. I'm sure I'll bleed more and more people every week, but that's kind of the point. If you're going to succeed, and I really do want you to succeed, then you need to know what you're getting into so you can make the best decisions you can. I've been in the trenches a few years now, so I can tell you where the pitfalls are, so you can avoid them if at all possible.

(Hell, I'm still learning these ever-changing rules myself, which means a lot of these won't just be information for you, but reminders for me.)

The more I see some of today's writers virtually shoot themselves in the foot regarding reviews, the more I realized that we have to move The Talk up ahead of schedule. Apparently this is something writers need to know going in and somehow don't, putting their entire careers in jeopardy as a result. So we're going to chat about this a bit today, and it's going to cover quite a bit of ground. I suggest you grab a drink and get comfortable. We're going to be here a while.

Ready? Okay.

REJECTIONS, CRITIQUES AND THE OLD PROCESS

Back in the old days, rejection and critique were built into the old model of publishing. You wrote a first draft? Congratulations. Now try to sell that puppy to an agent who has to get excited about your work. That process took time and effort, with a lot of failure along the way. Even books that turned out to be bestsellers were rejected many times before they finally saw the light of day. It took Agathe Christie five years to land her publishing deal. Dr. Seuss, Louis L'Amour, J.K. Rowling, J.D. Salinger, Stephenie Meyer... all these writers who went on to astonishing financial or critical successes originally had their work rejected by scores of editors and agents. Kathryn Stockett received 60, count 'em, 60 rejections on The Help, which not only went on to be a bestseller BUT an Oscar-winning film. Even the Master (and one of my personal writing heroes,) was well acquainted with rejection, from the time he was a teenager.

“By the time I was fourteen the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it. I replaced the nail with a spike and went on writing.” - Stephen King

Only the battle-scarred few who persevered through this grueling process made the cut, something Stephen talked about in regards to his father. Pick up on this biography at 8:00 minutes in:



As you can see, rejection worked a little bit like the warped wall on American Ninja Warrior.



You usually don't scale a curved, 14-foot wall on the first go, no matter how physically fit you are. You have to train yourself. For writing, this means you have to brave criticism about your work. You'll still fall on your face from time to time, especially at the beginning. This will bruise your ego instead of your body, but it hurts just the same.

The fear of rejection, and the reality of rejection, facilitated the need for honest, often brutal, critiques. Each rejection was a stepping stone, and every critique was a hand up to get you to the next step. They worked together to help make your book, and you, the best you can possibly be so that you would eventually get that "yes," but also be better prepared for the next step beyond it.

That's what made the pursuit of excellence more important than the sale itself. There was (is) no guarantee of money when you sat down to write a book. Back then, you knew that you had to first convince an agent or publisher to get behind you, which was (is) hard to do for untested writers. Some really good books never saw the light of day because the people who needed to make a living wouldn't risk the gamble. The only way you could get anywhere was with a spectacular book that the right person found at the right time. (Another topic we'll eventually get to: Nobody Knows Anything.)

We all understood that was part of the process. More importantly, we understood it was a good thing overall, even if rejections and critiques suck the big one. And let's be real here... they do suck. Readers and critics will tell you to take it on the chin. Don't publish if you can't handle it. But that shit can hurt, I don't care who you are. Writers spend a lot of time and energy, pouring our little hearts into our books. No one wants to hear anyone speak ill of our babies, which we love unconditionally. Everyone wants that gold star or that A+.

And when you're a writer, you've spent those weeks or months inside your own head, with only your voice to guide you. It's easy to lose perspective along the way. There's a lot of euphoria in the creation process. You finish a particularly grueling chapter or write The End after sleepless nights hopped up on nothing more than caffeine and a dream, you want to celebrate... not decimate.

But you need guidance. We all need guidance. If you're writing for yourself, then you can write the story however you want to. But when you're creating a product for millions of consumers, you need perspective. That will only happen when you have someone who can honestly evaluate your work. (And no, your mom generally doesn't count.)

I'll give you an example of perspective. I started writing when I was 11 years old, after a school writing assignment got me some extra attention. After my dad died just the December before, I ceased feeling special. Writing gave that back to me. I latched onto it with both hands. Over the next ten years, I wrote poetry and short stories and even a novella, most of which was received really well. My novella was critiqued in 1985 by my sweet English teacher, who offered a gentle evaluation of where I was weak and where I could be stronger, but generally, overall, I was praised for my efforts. (I believe that English teacher even wrote something about my writing in my yearbook that year.)

