Grow Big Dreams

This is a wall hanging (paint on a wood canvas) that
my good friends Sarah, Karen & Joyce gave to me last
week. I love it!

by Marilyn Brant

Last month, a longstanding writing dream of mine finally came true, and the outpouring of cheers and support from fellow authors, reviewers, book bloggers, and readers was absolutely amazing to me. Also, in celebration, some of the dearest people in my life (my nearby friends and family) surprised me with treats to mark the special occasion and, really, just to show me how much they care.

The gifts themselves were lovely -- and I've included pictures of some of them in this post -- but the biggest present was the fact that all of these wonderful people, who'd shared this milestone with me, knew how long and hard I'd worked toward this dream...and they'd been there from the beginning.

My son, now fifteen, doesn't even remember a time before I was a writer. I've been at it for fourteen years of his life, and he's tolerated sharing my attention with his "electronic sibling" (i.e., my laptop) ever since babyhood. When he was eight, the manuscript that eventually became my debut novel was up for RWA's Golden Heart Award, and he gave me his "lucky quarter" from his coin collection to take with me to Dallas for the conference/award ceremony. I think he squealed louder than I did when I told him over the phone that According to Jane had won.

My son made me a "Celebration Candy
Cake" -- complete with M&Ms, Milk
Duds, and Reese's Pieces on top -- a
chocolate lover's fantasy dessert.

My high-school-teaching husband, who'd married me over twenty years ago and thought I'd always be a teacher, too, didn't skip a beat in encouraging me to completely change career paths and follow my passion for fiction, if that was where my heart was... In fact, he was the one who'd insisted I go to my first local romance-writer meeting in Chicago, and he urged me to take a leap of faith and attend the 2003 RWA National Conference in NYC, just so I could find out for sure if this was really the journey I wanted to take. He's read almost every manuscript I've ever written -- over a dozen of them now, the poor guy -- and, as someone with a master's degree in English Lit who'd once been a professional proofreader, he even volunteered his excellent proofing skills for many of my stories. Yes, I know he's awesome.

And my wonderful girlfriends who live in town with me -- Sarah, Joyce, and Karen -- have been there to celebrate everything from my first publishing contract (over six years ago) to every local book signing and library presentation to various book club visits and a ton of unusual events in between. Sometimes this even involved taking overnight trips across state lines. They are, in a word, remarkable, and I was so damn lucky to meet them a decade ago.

Flowers my husband brought home for me,
right after I told him the exciting news.

It's one thing to have a big dream -- and mine was to finally hit the New York Times Best-Seller List -- but to have people in your life who are willing to share each step in your crazy writing adventure, celebrate with you when things are going well, and listen to you weep in your hazelnut coffee when the challenges seem to outweigh the delights...that's priceless. Dreaming big dreams may be an individual thing, but achieving big dreams, well, that takes a village. Sometimes, a metropolis.

So, my heartfelt appreciation goes out to every person -- both in the writing world and outside of it -- who gave me a smile, good advice, or an encouraging word to help me keep my spirits up during those times of struggle. There were many, and there will be more in the years ahead. This profession is such a roller-coaster ride, I know... And thanks, too, to those same people who danced with me (virtually or in person -- perhaps only stopping for chocolate/dessert breaks) when there was a reason for joy. I'm hoping there will be more days like that ahead as well.

I wish all of you the BIGGEST of dreams and, just as much, I wish you the supportive people who'll be there for you on your journey toward reaching them. When you get there, be sure to tell them thanks :) .

Who are some of the people in your life who have been most supportive of you??
___

Marilyn Brant is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of contemporary women's fiction, romantic comedy and mystery. She was named Author of the Year (2013) by the Illinois Association of Teachers of English. She loves all things Jane Austen, as well as Sherlock Holmes stories, traveling, music, chocolate & gelato. Her latest romantic comedy is Pride, Prejudice and the Perfect Bet (July 2014), and look for the expanded women's fiction edition of The Road to You, entitled The Road and Beyond, coming in September!

Somebody to Lean On

by Marilyn Brant

I hope the title makes you all start swaying and singing, too, because friends don't let friends do karaoke alone. C'mon, I wanna hear ya now, "We all need, somebody to lean on..."

This writing gig is a tough journey. 

I tend to be pretty independent but, after more than a decade of writing and publishing, it's been proven to me again and again that this isn't a career path I'd want to travel without a support system. That support system doesn't have to traipse around with me constantly in my daily life. Virtual pals are great, too, although it's nice to have both. What it does have to be is genuine. I think we've all experienced the sting of thinking someone is a friend because they act nice on the surface, only to find they've been talking about us behind our backs, feeling resentful when things are going our way or, even worse, gleeful when things aren't. But when you find someone who is truly supportive, I don't think even the best writing tools on the planet are more effective than such a friend at helping us work through those rough patches.

When I first began taking fiction writing seriously, my only support system was my family, specifically my husband. (My son was too little back then to do anything other than shred my manuscript pages or, occasionally, chew on one.) I didn't know ANY professional writers of any kind and didn't have a clue about the process. So, until I'd finished writing my first draft, I didn't tell my parents, my husband's parents, or even my brother that I was working on a novel. Once they knew, they were tremendously supportive, especially my husband's mom, who must have earned several heavenly medals in the mother-in-law sainthood category after reading and giving me feedback on THREE different drafts of my first dreadful, deservedly unpublished manuscript. (And then the dear woman read my second manuscript. And my third. And my fourth. And most of what became my debut novel, According to Jane. She was incredible...) 

My brother, who couldn't be more of a macho-cool guy and a fan of bloody thrillers, surprised me by asking to read a number of my early romance, chick-lit, and women's fiction efforts. My son, who's still a bit young to be reading most of my books, learned to give Mommy time to write uninterrupted and, when that failed, my very sweet husband learned that an evening of bonding with his son (out of the house) was right up there chocolate, roses, and whispered sweet nothings.

But strong support on the home front, while priceless, wasn't the only kind I knew I needed. I somehow lucked into getting involved with my local RWA chapter (Chicago-North), and this helped me branch out into meeting other aspiring writers online and, eventually, at conferences and in person, from all around the world. I know I wouldn't have become a published author without the insight, encouragement, and astute feedback of my critique partners. More than that, I wouldn't have survived years of rejections or the whirlwind of release days and promotional events without the friends in my life -- online and off -- who've been there to talk me out of torching a problematic scene in the fireplace, to distract me from reading negative reviews with the promise of Almond Joy martinis, and/or to email me links to helpful articles when they know it'll give me valuable information.

What about you? Who do you call on when, um, you need a hand? (Cue the music again...start swaying and clapping to the song...) Who can you lean on? Please share!

