A Mother's Day treat: an exclusive sneak peek from Jamie Brenner's new novel, RUIN ME! by Brenda Janowitz

Happy Mother's Day!  I'm so thrilled today because we've got one of my favorite authors here, the fabulous Jamie Brenner.  She's giving us a sneak peek of her latest novel, RUIN ME.  I'm a huge fan of Jamie's work-- I talked about her fabulous novel, THE GIN LOVERS, this past February, and now with RUIN ME, she's got another smart, sexy page turner on her hands.

I know that the second you read this excerpt, you are going to hop online and order your copy of RUIN ME-- I'm about 1/3 of the way through and it's beyond fabulous-- but, before you do that, let's hear from Jamie first!

THE MOTHER'S DAY DIVIDE

by Jamie Brenner

Hallmark doesn’t make a Mother’s Day card that reads, “Thanks for being so controlling! In my rebellion, I fell in love in love with someone completely inappropriate – but totally hot.”

I’m thinking maybe they should – because a lot of us have been there.

In a perfect world, mothers are wise creatures who guide us by love and example. And in this perfect world, daughters only emulate their and make them proud. But in reality, we often have to distance ourselves from our mothers to define ourselves, even if just temporarily. Who hasn’t pushed back against a curfew, a dress code, disapproval over a boyfriend? Ideally, these are temporary hiccups. But in some cases, mothers and daughters are so opposite, the divide defines their entire relationship.

In RUIN ME, my heroine needs to step out of the long shadow of her famous mother. Anna Sterling is a powerful art dealer who expects her daughter to follow in her footsteps, and Lulu, a senior at NYU, has her own ideas about art – and life. When Lulu finds her passion and ideas embodied in a mysterious, bad-boy street artist known as GoST, things get dicey. (See above-mentioned Hallmark card).

As I celebrate Mother’s Day, I think about my own bumps in the road – the ones that are behind me, and the ones that are ahead now that I’m on the other side of the fence. Judging from my teenage daughter, I expect I’ll have fodder for at least another book or two on this subject. Maybe more.

RUIN ME

by Jamie Brenner

Chapter 1

There’s a thing that happens at these art gallery parties filled with the beautiful people. Everyone orbits the room pretending not to look at the one person they all want to notice them. They pretend that her glance isn’t the ultimate prize.

I’ve been playing this game my entire life.

The owner of New York’s most prestigious art gallery, she is a pale-skinned, willowy brunette, wears dark-red matte lipstick, and is dressed in all white. There are several ropes of pearls around her neck and a cigarette in her hand—even now, when no one smokes in public anymore. She’s like a living photo from the past, Coco Chanel or Dovima. She is timeless but perfectly of this moment. Elegant, powerful, elusive.

She’s my mother.

“You should stand closer to him so you get in some of the photos,” she says to me so quickly and quietly no one else would have heard.

I immediately cross the room. I’m a junior at NYU, an art major, and girlfriend of one of the hottest up-and-coming painters in New York. But around my mother, I’m still the six-year-old who ignored her warning never to use the scissors without her permission, only to cut my own bangs and ruin my hair for a year.

Hoping to satisfy her, I stand closer to my boyfriend, Brandt. It’s not even his night, but he looks like the star. And in three months, he will be: It will be his paintings on the walls, his sound bites the journalists and bloggers want. But for now, New York magazine just wants a photo of us together for their party section.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” I whisper to him, uncomfortable with the attention. It’s late, close to midnight by now. He looks at me, his blue eyes shiny, his cheeks flushed from excitement and wine. He is talking to the showing artist, Dustin McBride, whom my mother just poached from Vito Schnabel’s gallery.

A few months ago, Dustin wouldn’t have given Brandt the time of day. But now Brandt is part of the club. Not just an “emerging” artist but one about to have his first one-man show with Anna Sterling.

“I’ll go with you,” Brandt says, but I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s high from all the attention, buzzing with it. Hovering close by is Inez Elliot, my mother’s trusted gallery director and probably the coolest girl I know. She has pale coco skin and bleached blond hair offset by dark eyebrows—Rita Ora on steroids. I smile at her; she looks away.