So when I wrote my first book, I wasn't at all intimidated about sending my work out to an agent almost the very instant it was written. I maybe tinkered with it a little bit before I sent it in to a local agency in the town where I lived. When I got the response back, the agent said thanks but no thanks, though she gave me a fully edited version of my manuscript.

I don't think there was one page that didn't have at least five red marks on it. It was *dripping* with blood-red ink. My beautiful baby had been figuratively massacred.

I. Was. Devastated. Here I was thinking that I had something special because everyone in my life had always said as much, yet it failed to stand up to scrutiny from an industry professional. It was a rejection and a critique all in one dream-crushing package. And because I was so new to the harsh realities of this business, it wrecked me. I shelved that book and went back to "real life." It took years for me to understand what kind of gift that agent gave me. She edited an entire manuscript - for free - so that I, a clearly brand-new writer, could improve. She wouldn't have done that had she not seen the potential. By the time I returned to writing, because quitting was never really an option, I had a different outlook on the critiquing process. The truth was that I learned more from that brutally honest critique than I had ever learned from years and years of praise. Her words stuck with me, even to this day. That lesson was priceless. It made me a better, stronger writer.

It was part of the process.

By the time I dipped my tippy-toe in the shark-infested waters of screenwriting in 2002, I was ready to show my work and take my licks. I joined a community called Done Deal, which had a forum where you could post your work and get feedback. It became instantly clear that these guys weren't messing around. They'd tell you what they thought and they didn't really bother assuaging your feelings in the process. Buck up, buttercup. This is a business. If you want to be a pro, you are expected to act like one, especially in a collaborative field where content (and sometimes the writers themselves) can change all the way up to the film's completion. (Sometimes even afterwards. Case in point Pretty in Pink, which changed the entire ending based on the feedback of a test audience. We'll talk about this more next week, when I tackle Trusting Your Gut.)

One notorious DD reviewer took particular joy out of ripping these kinds of pages to shreds. He was a bit of an asshole, but most of the time he was right. So I decided to wade out into the deep water and ask him to read my script. Like the manuscript I sent to the agent, this was my first screenplay. I knew he'd tell me the truth and that was vitally important to me. I can stand a few tender feelings as long as I didn't embarrass myself in front of another agent or producer. You only get one chance to make a first impression, and I wanted mine to sparkle.

And yes, he did pick it apart. One of notes said, "This AGAIN? I may need to take a cyanide pill," when I kept repeating the same scene over and over again. When he was done, however, he told me that I had promise AND talent and to keep going. Like the agent... he invested in the potential, showing me how I could reach it. There are things from his critiques (and yes, I asked him to do more than one,) that I still hear in my head today when I write. Why? Because Critques. Are. How. You. Learn. This is why it's imperative that you find someone who is stages ahead of you in your career to help you. That kind of feedback is the finest education you'll ever get.

One of my husband's favorite sayings is if you don't tell someone what they're doing wrong, how are they going to know? (Which is why he's usually reader #1 for everything I write.) Even if it sucks big, blue donkey balls, you have to make peace with the idea that your work will always, always, need improvement. Art is never completed, merely abandoned. I can't read anything I've written in the past without cringing and tinkering and toying and editing - even those books that have already been published. By the time a digital proof of CHASING THUNDER was sent back to me from the publisher to approve nothing more than the formatting, I was still fiddling with content. This was after it had gone through several passes between the publisher and the editor. With each new book, you learn something new. It's impossible not to implement these lessons with everything new you write or everything old you've written.

So trust me when I tell you that there's no greater asset in your life than to have a long list of honest folks who will keep it real when they read your work. They can shine you up like a new penny if you let them.

People who like you will be a little gentler with you, granted. But in a professional forum, you need to know what the problem is so you can fix it. Shortly after finding Done Deal, I joined Zoetrope, another screenwriting community. I had to review several scripts from other writers in order for my work to be read, which taught me how to be an honest, helpful reviewer. This is another imperative skill to learn before you publish, which is probably why that site operated that way. How can you tell what's wrong in your own work if you can't objectively assess the work of another? If you can't figure out what's wrong, or why it fell flat, or didn't connect with you, how are you ever going to know what's wrong in your own work, where it falls flat, and why it doesn't connect? Taking things apart is one of the ways you figure out how to put something together.