*A version of this post appeared on Magical Musings in October 2010.*

Marilyn Brant is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary women's fiction, romantic comedy, and mystery. Her novels have won awards such as RWA's Golden Heart and the Booksellers' Best, and they've been featured in the Doubleday Book Club, the Literary Guild, BOMC, and the Rhapsody Book Club. She loves music, chocolate, travel, and all things Jane Austen, and she was named the 2013 Author of the Year by the Illinois Association of Teachers of English. 

Visit her website at www.marilynbrant.com or check out her latest novel -- a coming-of-age romantic mystery called The Road to You.

My secret time management weapon

by Maria Geraci


Recently, I was interviewed by Nurseweek magazine for an upcoming article. The theme of the article? How I juggle my two careers. Like most published authors, I have a second job, or as I like to put it, the job that actually pays the bills. My income as an author is just too shaky at this point to quit my day job (or in my case, my night job). You see, for almost 28 years I've worked as a Labor and Delivery nurse. A job that I still to this day love, and will probably continue in some capacity until the day I retire.

Is it difficult working two jobs? You bet. But it's also incredibly rewarding. Eleven years ago I began writing because there was a creative void in my life. Today, that void is filled, and while there are times I find myself daydreaming of owning a house on the beach and writing full time, I've also discovered that the nursing part of my life makes me a more complete person. Writing is a solitary profession. Nursing, on the other hand, is an intimate profession. You engage with others at a time in their lives when emotions are high. Nursing helps me fill what I like to call my "creative well". No man (or woman) is an island. And neither is any writer. In order to write well, we have to be active participants in life.

So...how do I work 2 jobs and stay sane? Some days it's not easy and a lot of days I simply have to admit to myself that I can't do everything I'd like. But to quote someone (not sure who, but they knew what they were talking about) you always find time to do the things you really want. Over the years I've found a simple management tool that's allowed me keep all my juggling balls in the air and I don't have to go far to find it because it's in my kitchen. Yep, you probably guessed it. It's my kitchen timer.

The first time I thought about using a timer to help me write was while reading cleaning tips from The Fly Lady, who has all kinds of theories about how much you can do in 15 minutes. While 15 minutes might not seem like a long time, it's long enough to spot clean your kitchen, or in my case, write 3 sentences. And for me, 3 sentences is the magic formula that gets my brain flowing and puts me into my story. Three sentences here and three sentences there, and soon, I have a scene. Most days, if I'm off from work, I try to write in 1 hour increments, using my timer as an absolute. As in, I will absolutely not get off my arse until my timer goes off. One hour is my max concentration time. After that, my fingers tend to wander towards the computer keys that will take me to Facebook or email, but I figure I can do anything for an hour.

How about you? Any secret
 time management tips you'd like to share?

Maria Geraci was born in Havana, Cuba, and raised on Florida’s Space Coast. Her love of books started with the classic, Little Women (a book she read so often growing up, she could probably quote). She writes contemporary romance and women’s fiction with a happy ending. Her fourth novel, A Girl Like You, was released last August by Berkley, Penguin, USA. You can connect with Maria by visiting her website, www.mariageraci.com

To Write vs. To Have Written

by Marilyn Brant

Last week, as I was getting ready to write this blog for today, I was sitting in a doctor's waiting room, making a few notes on scratch paper about what I really wanted to say. After jotting down 4 or 5 sentences, it occurred to me that I'd actually already written the post I wanted to write, LOL...I just had to find it. Which I did. (A modified version of these thoughts appeared on Magical Musings about 2 years ago.)

But I hoped it would be helpful to share this with you all now because these experiences we have as writers are cyclical, and certain themes and situations emerge again and again. And, recently, I found myself thinking about one theme in particular as I was chatting with an aspiring writer friend -- someone I care about and hope will finish her first manuscript. We were talking about the difference in verb tense between wanting to do something and wanting to have done something.

For instance, I’m not much of a runner these days. (Read: Only when I go out to the mailbox and it’s raining. Not sprinkling, but seriously downpouring.) I was sort of into it at one time, though. Pre-motherhood. For about a year, I actually ran for 3 – 5 miles a few times per week. Even got up to 7 miles on a handful of occasions. So, I’d experienced enough of the sensation of lean, stretching muscles — toned by high-cardio exertion — and fully oxygenated lungs working to capacity, etc., to understand the concept of a long-distance race and to even imagine myself running one.

I loved the mental image of it. I could so easily picture myself having crossed the finish line, striding — exhausted, but proud — to the winner’s podium (Gatorade bottle in hand) to get a medal, a certificate or even just a few congratulatory handshakes.

My brother, however, wasn’t just imagining it. He ran scores of races, including the Chicago Marathon** three times. It was so inspiring to watch him in action and hear his stories about these events. For one thing, he finished fast. He's not a professional athlete either, or any kind of a personal trainer. (He's a math/stats guy.) Even so, in his first year of racing in Chicago, he came in 599th place out of 31,200 finishers and about 45,000 total runners — so in the top 1.5%! I had, right before my eyes and in my very own family, a model for real running success. Furthermore, my brother is an incredibly cool dude, and he openly, enthusiastically told me all the things he did to train and prepare for the big event.

And THAT — my friends — put a dramatic end to my racing fantasies!

Turns out, I didn’t want to run a long-distance race. I wanted to have run one. I wanted the end game only — the podium, the handshakes, even the Gatorade. (I like the grape flavor.) I did not want to wake up at 4:45 (A.M.!!!) to go to the gym for strength training every day before work. I did not want to limit my chocolate intake in any way or learn how to regulate my diet for “ideal athletic performance.”  (Huh?!) And I really did not want to run outside in all types of nasty weather conditions — rain! snow! heat! — for mile after mile, month after month, just so I could get ready for that grueling course. No way! I wanted to run for fun — short distances and at a leisurely pace (with my iPod blasting Bon Jovi), amusing myself with daydreams about first-place ribbons and Olympic gold. That’s the unvarnished truth.

Any of you ever have a fantasy like that? To win “American Idol,” for instance, or to be an Academy Award nominee or a jujitsu black belt or a star figure skater? I’ve imagined all of these at some point or other... I was willing to do exactly zero work for any of them, but they provided some entertaining daydreams, LOL. Writing a novel, however, was — quite literally — a different story.

So, for example, when somebody strolls into a bookstore, scans the shelves and dreamily says to the person next to them (i.e., me), “I always wanted to write a book,” I have to wonder if their desire is like my idea of being a long-distance runner — a totally fun fantasy — or if it’s like my brother’s idea of being a long-distance runner — years of work, dedication and sometimes pain.