Other women are circling—the art groupies, the hipster writer from The Times, and even the new “it” girl model with her heart-shaped lips, pink-edged blond hair, and stud in her nostril. Brandt drinks it all in. He was made for this.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.

Outside, I gasp with relief when I feel the humid June air. The streets of SoHo feel like they are running on different oxygen than the freezing gallery. For the first time in hours, my goose bumps disappear.

This wasn’t how my summer was supposed to go, I thought while crossing Greene Street. I’d wanted to be spending this week packing for a trip to Spain with my roommate, Niffer. We’d spent months planning our trip and even knew where we would eat dinner our first night—Els Pescadors, for tapas. It’s where Niffer met her boyfriend, Claudio, last summer. He still works there.

Now Niffer is going without me, thanks to my mother.

I inhale the summer air greedily and walk slowly down West Houston Street in my impractical shoes and sheath dress. The initial elation of escaping the party turns sour as I start to perspire. I’m exhausted.

I always imagined working at the gallery alongside my mother. Dreamed of it, actually. I knew it was my future. But now that she wants me to start this summer, it feels all too soon.

But, I can’t say no to my mother—I never have. And now I’m paying the price for it. Keeping up with her breakneck work ethic is going consume the next two months of my life, as it has consumed all of hers. She only took time off from the gallery twice in twenty-five years: when I was born, and then six months later, when my father killed himself.

My phone vibrates in my dangly, beaded vintage clutch. A part of me dares to hope that it’s Brandt, saying that he wants to get some air, too. “Let’s get pizza,” or more likely, “Let’s fuck.”

I pull the phone out. It’s my mother. “Where are you? Richard wants a quote from you.”

“From me?” Richard is the art critic for The New York Times.

“Yes, Lulu.”

“I’m outside. I just needed some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I dutifully turn to head back to the gallery. And that’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something.

I look up. Sure enough, on the side of a building, ten stories above the street, a man dangles from a harness. One arm is perfectly still, the other is waving in sharp, methodical sweeping motions. He is holding a stencil in one hand, spray-painting with the other.

I watch, rooted in place, mesmerized as swaths of paint start to form an image. It’s a dark-haired woman. The spray can leaves a trail of colors to form a blue shirt with capped sleeves and a long yellow skirt. The woman’s body appears to wilt, her arm falling to her side. I take in the image from top to bottom. It’s Snow White. She’s beautiful, vulnerable, falling into the legendary sleep that will only be broken by her prince.

He moves quickly, now painting near Snow White’s limp hand. His body blocks my view. Finally, he pushes back on his feet, moving away from the painting. It is now complete, with a poisoned apple dropping from her limp hand.

But it’s not just any apple—it’s the tech company logo.

I gasp. It’s the most exciting piece of art I’ve seen all night, and it’s on the side of a building.

Suddenly, the can of spray paint falls from his hand. It seems to happen in slow motion, tumbling over and over, until it hits the sidewalk with a tinny crash.

The noise attracts other people, and a small crowd gathers at the base of the building. People are pointing. And then, nearby, the wail of a police siren.

But he is not finished yet. With quick, efficient circular motions of his arm, he claims the painting, tagging the piece with the name GoST. And I realize I am witnessing the artist whose brilliant, politically-edged stencil paintings have been popping up all over walls and billboards in SoHo and the Village. A thrill runs through me.

And just like that, he is gone.

Copyright © 2014 by Jamie Brenner

About the author:

Jamie Brenner is the author of THE GIN LOVERS, chosen by Fresh Fiction as one of their Top 13 Books to Read in 2013. Jamie also writes erotic fiction under the name Logan Belle. Her debut novel, BLUE ANGEL, was the first in an erotic trilogy published by Kensington, followed by the erotic romances NOW OR NEVER, THE LIBRARIAN and MISS CHATTERLEY. Her novels have been translated into a dozen languages. She lives in Manhattan, blogs for Romance at Random and Heroes & Heartbreakers, and is busy raising two daughters who aren't allowed to read her books. To read more or contact her, visit jamiebrenner.com or follow her @jamieLbrenner

BUY THE BOOK!!