Through this process of giving and accepting these critiques, and a lot of them, you gain that valuable perspective I mentioned earlier. You'll find that not all critiques are created equal, and you don't have to make all the changes suggested to you. The plain truth is that sometimes you can do everything right and the material just won't connect with the reader. That's nobody's fault, really. Different strokes for different folks and all that. The more critiques you get, the more you learn which critiques to keep and which to dismiss, which is why it's so damn critical to put your book through these paces. My general rule of thumb is that your gut already knows where you missed the mark. A good critique will force you to deal with it before you blow it with the fickle reading audience that has far too many books to choose from to indulge second chances. An ineffective critique (meaning, one that you don't necessarily agree with or heed,) will teach you how to shrug your shoulders and declare, "You can't please everybody." Not everyone is going to like what you do or agree with how you do it. *And that's okay.* Part of the growth process is filtering all this information to your benefit.

So what does all this have to do with the review process?

I'm so glad you asked.

NEW BOSS SAME AS THE OLD BOSS

Since the beginning of the self-publishing age, many writers got to skip that brutal obstacle course full of rejections and critiques at the very dawn of their writing careers. They went from newbie to professional in the click of the button, without all the steps that used to get you from point A to point B, and in doing so, prepared you for point Z. Those steps were necessary so that amateur writers had all that glorious perspective by the time the reviews from the public came. Like I said, not all critiques are created equal. Every single writer in the world has had that one review that was so outrageous, you almost had to laugh. In fact, an entire Tumblr was created to highlight the one-star reviews for classic literature. These are some of the greatest novels of our time and even they cannot escape the vitriol of a frustrated reader, who simply wanted to love a book but didn't.

A review simply captures a reader's feelings, whether good or bad. Here's an example of a 1-star review that I wrote for an author who was a long-standing favorite of mine when I was a young adult, but wrote a bestselling book that both disappointed and offended me entirely. As you can see, I minced no words expressing how I felt about it. It wasn't to correct her work, but to simply state what I got out of it as a reader, which wuddn't good.

Unfortunately, that's something that many newly professional writers are missing. They are so ill-equipped for criticism that they see every review as such a life-or-death thing. They abhor low-rated reviews and the readers who post them, because that low-rated review could put off potential new readers, blocking the writer from inching further up the wall. This has led to the whole Authors Behaving Badly phenomenon, where authors and reviewers clash over negative reviews, and the ease and temptation of cyber-bullying rears its ugly head in some ridiculous "them" vs. "us" scenario.

You have to understand something. For readers, nothing has changed. How we get our books to them has undergone a complete revolution, but how they get the books they read hasn't. How they treat the books they read hasn't. What they expect from a book, an author and the reading experience itself, hasn't. When they plunk down hard-earned cash for a book, they expect to enjoy it. If they don't, they have no problem telling all of their friends, same as before. Good word of mouth will make an unknown book soar right up the bestseller charts, while bad word of mouth will push the book further down the slush pile we all must navigate now that anyone can publish a book, whether it's been put through the paces or not. Those first drafts that delusional newbie writers used to send to publishers are now online, right along with a price tag. It's a product now, and consumers are going to state their opinions accordingly, even if they're "wrong," even if they're mean, and even if they're unfair.

A reader review is nothing more than an editorial piece where they can and should write what they think about it. And we, as writers, should encourage them to be honest, even if it's not glowing. In the end, the passion that they demonstrate to even *write* a review is a good thing for you. My whole career started with a timely review from someone who had a lot of influence. And you know what happened? Some of the things that people loved about the book, others hated. It's a numbers game eventually, particularly the better you sell and the more of a splash your book makes, and yes... that attention will draw those who get off on crapping all over something popular just because they can. For some folks, going against the grain is a way to get some attention. You see this more and more if the author becomes a celebrity of sorts, because the fight for their attention is even harder. If ten people tell you your book is wonderful and they love it, and one person says it sucks, who is going to stand out?

It still boils down to preferences and perspective. What leads one to post a 5-star rating would force another to leave a 1-star rating. There are nearly 2300 ratings over on Goodreads for GROUPIE, and 76 of them are 1-stars. Does it hurt? Of course it does. I'm human, made of flesh and bone. But I don't fight them or challenge them... hell, most times I don't even read them. Eventually I came to realize that even a negative review isn't always negative for the book. If someone writes something ridiculous, such as bullying reviews that do little else but attack a writer, savvy buyers will recognize this. Many readers I've seen read the bad reviews first and skip the glowing, 5-star reviews entirely. (Thanks to yet another industry, 5-star reviews are easy to buy and fake without a reader ever even touching a book, which makes current readers distrustful of very highly rated books with no balance.)