And I’ve found myself more than once kindly and gently trying to explain to that person the difference between wanting to write a book and wanting to have written one. I’ll ask them many of the same questions I've had to ask myself:

Does the prospect of getting up early every morning and/or staying up late every night to work for hours on a manuscript fill you with an unusual sense of excitement?

Would you rearrange your hobbies, your work hours, your free time, or whatever you need to do, to accommodate the writing whenever possible?

Will you draft, revise and persist no matter what the weather is like, how you’re feeling (tired, sick, unmotivated), the number of rejections you get or what’s on TV that night?

Do you enjoy studying the necessary aspects of the writing craft, the ever-changing publishing industry and the market to improve your skills and understanding as a novelist?

And are you already doing this — if not every single day — on most days, whether or not you have any guarantee of success or fame or fortune in the end?

Whether the other person’s answer to each question is a yes or a no, I’m happy for them. Self knowledge is power! But I know from both my experience at the track and my experience in front of the computer screen that, oh, yeah, the difference in verb tense is a BIG one. And, at a certain point, one of the marks of adulthood is being able to be honest with yourself about when you’re willing to pursue a passion with all the time, energy and effort it requires vs. when you’re not. That a particular fantasy may be delightful (and fantasies should be!), but be sure to recognize it for what it is.

As for those activities that you are willing to do all the necessary hard work to pursue — please give yourself some extra kudos for the uniqueness of that commitment. Because it’s rare and it should be honored.

___________
Marilyn Brant is the national bestselling author of seven novels, including A Summer in Europe (women's fiction) and Pride, Prejudice and the Perfect Match (romantic comedy). She lives in the northern Chicago suburbs with her family where she walks a lot.

**Thoughts and prayers to the people of Boston and to everyone affected by the explosions at the Boston Marathon yesterday. Couldn't believe this happened...sigh.

What I learned from judging the RITAs

By Maria Geraci

  

Our theme this cycle is marketing tips for writers and we’ve had such great advice that I can’t think of anything more to add. Except to emphasize the one thing we’ve been hearing over and over. The most powerful marketing tool is writing the best book possible. And writing the best book possible involves continually growing and learning as a writer. For me, that means writing every day, reading every day, and expanding my knowledge in any way possible.

Recently, I was a judge in this year’s RITA contest. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the contest, it’s Romance Writers ofAmerica’s most prestigious award recognizing romance fiction. This year the contest underwent a bit of an overhaul. Traditionally, books were scored on a 1-9 ranking, 9 being the highest number a book could obtain. Under the new scoring system, books are now judged on four criteria, with 50 being the highest total score: 20 points for the romance, 10 points for the plot, 10 points for the characters and 10 points for the writing.

When I received my bundle of books in early January, I have to admit to being a bit perplexed. As far as genre, they were all over the place—historical romance, romantic suspense, novellas, contemporary series… you get the point. The only genres I didn’t receive were the ones I opted out on—mainstream with strong romantic elements (the category my own book is under) and Inspirational. But being the good sport I am, I tackled those books with all the seriousness of a Nobel Prize at stake. Because let’s face it, although a Rita certainly doesn’t guarantee you any modicum of “success” in this business, it is in the immortal words of Sally Field a pretty good indicator that your peers really really like you. And yes, a good part of the contest depends on luck of the draw, because it only takes one judge to really really not like your book to probably knock you out of contention. But I digress.

So, I began reading “my” books. I have to admit to feeling a bit protective of the books I’m called upon to judge. It’s a serious thing to read a book, take it apart and then give it a score in a contest that you know (as a contestant yourself) can either throw an author into total elation or drive you to the pits of despair. Okay, a bit dramatic, but bear with me. In other words, I take this stuff seriously. As my pal, and fellow author, Roxanne St. Claire says (roughly) she approaches the RITA using the Melanie approach from Gone With The Wind. She treats every RITA book she judges the way she’d like her own books to be read and judged. Which means reading every book cover to cover with an open mind and a positive attitude. In other words, every book starts out with a perfect score.

I know I’ve heard a few moans regarding the new scoring system, but I have to say that as someone who has judged under the old system and now the new, I definitely like the new better. Under the old system I hated giving a book a blandish 6 or 7 without being able to pinpoint to either the author or myself why their book wasn’t a 9. It was judging from a “gut” feeling. The new scoring, I think, is much more objective (in a subjective sort of way), and surprisingly a lesson learner. I had to really think of why a book might earn the full 20 points in the romance area, but maybe a 7 for plot or a 6 for characters. It made me dissect my books in a way that I hadn’t before. And what I learned from that was invaluable. Yes, viscerally I knew all this stuff, but after judging the RITAS this go around, it’s really crept into my subconscious in a way that I think has benefited my writing.

So, what exactly did I relearn?

You have to read books that you would never think of reading. We all fall into the old pattern of reading the stuff we know we’ll like. But it’s like going to the same restaurants time and time again. You get the same good food but you don’t ever get surprised. It’s the surprises in life that make us grow and learn. Both as people and as writers.

Give your readers what they expect. Now, I don’t mean to make your book predictable and boring. But every genre has it’s own expectations. Respect that. Or you’ll lose readers.

Write a main character your readers will like and root for. Honestly, yes. It’s really that simple.

The last twenty five percent of the book has to deliver. In a big way. We all spend months polishing that first half of the book and it’s easy to let the last bits slip away from us (mostly because we’re so sick of the book by then!). Don’t fall into this trap. I judged one book that I dearly wanted to give near perfect marks to until the book fell apart in the last fifty pages.

If you have any influence over your cover and title, use it! The last book I judged was the best by far, yet I kept putting if off to the end simply because I didn’t think I’d like it based on the cover.

So there you have it. My 2013 RITA experience. A workshop on writing couldn’t have taught me more. I wish all the books I judged the best of luck in the contest and please know I did my best. I’m honored to have read you!

 Maria Geraci was born in Havana, Cuba, and raised on Florida’s Space Coast. Her love of books started with the classic, Little Women (a book she read so often growing up, she could probably quote). She writes contemporary romance and women’s fiction with a happy ending. Her fourth novel, A Girl Like You, was released last August by Berkley, Penguin, USA. You can connect with Maria by visiting her website, www.mariageraci.com

When You Don't Get What You Think You Want

By Marilyn Brant

You know that song by Garth Brooks,
"Unanswered Prayers"?
Or that famous one by the Rolling Stones, "You Can't Always Get What You Want"?

Yeah, me, too.