I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, was published by St. Martin's on July 2, 2013. My fourth novel, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, was published by Polis Books on May 6, 2014.

My work’s also appeared in the New York Post and Publisher’s Weekly. You can find me at brendajanowitz.com or on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.

5 Tips to Make it Rain Words

By Malena Lott


Confession: I've been in the midst of a word drought since Thanksgiving 2013.  While I had a good run in 2013 publishing Family Charms (women's fiction), Twin Falls (YA) and even a romance novella Sterling & Sloane, only S&S was new fiction. I'd written the other books in prior years and edited and published them in 2013.

I wanted to kick off 2014 with a downpour of new words and a new story, but nada -  no prose precipitation in the slightest.


I knew I needed a plan to make it rain words and get my creative mojo back, but nothing seemed to be helping.


Or was something working and I didn't know it?


It's important to remember as a creative that your stories are always in progress, even if you haven't put the words down on paper. We get our ideas by living, experiencing, interacting with others, watching, listening. What I found was that I had some things to work on before the wellspring of words would flow again.


Finally in the last few weeks, things started coming together. The forecast calls for a new novel. Here's what I did:

1. Work on wellness. Having a lack of energy to write could mean a lack of creative energy, which needs to be fueled by things like adventure, new challenges, good health, positive attitude, clarity and a number of other things. (Here's a great link to a post on 18 things creatives do differently and I identify with all of them.) If your life is feeling dull, get out and explore, connect with nature, make a new friend, work out, eat better, meditate, whatever it takes to fuel your creativity. Take a look at what's going on with you physically and mentally and make the proper adjustments.
   
2. Find a muse. A muse is the source of inspiration for a creative work. When I wrote The Stork Reality, my babies were my inspiration. For Dating da Vinci, it was the original Leonardo da Vinci (who is still my #1 crush). For Family Charms, it was my sisters. For Sterling & Sloane, it was Rock Hudson (specifically his character in Pillow Talk.) Now I've found a real-life muse for my new project and everything has started coming together. Of course the verb “muse” is also highly recommended: deep thoughts and meditation.
   
3. Try something new. One of the reasons I didn't want to write is because I had no story. That sounds tres obvious, but I have to become obsessed with a story to write about it. The compulsion to write must overcome me. Finally, while absently watching the Superbowl this year, a story idea hit me, but it was only a kernel, hardly enough to run with. Yet it remained there waiting patiently for me to do something with it and recently a few other events (and the muse) watered that kernel to where I'm in the correct obsessive-compulsive place to work on it. It's something very different than what I've done before so the challenge is spurring me on.
   
4. Be patient and make the hard choices. If you've read the The War of Art, you know about Resistance. Often our worst enemy to our craft is ourself. Instead of fighting the resistance, step outside of yourself as a third-party witness and see what's going on. Don't judge it. Examine it. What do you fear? Why aren't you going for it? Decide what has to change to make it rain.
   
5. Go for small, more frequent writing stints. The fantasy of being able to write for long stints is really tough for most writers. If you can't write for big stretches, go small and add in more in a day.  I'm starting this new "rain shower"strategy but it will require absolute silence and no interruptions to make it work. Maybe a few thunderstorms will show up along the way.
   

What on this list resonates with you? Share your ideas for pushing past your limits and improving your creative mojo in comments.

Malena Lott is a brand strategist and author of six novels, three novellas and several short stories. She also fuels her creativity with hot coffee, iced coffee, wine, Zumba and yoga. Learn more about her at malenalott.com.

If you didn't come to sweat--you need to leave right now!

by Michele Young-Stone

Roll!  Work!  Advice to all wannabe published novelists: SWEAT!  Don’t sell out!  SWEAT!  "Work!"  Don’t write something because you think it will make money.  This sounds like a no-brainer, right?  Not really.  Desperate times can call for desperate measures.  Be strong.   