They know that not everyone can love the same book, or even rate/review fairly and objectively. But somewhere along the line, we authors have seemed to forgotten it.

Thanks to today's market, we writers put way too much emphasis on the reader review. It's only one small part of what sells a book. What does your cover look like? How does your blurb read? Are your first five or ten pages as killer as they can be? Are there other reviews on the book, to help balance the dialogue? All of those factor into a reader's choice to buy your book. A 1-star rating/review is not the end-all, be-all. It just feels like it, because like I said... everyone wants the gold star. Everyone is looking for the A+.

You're not always going to get it, just refer to the Tumblr I referenced above.

You need to keep it all in perspective. Some writers can't or won't do this. When they see a negative review, they feel the need to engage the reviewer, particularly if the review was nasty. I understand where they are coming from. It hurts to get a bad review. It's scary to get a bad review. We all worry about our ratings. It's impossible not to, considering negative ratings and rankings hurt our overall brand and jeopardize every new sale that we need in order to survive. And by survive, I mean money-in-your-pocket, food-on-your-table, paying-your-electric-bill, keeping-a-roof-over-your-head survival. Our brand is sacred to us. It has to be.

But nothing, NOTHING, torpedoes your brand more than how unprofessionally you act in the face of these reviews. Remember nothing has changed for the reader. They expect you to take it on the chin just like those other writers who have been through the ringer and back simply to get their book published. If you're not used to harsh or brutally honest critiques, it can come as quite the shock to the system to read something harshly written about your work. Like I said before, used to be that you became accustomed to that PRIOR to publication in the olden days. Today, you take it as it comes. And some people are ill-prepared to handle it.

AUTHORS BEHAVING BADLY: A CAUTIONARY TALE

The most egregious example of this occurred last year, when a well-connected new writer wrote an essay for the Guardian on stalking one of her online critics. And when I say stalked, I mean she physically drove to this lady's house and went up to her door. She had the burning need to confront this person face-to-face over what she felt was an unfair review from a cyber-bully. The problem apparently started prior to her book's publication. She had a traditional publisher, (which should have prepared her for what she was about to face, but apparently there were more issues at play with this particular individual.) Said publisher sent preview copies to bloggers and such, a common practice to generate buzz on an upcoming novel. This aspiring novelist decided to go to Goodreads and check out what people were saying, even while, admittedly, she was still in that "post-partum" phase of writing.

If you're unfamiliar, this is when the euphoria from creating your book subsides and crippling doubts and insecurity creep in, whispering the five scariest words any writer can hear, "What if nobody likes it?" You start to second-guess everything, even those things that got you so excited to write the damn book in the first place. Like I said, without a litany of honest feedback, your perspective is skewed. All you hear is your own voice. Well, she decided to add reader voices to the din, which is where it all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.

She claims that most of these reviewers were giving either one-star or five-star reviews, with no real gray area in between. It's kind of hard to keep perspective when you volley between such extremes, especially when you, yourself, have questionable confidence about the material. And then... Blythe happened.

“Fuck this.... I think this book is awfully written and offensive; its execution in regards to all aspects is horrible and honestly, nonexistent... I can say with utmost certainty that this is one of the worst books I’ve read this year, maybe my life.”

Ouch.

That review is lifted right from Hale's own account from the Guardian. If you check Goodreads, Blythe's review now reads simply, "Fuck this." Not sure if she's talking specifically about the book or the troubling events that followed, but it's apt either way. (I haven't read the book in question, but no matter if it was a great book or a sucky book, this reviewer is entitled to her opinion on the matter either way. She's allowed to word it the way she wants and post it for others to read. It's simply an opinion, it doesn't need to be right or wrong.)

Hale was told, repeatedly, not to respond. “DO NOT ENGAGE,” another writer told her. “You’ll make yourself look bad, and she’ll ruin you.” But Hale found that she couldn't let it go. Her curiosity turned into a quest. She began to research (i.e. stalk) Blythe online, finding more and more information on her behavior, which allegedly been called into question before. The whole demented story ends with an admittedly obsessive Hale essentially catfishing what she believed to be a catfisher - a blogger who posted negative book reviews under an assumed identity.