But I wonder how many times, when you heard one or the other of them on the radio, you thought about something in your life and said to yourself, "No, no! I really do want that particular thing ___(fill in the blank with your heart's deep desire). I don't wanna just get what I need -- I'm telling you* what I need, and it's the same thing that I want!"

[*"You," in this case, typically refers to one of the following: God, Mother Nature, the Unseen Forces of the Universe and/or your Magic 8 Ball.]

Publishing seems to inspire such moments more frequently than, say, almost any other less crazy-making occupation. And I'm not telling you that only because I've had some rather heated discussions with my Magic 8 Ball. But, if I'm being totally honest, I'll admit that in the nearly 13 years that I've been a fiction writer, my perspective on what's an actual blessing -- vs. what's a blessing in disguise -- has changed.

I remember finishing my first manuscript -- a women's fiction story that was (roughly) 625 handwritten pages long and (exactly) 509 typed pages in Times New Roman 12. I can now see countless flaws in it...but, back then, I thought it was a work of utter depth, brilliant pacing and staggeringly beautiful prose. Of course, at the time I wrote it, I hadn't yet actually read a single book on the craft of fiction or taken a class on the art of novel writing or, you know, even talked to a published author about...anything. So, my frame of reference for what constituted a "good" piece of fiction was rather limited and more than a little faulty.

This did not in any way stop me from desperately wanting a publishing contract with a NY house for that book. And Garth Brooks could croon on the radio all night long about how thankful he was for prayers that went unanswered, but I was convinced I was more perceptive than he was anyway and, seriously (!!), I knew what I wanted.

Turned out, I needed to dig a little deeper into that desire. Yes, I wanted to be a published author -- that part proved true -- but what I really wanted, more than almost anything at the time, was to have written a story that was a good solid piece of fiction. I kept wishing for a book contract for that first novel. But it was actually acquiring the novel-writing skills that would lead to a book contract that was my deep-down burning dream. (And I got the contract eventually, too, but only after I'd finished my fifth manuscript. No one, not even me, should ever have to suffer through that first one again... I remain ever grateful and relieved that it never got published.)

With the enormous changes going on in the publishing industry over these past few years, I've had conversations with dozens of writers about the books they've sold or haven't sold. About the dreams they'd once had for certain projects and how they thought it was the end of the line when those stories weren't picked up by a traditional house.
Many novelists put them away in a drawer or hid them on a flashdrive somewhere. They tried to forget about them, but there was always that lingering sense of disappointment.

And then digital publishing exploded onto the scene.

Authors who'd never found the right editor to embrace their work, suddenly had a platform to make thousands of sales, if they could reach their ideal audience. Books that didn't fit neatly into a publishing niche before, now had an honored place on the virtual bookshelves. I cannot begin to count the number of times I've heard in just the past twelve months, "Thank God my book didn't sell to ____ publisher!" Why? Because it gave the author the freedom to sell it to another house that did more for them marketing/distribution-wise or to publish it themselves and reap much greater royalties than they may have gotten under different circumstances.

In one instance, at least, that was true for me, too. I'd been very discouraged when Pride, Prejudice and the Perfect Match didn't sell to a traditional publisher several years ago. It had gotten so close! It made it as far as that final mystical roundtable of publishing people at a well-known house...and, at the last minute, they decided against buying it.

Honestly, though, that was the BEST thing that ever could have happened to that book! (And I'd hug Garth Brooks and Mick Jagger and sing their songs along with them both, if they were here, just to prove it.)

From a royalties standpoint, the story earned more in its first month after release than I would have made from that traditional publisher's small advance, plus, I got to keep all of my foreign/audio/etc. rights and I had complete control over selecting the cover design and choosing the release date. But, best of all, I got my deeper goal...which wasn't really to sell that novel to a NY house, but to connect that story with its right readership. I didn't have the online community network back then that I do now, and that's a large reason why I think I was able to help this book find its audience. Not selling this story too soon was, in fact, exactly what I needed...and, surprisingly, what I wanted as well. Even though I didn't know that until a few weeks ago. :)

What about you? Have you ever not gotten something that you thought you wanted, only to later discover that it was a blessing in disguise? As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
_______

Marilyn Brant is the award-winning women's fiction author of According to Jane, Friday Mornings at Nine and A Summer in Europe, as well as a #1 Kindle bestseller who also writes digital romantic comedies. She likes to sing everything from pop-country to rock-n-roll (but only when she's alone in the house), and she's very attached to her Magic 8 Ball.

Scoop.it Tips For Authors

by Sara Rosett 

Have you heard of Scoop.it? It is a curation site designed to help you share interesting articles and links from the web. It’s like Pinterest for articles.

I’ve been using Scoop.it more and more as I try to simplify my online life. We’re talking about transitions here at GBC and I thought instead of focusing on the thing that comes to mind first —moving boxes and U-Haul trucks—I decided to explore another transition: how I shifted from traditional blogging to micro-blogging.

When my first book came out out way back 2006 (i.e. in the dark ags, pre-ebooks) I was blogging my little heart out at my own blog, Rosett Writes. I’d joined Girlfriends Cyber Circuit and happily blogged about friends’ books. I joined with four other mystery writers and created a “grog,” a group blog called Good Girls Kill because we were nice women writing murder mysteries.

And, oh yeah, while all this blogging was going on, I was also writing books.

Then one day I realized I was spending more time thinking about my blog posts than about my WIP (work in progress).

Not a good sign.

I closed down my individual blog and said a temporary good-bye to the Girlfriends. (I rejoined later after the Circuit was remodeled into GBC). My group blog died a natural death as we all reached a sharing saturation point and mutually decided it had been a great time, but we were tried of the weekly post commitment.

Truthfully, I didn’t think I had much left to say, either witty, funny or informative. Blogging had wrung me dry and I wanted to concentrate all my writing energy on my books. And I also had a feeling that I wasn’t reaching readers with my blogs. It seemed much of the blog activity was authors busily commenting and connecting with other authors—not a bad thing, but I wanted to reach readers.

I didn’t want to abandon all on-line activity and kept up with Facebook and Twitter. I wanted something a little more interactive, but without the huge time commitment of daily blogging.

Enter Scoop.it.

I’ve always posted lots of links to book-related news and blogs, so I created a topic on Scoop.it last year called All Things Bookish, a topic broad enough to attract readers and writers. I love the magazine-style format and the easy integration tools.

I post pretty much anything that I think is interesting in a book-related way:  articles about writing, photos of amazing libraries, and publishing news. Recently, I posted an article about how to create a computer screen saver with your ebook covers as well as an article about swimsuits that resemble book covers, which was got some attention.