After being rejected by every New York literary agent (accepting unsolicited queries) from A-W in The 2004 Writer’s Market, I tried to write a more “reader friendly novel.”  I tried to write linearly, which is all but impossible for me to manage because my brain simply does not work in a straight-line kind of way.  I can go back to a manuscript and move things around, but my mind translates to the page in images that connect, usually in subconscious ways.  The linear book SUCKED.  It is somewhere now, but I'm not sure where.  500 pages of "this is what I think people want to read..."  Not good.  

Whereas...

my latest novel, currently in the editorial process, the story of two women separated by oceans, generations and war, but connected by something much greater--the gift of wings, was not planned, not linear, not fathomed.  It is the tale of one woman born in 1925 in Lithuania, Europe, and the other woman born in 1973, northern Florida, in these United States.  This novel started with the image of a girl carrying handmade feather-pasted cardboard wings onto a bus, her boots on the black tread, the wings pressed against the metal bar, the bus driver telling her to hurry up, but she didn’t know where to sit. 

The question of where to sit and with whom is metaphorically at the core of this novel.

Excerpt:

My parents do not recall my birth as particularly pleasant.  As a matter of fact, I think that as a fetus and then a baby and then a human being, I came between them.  Before I emerged, they were in love, and they probably would’ve remained that way if it weren’t for me.  But it’s not my fault that they had unprotected sex.  It’s not my fault or my doing that they mixed this mad concoction that produced a Prudence Eleanor Vilkas.  That’s my name.  My father chose the first two and the last one is my surname, my Lithuanian birthright.  I am a Vilkas.

When I started, I imagined a sixteen year-old girl riding a bus.  Other factors at play, the death of two World War II survivors, one German and one Lithuanian, while I was pregnant with my son—factored into, and formed this novel.  Their voices spoke through me.  Strange coincidences kept happening.  For example, the German woman, Mac (Inge Rosemarie Kischel McGarrity) used to give me German marzipan every Christmas.  I was not particularly fond of marzipan, but she didn’t have to give me anything—so I bit my tongue.  Plus, my mother would’ve killed me if I was rude.  My mother and Mac were best friends. 

As an adult, I would give Mac jelly jars so that she would keep giving me some of her amazing blackberry preserves.  She was my surrogate grandmother, my oma.  Anyway, spinning round and round, while writing a scene in Germany for the novel, I wrote about a rose garden and marzipan.  I later found out that it is a custom to flavor marzipan/the almond paste with rose water.  Little things.  All the time.  Everywhere.  Things I couldn’t know about places I hadn’t been, but filled my head just the same.  And then, this year, just as I was finishing the novel, my pastry chef friend who made my son's birthday cake, made the decorations from marzipan.  I guess that when you are willing to see the incredible, it's there.  

I love this novel so much that even if no one buys it, I don’t care.  I am elated to have brought the characters and story into being.  It was a cathartic endeavor, a nearly three-year journey, excluding the life experiences that came to the forefront of the book.  I am grateful for the gift and pleasure of writing, and as one of my professors advised, “If you are writing to become rich or famous, stop now!"

As the rapper Lil' Jon would say (for all my Zumba buddies), “If you didn’t come to sweat, you need to leave right now!”  It’s true.  Like all great endeavors, writing is something that you have to do for the sheer joy of putting those words and ultimately that story on the page and into life.  If it’s good enough, someone will read it.  I promise you!

Michele Young-Stone is the author of the Target Book Club novel, The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors.  Her next two novels are under contract with Simon and Schuster.  When Michele is not writing, she is volunteering in her community, Zumba-ing and paddling around in her pink kayak.  She likes to bird watch and color outside the lines.

www.micheleyoung-stone.com, www.micheleyoung-stone.blogspot.com www.obxbird.blogspot.com, https://www.facebook.com/michele.youngstonefanpage https://www.twitter.com/micheleyosto