You know how you never hear Stephen King physically tracking down his detractors? He's too busy writing his next book to worry about it. Which is why he has a career spanning more than four decades, with more nearly 60 titles to his credit in books alone. He has perspective.

“If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that’s all.” - Stephen King

The whole thing was just crazysauce. If Hale's career is "ruined," it wasn't the reviewer's fault. We got to witness someone in their professional infancy, shooting themselves in the foot and wrecking their own brand in the dawn of their own career. Even if Blythe wasn't really who she said she was online, her biggest crime was that she snarked about books she was believed were bad on a website that was created for readers to share their thoughts about books. The fact that Ms. Hale decided to make it an epic holy grail resulting in sketchy, nay criminal, behavior says way more about her character than it does any legion of "bullies" online.

Granted, you can get shaded as an author behaving badly for a variety of reasons, not all of them fair. There are some who expect you to put aside being an individual as part of your brand, so you end up bound and gagged behind your keyboard, chained to your own limitations as a public figure. This can impact participating in social media, where you become an extension of your brand, rather than a person with thoughts, opinions and the permission to miss the mark every once and a while. You'll fuck up sometimes. You're human. It happens. Things are going to hurt, and you're entitled to feel the pain. You just have to be very, very careful how you handle it.

It sucks to get a bad review. It sucks even more if that reviewer has any kind of influence. The only thing that sucks worse is when an author makes a fool of him-or-herself trying to take a stand against something that is as subjective as personal opinion. Over the course of your career, if you're lucky, you'll write several books. Some readers will read them all, some will only read the ones that interest them. But your brand is the umbrella over all of it - and the best way to alienate people who don't even know your name is to stomp your foot and act like a five-year-old, crying about how unfair it is when you get a bad review.

Tell me where in the world it was written that only the people who love your book are the ones who get to review it?

Oh, that's right. New writers have now implemented that rule when they send out their books to promote them. I belong to several reader groups and they have shared this troubling new trend. New writers, or PR reps for new writers, will send out their work with a caveat that if anyone feels the need to write a lower-rated review, to wait until after the book has launched so it won't affect its initial sales.

Usually that opening week or two is the highest sales period for your book, so negative reviews, they feel, will jeopardize those critical sales.

In an industry where only a scant percent make any kind of money doing this, that's a legitimate concern. By the time it reaches the public, however, you're no longer in control of it, and that's the part that so many new writers just don't seem to get. The genie is out of the bottle. Just learn what you can from it and take it to your next book as part of your ongoing pursuit of personal excellence.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY

Keep it all in perspective.

Not everyone is going to love every single book, any more than you love every single book you read. Your odds go up the more polished and perfected a book you produce, which is why honest critique prior to publication is so crucial.

You'll note by this point that I do not use the terms "critique" and "review" synonymously. They are NOT the same things. The critique is for you, usually done before anyone else sees the work. It breaks down the essential workings of the story, from character development to dialogue to structure and pacing. It's written for you to read and to implement, to help you improve and help the book improve. The other is for your potential reading audience, an opinion of a product that is already for sale and available to the public, written for anyone who may be interested in buying it. Though some will say they write these negative reviews to help the writer, most don't think about the author (or their feelings) at all. It's not written for you, but rather written and posted in a safe space to share one's own opinion. One is your business, the other isn't. Once you realize this, you won't have to put such ridiculous (and unrealistic) restrictions on your readers, many of whom will shy away anyway because their voice is being curtailed. What is a review except for another person's opportunity to be heard?

No one owes you a damn thing, even if you offer the book for free. They don't owe you a review at all, that's a courtesy. As a courtesy, how they decide to rank it is completely up to them. How they word it, what they say, all of it is up to them. They're doing you a favor reading your book. Don't be a douche and demand they like it or stay silent. Instead of asking the readers to read down, write UP. Do the hard work to make it the best damn book you can write, and let the chips fall where they may.

You're a professional. Act like one.

You are going to hear no way more than you hear yes in this business, even if it's with a customer's hard-won dollar. If they don't buy your book, guess what? That's a rejection. Sometimes they'll leave scathing critiques of your books thrown in for good measure. Unless you've toughed your hide prior to hitting that publish button, it's a harsh wake-up call.

No writer anywhere, no matter how beloved or successful, avoids this. So your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make peace with the idea that reviews are none of your business. Emulate the writers who have long-standing careers: put your head down and write your next book.