Five Scoop.it Tips for Authors:

Think carefully about your topic title— you can’t edit the title of your Scoop.it topic once it’s entered. Decide if you want to go broad (Publishing) or niche (Cozy Mysteries). You can create several Scoop.it topics and they will all appear on your account with you as the curator. 

Install the Scoop.it Bookmarklet—I use the Scoop.it bookmarklet to “scoop” an article or photo to my All Things Bookish page, then I edit the appearance of the scoop: pick a pull quote, change the headline, and even select which photo I want to run with the mini-post. Scoop.it has apps for the iPhone and Android phones, so you can update your site from your phone. 

Link to your other social media accounts—This is my *favorite* thing about Scoop.it. I’ve linked Scoop.it with my Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr accounts as well as my website through Wordpress. I can post the same link to them at once. Pinterest isn’t supported yet, but there is a workaround. Once the post appears on my All Things Bookish page, I can use the installed “Pin it” button on the post to send it to Pinterest.

Website Widget--There are Scoop.it widgets and buttons for your website and blog. I send my most recent posts directly to a section on the lower section of my website home page. It keeps it my webpage updated with fresh content.

Connect—You can connect with other curators and find topics similar to yours. Scoop.it emphasizes that they help you curate content, bringing you lots of articles and links related to your topic. You can create streams with info related to your topic. I haven't found their content that helpful, but you can just ignore it, which is what I do. 

If you want more control on the appearance of your Scoop.it account or more detailed feedback on visitors, you can upgrade your account, but the free account works fine for me.

You can check out my All Things Bookish topic or see the most recent posts on my website. 

I’m curious to hear from you...do you blog? Why or why not? And, what tricks and tips have you found to save time with blogging and/or social media?

~Sara

A native Texan, Sara is the author of the Ellie Avery mystery series and the On The Run travel thrillers--watch for the first in the series, Elusive, out in September. As a military spouse Sara has moved around the country (frequently!) and traveled internationally, which inspired her latest travel thrillers. Publishers Weekly called Sara’s books, "satisfying," "well-executed," and "sparkling."

Sara loves all things bookish, considers dark chocolate a daily requirement, and is on a quest for the best bruschetta. Connect with Sara at www.SaraRosett.com or on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, or Goodreads.

The Lonely Manuscript Club by Brenda Janowitz

OCTOBER, 2013:  FABULOUS NEW UPDATE!  THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB HAS BEEN SOLD TO JASON PINTER, FOUNDER AND PUBLISHER OF POLIS BOOKS!  THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB WILL BE RELEASED BY POLIS BOOKS IN WINTER 2014.

This cycle we're talking about books that never saw the light of day. Yes, we published novelists have drawers full of them-- novels that never got finished, never got sold, never got read.

So, today, I'm sharing the first chapter of THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, a novel I pitched, but never sold. I really loved this character and the idea of the book-- it's about a woman who unknowingly starts a big anti-love movement-- but no editors did. Which is sort of a problem if you want to sell something. Anyway, this one still holds a special place in my heart, so here goes:

THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB

By Brenda Janowitz

Money for nothing

“Jo, you’re fired,” he says.  Just like that.  Fired.  And I’m utterly shocked.  I know that no one ever expects to be fired, but I really didn’t see this coming.  I find myself with my mouth wide open, just staring back at him. 

            “Fired?” is all I can choke out.  The room begins to spin.  That may be because I was out until sunrise last night drinking vodka tonics at an underground club in Williamsburg, but I’m pretty sure that it’s the news that’s doing it to me, not the hangover.

            “Yes, I’m sorry, Jo, but it’s not working out here,” he says.  His skin is gleaming when he says it.  His skin always gleams.  He’s a dermatologist, so it has to gleam in order for him to stay in business.  My skin doesn’t ever gleam.  At the very most, it shines and turns red when I get hot or embarrassed.  I feel it beginning to shine and my hand immediately flies to my cheek, which, of course, only makes it get hotter.

We are in his office when he tells me and he is sitting at his desk, his head framed by his many diplomas and awards that are hung on the wall behind him.  They are, as they are always, shining brightly as if they’d been dusted and cleaned that very morning.  I look at the picture that he keeps framed at the edge of his desk—a photograph of his family taken at a New Year’s Eve party for the year 2000, framed in a sterling silver picture frame that his wife lovingly picked out for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—and then look back up at him. 

            “You can’t fire me,” I say, which I wholeheartedly believe.  I really didn’t think that he ever would or could fire me.

            “I can,” he says, “and I am.”  He begins to toy with one of the pens sitting on his desk. 

            “I’m your best employee!” I plead.

            “You wore a ‘Save CBGBs’ T shirt to work,” he says.

            “CBGBs was a New York institution,” I say.  He gives me a blank stare.  I shrug in response.  Is it my fault that this man has no sense of culture?  Of history?  “What does it matter what I wear under my assistant’s coat anyway?”

            “People can see the prints on your T shirts right through the fabric,” he says.  “And sometimes you wear ones with dirty words on them,” he continues, whispering the ‘dirty words’ part as if his grandmother is somehow listening from up above and would be appalled by this particular bit of information.  “Jo, it’s not just the T shirts.  You’ve called in the wrong prescriptions for my patients more times than I’d like to admit.”

            “Some of those drugs have very complicated names,” I say in my own defense.  And for the record, they do.

            “That doesn’t mean you can give a patient a more pronounceable drug without consulting me first.”

            “Then maybe you and your colleagues should start prescribing more pronounceable drugs,” I argue.  He furrows his brow in response.  “But, I’m your favorite employee!” I plead.

            “You balanced the company checkbook wrong the last three out of four quarters.”

“You know that I’m not an accountant.”  When he hired me for the job two years ago, I knew that there would be some accounting involved.  What I hadn’t realized at the time was that I would have to be quite so specific with the numbers.  Which is a challenge for me seeing as I’m really more of a right brain kind of person.

“But, you know how to balance your own checkbook, don’t you?” he says.

For the record, I don’t.

“Of course I know how to balance my own checkbook,” I laugh, as if to say, ‘Doesn’t everybody?’  “A business checkbook is much, much different than a personal checkbook,” I explain. 

For the record, it’s not.

“I’m your most loyal employee,” I say.  My last resort.  I find myself alternating between staring into his solid gold monogrammed Tiffany belt buckle and his shellacked black hair because I can’t meet his eyes.

            “This is difficult for me, too, you know,” he says, even though I know that it’s not. 

“Do you realize how embarrassing this is going to be for me?” I say as my last resort.

“I thought you don’t get embarrassed,” he replies, looking into my eyes, challenging me.

“I don’t,” I say, frowning like a little girl who hasn’t gotten the piece of candy that she wanted.   

            “Don’t take this personally, Pumpkin.”

            “You can’t call me Pumpkin when you’re firing me, Daddy.” 

#

Thanks so much for reading!  I hope you enjoyed Chapter One.  If you'd like to read more, I've got Chapter Two up on my blog today.

I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. (And, ahem, the very unpublished THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB.) My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, will be published by St. Martin's in 2013. 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.

"Falling Uphill:" Turning a Trunk Book into an E-Book by Wendy Nelson Tokunaga

In 2004 I was in a funk over my writing life. At last I’d landed an agent, but he wasn’t able to sell either of my manuscripts. And then he ended up firing me. (Much later I realized that he didn’t know what the heck he was doing, and I should have actually fired him, but that’s another story). One of these novels, after much revision, ended up as my thesis for my MFA program in 2008. But the other ms, called Falling Uphill—what could be described as a “chick-lit mystery with a little bit of old Hollywood thrown in”—went into my “trunk,” only to gather dust on my hard drive.

Flash forward to 2011. By now I’ve had two novels traditionally published and self-pubbed e-books are all the rage. And, I thoutht, why not take another look at Falling Uphill—maybe I could use it to jump on this indie-pub bandwagon. I hadn’t touched the ms for some seven years and as I read, I got caught up, just like a new reader. Did I write this? What’s going to happen next? I couldn’t remember how it all turned out. And, best of all, I liked it!

So I got to work. I put Falling Uphill out as part of Amazon’s Select Program under its Kindle Direct Publishing platform. This meant agreeing to sell the book exclusively on Amazon for a three-month period. Under the Select Program you get paid not only for the copies of books you sell, but also for books borrowed from Amazon’s lending library for users who have a Prime membership. But the best thing about the Select Program for me was being able to offer Falling Uphill for free for five days. When I did this (along with some self-promotion regarding the free giveaway), I garnered 35,000 downloads. This led to the book charting quite well on various Kindle free and paid bestseller charts, which gave it a visibility it wouldn’t have otherwise attained. Sales have remained steady and my Amazon reviews more than tripled. And through this people have also found out about my other books. Gaining new readers—that’s what it’s all about for me.

I couldn’t be happier with the experience. Pretty good for a trunk novel that probably never would have seen the light of day without the digital publishing revolution.

Excerpt from Chapter One of FallingUphill by Wendy Nelson Tokunaga

Ruth Fenton is dead, but I don’t know what this has to do with me.

I press the button on the answering machine once more.

            This is a message for Candace Grey. Ms. Grey, this is Sally Claiborne at the West Portal Home for the Aged in San Francisco. We’re sorry to inform you that Ruth Fenton passed away on Monday. A memorial service will be held here next Wednesday.

            Sally has left her phone number and says to call if I have any questions. Yes, I do: Who is Ruth Fenton?

            After spending four brain-numbing hours at my office correcting finals, it’s already way past ten. And I’ll still be late getting my grades in, which seems to happen every semester. As usual I’ll have to get up extra early tomorrow and finish inputting them into the computer.

Jeff’s still not home. When I saw the blinking light on the answering machine I assumed it was a message from him—not a mysterious call from San Francisco. It’s Thursday and already this is the fourth time Jeff’s arrived home later than me this week. This means every day so far. Is he going to tell me that yet another meeting with his department head required his attendance? I don’t know if I can keep buying that.

            “You sure he’s not cheating?” My friend Laney Svensson didn’t mince words over lunch today.

            “Cheating?” I put on my best that’s-out-of-the-question face, but I have to admit the thought has crossed my mind. After celebrating our fifth-year anniversary of living together just the previous month (a celebration that was all my idea—a weekend at the Rose Petal Inn bed-and-breakfast in Stevensville, with a view of Lake Michigan), there’s still no urgency on his part to set a wedding date.

“Is it really necessary to secure a piece of paper to prove our love?” is one of his favorite lines. And I get no straight answer as to why, when he’s told yes, said piece of paper is required, other than, “I’m just not ready yet and you’re so nice to be so patient with me. Give me time.” Toss in these recent bouts of lateness and it’s enough to make a girl wonder if indeed something fishy is going on.

            Ruth Fenton. Ruth Fenton. 

            I file through my brain, hoping to jog my memory into arriving at a clue as to who she could be. I forgot all about eating so I toss an individual frozen salami and sausage pizza into the microwave. I’m not about to make dinner for two for the late Mr. Jeff Sands. As the pizza pops and sizzles I hear the front door, then see Jeff in the doorway of the kitchen.

            He looks tired and a little drunk. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “But some of the students took me out for a beer to celebrate the end of the semester.”

            “Did you eat something?”

            “Yeah.” He opens the refrigerator and takes out a hunk of Monterey Jack cheese and a Cadbury Strawberry Crème bar. “But I’m still hungry.”

            I stare at his food choices, and conclude that it really isn’t just my imagination that his eating habits have lately become increasingly bizarre.

“How come you didn’t call?” The microwave beeps and I remove my pizza, throwing it on a plate.

            “I knew you’d be sweating it out grading finals,” he says. “Did you get your grades in?”

            “No.”

            He yawns. “Well, that’s no surprise.”

            I frown. Procrastination is not in Jeff’s vocabulary—he turned in his grades a week before the deadline, as usual.

“So what students did you go out with?”

            “Just a group from my English Lit class. No one you’d know.”

            I wonder if maybe it was more like one particular student he was with. Perhaps Stephanie Filcher? I spotted him talking to her last week on campus behind the library, sitting together on a bench in the oak grove, a well-known make-out spot for students.

Stephanie has just finished my Anthropology 200 Gender, Mass Media and Society class, and is as auburn-haired, hazel-eyed, rosebud-lipped, and milk-skinned as an American Girl doll. She probably weighs more than I do, but her slight chubbiness is displayed in firm, rounded curves that are flattering on a college sophomore, but would appear downright pudgy on anyone over twenty-five.

When the semester started she made a point of telling me she had “that hottie” (her words) Professor Sands for English Lit, as if to see my reaction. It was obvious she knew he was my boyfriend, though it wasn’t something we broadcasted all over school. Very tacky for someone out of high school a good two years and enrolled in a halfway decent private college like Jonesbury (no University of Michigan, but respectable) to use words like “hottie” in front of her teacher.

            But it also might look tacky to ask Jeff exactly what he was doing with Stephanie Filcher at the oak grove, even though I’m picturing him on his outing tonight sucking down a Corona with her—in bed.

            “I have to tell you something,” he says.

            The professorial gravity in his voice nearly makes my heart stop. I’m transported back to high school, to Mr. Flack’s advanced geometry class, my knees trembling as he’s about to announce final grades. Here it comes. I brace myself for the inevitable I’m-in-love-with-Stephanie-Filcher-however-I-wish-you-the-best-of-luck-in-all-your-future-endeavors confession. I wish I were dead like Ruth Fenton. I hold my breath. “What?”

            “I just found out I’m teaching summer school so I can’t go with you to LA.”

            I consider this to be bad news, but it sounds a lot better than I’m breaking up with you. “I thought you said you couldn’t get a summer placement.”

            “Tim Gifford decided not to take the spot at the last minute. Dean Cooper asked me if I wanted it and I said yes. I figure I could use the money.”

            Notice he doesn’t say we could use the money. He insists that we keep our finances separate like roommates. I still owe him $8.75 for half of the Haagen-Dazs White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream, Milano Double Orange cookies, and Tofu Helper he bought on Monday.

            “So you can’t go with me?”

            “Sorry.” He leans over and brushes his lips against mine. Even after six years together his kisses still thrill me, though I’m not sure he feels the same. Maybe he wasn’t with Stephanie Filcher tonight. Maybe he still wants to be with me. Except not when I go to LA.

            I sigh. “Well, that kind of changes everything.”

            “This doesn’t stop you from going on your own, Candace. It’s not like I would be a big help or anything.”

            “But I thought it could be a kind of vacation for us. No school. No pressure.”

            “Well, we just went to Lake Michigan and that set us back some serious change.”

            Our LA summer together was to be half fun and half work, while I did research for my master’s thesis. No, Jeff might not be a big help with my research, but I don’t know what I would have done without him in my early days of teaching. I may still be time management impaired, but it was Jeff who saved my butt by showing me how to write a clear syllabus, deal with students who said I didn’t know what I was talking about, and helped me track down a way too familiar-sounding term paper to a website called “E-Z A” where a ready-to-turn-in paper on any subject can be downloaded for ten bucks a page. 

 “I was really looking forward to being with you.”

            He gives me a smile worthy of a hottie. He’s been wearing his brownish-blond hair shorter, which I like. It frames his face in a way that brings out the blue in his eyes, despite his gold wire-rim glasses. “I’ll miss you,” he says.

            “I guess things just aren’t going my way. You won’t be coming to LA and Ruth Fenton is dead.”

            “Ruth Fenton?” he says. “Who’s that?”

            “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

~~~

Find out more about Falling Uphill HERE.

Wendy Nelson Tokunaga is the author of the novels, “Midori by Moonlight” and “Love in Translation” (both published by St. Martin’s Press), and the original e-book novels “Falling Uphill” and “His Wife and Daughters.” She’s also written a nonfiction e-book, “Marriage in Translation: Foreign Wife, Japanese Husband.” Her short story “Love Right on the Yesterday” is featured in “Tomo: Friendship Through Fiction: An Anthology of Teen Stories” published by Stone Bridge Press, and her essay, “Burning Up” appears in “Madonna & Me: Women Writers on the Queen of Pop” published by Soft Skull Press. Wendy holds an MFA in Writing from University of San Francisco (2008) and teaches novel writing for Stanford University’s Online Writer’s Studio and has taught for USF’s MFA program. She also does private manuscript consulting for novels and memoirs. She is currently working on her fifth novel. Visit her at: www.WendyTokunaga.com and follow her on Twitter: @Wendy_Tokunaga

Tough talking girls from the suburbs by Brenda Janowitz

So, this cycle we're talking about manuscripts that never got published. Every published author has got at least one or two novels laying around that never saw the light of day. Sad, lonely novels that just didn't gel, or just didn't sell.

Today, I've got the first chapter of a book I called LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP. I was trying to do something different from my first novel, SCOT ON THE ROCKS, and create a protagonist that wasn't me. She was the anti-me. A tough-talking, take-no-prisoners type who was born and raised in Las Vegas.

Problem one: I showed it to my mother, who is always my first reader. I was worried that I didn't quite have the voice down yet. I asked her if it sounded like a tough-talking bail bondsman from downtown Vegas, or if it sounded like a sheltered girl from the suburbs who was merely TRYING to sound like a tough-talking bail bondsman from Vegas. She thought the latter.

Problem two: I debuted a chapter of this in my writing class and the teacher said: This is great! It's just like those Stephanie Plum novels! I said: Stephanie who?! It was only later when I googled Stephanie Plum that I realized that Janet Evanovich had created a cottage industry around a tough-talking female bail bondsman. I didn't think that publishing had room for one more.

I figured this thing was dead in the water. And it probably is. But, just for fun, here goes:

LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP

By Brenda Janowitz

Chapter one

“Bailbondsman?” a frat boy who can’t be more than twenty years old asks me.  “But you’re a girl.  Shouldn’t you be called bailbondswoman or something?”

He laughs real loud and his three lookalike friends behind him laugh along even though it wasn’t really that funny and they aren’t here for fun and games, they’re here to post bail for their friend who’s being held for manslaughter—a $500,000 bond here in the great state of Nevada.  They are all dressed identically—each one in a different pastel colored Lacoste short sleeved polo shirt and designer jeans that they probably bought already worn in and dirty.  You can get overpriced crap like that at the Caesar’s Forum Shops.  The five hundred grand probably doesn’t even mean a thing to these kids.  But, to me, it’s everything.  I need that 10% fee to stay in business.

            I lean in real close.  We’re eye to eye, but I can see his eyes go down my neck and land squarely on my breasts.

            “I don’t really think there’s any chance of anyone getting confused,” I reply.  As he nods in agreement, his eyes don’t even come back up to meet my eyes.

            My name is Cat and I’m a bailbondsman.  Or woman.  Whatever.  I’m usually not too concerned with people getting confused about it.  I have been running this business for years now—ever since my daddy died.  

We do it all here, we’re a full service shop:  post bail bonds, cash checks….  we can even notarize something for you if you’d like (my Bounty Hunter Donny’s also a notary).  But the bonds are our bread and butter here, so I mostly cover that stuff. 

My best friend, Heavenly, works here with me ever since my daddy’s old secretary, Dottie, finally retired at 75 years young.  I met Heavenly about five years ago when I posted her bond for her killing her husband.  Really.  She killed him.  Cold blood and everything.  She walked in on him sleeping with some other woman, and ever so calmly walked directly to the bedside table, took out her hubby’s gun, and shot them both. 

I like her style.

In the end, she got off practically scot free.  Heat of the moment and all that.  It’s true.  I know this kind of stuff.  I used to date a lawyer.  You see, if she had gone downstairs to get the gun or hesitated for even one minute, they could have really nailed her because it would have been premeditated.  But, since she moved so quickly and without really thinking, it was the heat of passion, and she was set.  Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it?

My daddy was a GI stationed in California in 1968.  He hit the newly built Caesar’s Palace in Vegas on the way back from California to his home in the Bronx after his tour of duty and fell in love with a showgirl.  They spent a blissful three days together until his father called him back home to go work in the family business—a bail bonds outfit right near the Federal Courthouse in White Plains.

            He sent love letters to that showgirl every day for three months.  She never responded, but he kept on writing.  After three months, she finally gave him a call to tell him she was pregnant.

            Inside of a week, he was back in town, married that pretty showgirl in a quickie ceremony, and bought a starter house for them to begin their lives.  Six months later, they gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, who they named Elizabeth, after my daddy’s mother.  They called her Bessie.

When my daddy came back into town to take care of my mother, he did the only thing he knew how—bail bonds, just like his daddy had done in the Bronx.  His daddy set him up with a local guy, Louie Stone, who showed him the ropes.  Things were great for a while until Louie decided he wanted to post a bond for the guy who’d tried to shoot Benny Binion in an underground poker game.  My daddy wouldn’t do it—you do not go against Benny Binion in the city of Las Vegas.  It’s just simply not done.  You see, the man is a Las Vegas legend, and you show a man like that respect.  For God’s sake, my daddy played in the first World Series of Poker—Benny Binion’s brainchild—in 1970.  Louie and my daddy parted ways and my dad opened his own shop, Malone and Sons Bail Bonds, right across the street.  (This was before I was a twinkle in his eye and my daddy was positive that his second child would be a boy.)

Business was real tough at the outset, and after a while, that pretty showgirl got tired of clipping coupons and ran off with an LA record exec who has since declared bankruptcy.  My sister was three and I was just a baby.  Our mother never came back, even when our daddy died twelve years later.

“This is how it’s going to work,” I say to the frat boy as he pulls out his checkbook, “You pay me 10% of the bond, I post it for you, and if your friend shows up for his date with the judge, we’re all aces and kings.  If he doesn’t,” I say, careful to pause and make sure I’ve got his full attention, because this is the important part, “you’re on for the whole half a mil.  Got it?”

“Got it,” the frat boy says, eyeing Heavenly, in a microscopic gold skirt and white lace tube top, up and down.  Heavenly smiles back.  Then his eyes turn to me, starting at the top of my white wife beater, traveling down to my used Levi’s all the way to my combat boots.  My usual uniform for the day, all purchased at an Army Navy shop in Henderson, the neighborhood where I live.  I get most of my clothes at that same Army Navy shop, with the exception of my most prized possession—my red leather jacket.  Paper thin and soft as a baby’s bottom, it’s perfect for the mild Vegas weather (except for the summers when it’s oppressively hot, but that’s when I send the jacket to my sister in New York, who brings it to her “special leather guy in midtown” who cleans it up, reinforces the buttons, and makes it look new again in time for September).  It was bought while chasing down a mark with Donny in Italy.  When our mark hit Florence, I told Donny that we had to take an afternoon off to check out the flea market—famous for its top shelf leather goods.  Heavenly had specifically requested that if our mark hit Florence, we get her a pair of leather gloves.  It was there that I picked up my red leather jacket and also nailed my mark—his girlfriend had the same idea to stop and hit the flea market.  We picked them up just as he was trying on a pair of leather jeans.  He was sort of stuck in them and couldn’t run from us fast enough.  I love it when shit like that happens.

“That’s why you’re giving me proof that you can pay the whole half a mil, you get it?”

“Got it,” he says, casually passing me a faxed copy of the deed to his Washington, D.C. brownstone.  His eyes have left me and are back to running up and down Heavenly’s dancer’s bod.  She danced from the time she ran away from home at fifteen until she killed her husband at twenty-five, and she’s got the gams to prove it.

“And if you’re on for the whole half a mil,” I say, directing his eyes back to me, “you’ve got yourself a little date with my muscle, Donny.”

Donny stands up from his desk in the back and looks at the frat boy.  That is, all six foot five, three hundred pounds of him stands up and stares at the frat boy.  Donny’s face wears no expression, but when you’re six foot five, three hundred pounds, your body speaks for itself.  I can see the frat boy trying to hide his fear, in the same way I’m sure he’d learned to when he was being hazed by the older members of his fraternity, but when you’re in my business, you can smell fear a mile away.

Things are black and white in my business, much like life.  You’re either guilty or innocent, you can either pay your bail or you can’t, you either stay for the hearing, or you run. 

My mother, that pretty showgirl, taught me that.  You either stay or you leave.  You show up or you don’t.  That’s just the type of person you are.  One or the other.  It’s practically out of your control.  I’m the type of person who stays, and I try to surround myself with other like-minded people.

“Understand?” I ask the frat boy.  He shakes his head ‘yes’ and Donny sits back down and goes back to the newspaper he’d been thumbing through.

I’ve known Donny since the day I was born.  Daddy grew up with him back in the Bronx.  When he went out on his own after breaking away from Louie, my daddy brought Donny out to Vegas and hired him to be his muscle in the shop.  Most people wouldn’t hire an ex-con, at that time Donny had already done some time for a bunch of petty crimes—fights and the like—and my daddy was the only one in Vegas (and the Bronx, and the greater New York metropolitan area, incidentally) who would give him a shot.  They were closer than just friends, than just business colleagues, they were like brothers.  My daddy was the best man at Donny’s wedding, and served as the godfather to Donny’s little baby girl.  Donny’s godfather to my sister and me, too.

As per my daddy’s will, Donny was supposed to be our legal guardian should anything happen to him.  Unfortunately, at the time that my daddy died, Donny was at the tail end of a five year stint (ten really, but five with parole) in the Federal Pen for killing the drunk driver who had killed his wife and kid.

In Donny’s absence, our daddy’s secretary, Dottie, took my fifteen year old sister, Bessie, and me in until one day Social Services came calling.  I never was sure who turned us in and I try not to think about it too much.  That night, at three o’clock in the morning, my sister grabbed me and her boyfriend and put us all on a bus bound for New York City. 

We got a fifth-story walk up studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen right on Ninth Avenue near the bus terminal.  It was by no means a safe neighborhood, but we had my sister’s fifteen year old boyfriend, Dez, and a kindly Super named Sammy who watched out for us.

About a month before Dottie’s life savings had run out (which Dottie had given to us—my sister’s a lot of things, but she isn’t a thief), Bessie had scored a role on the daytime soap The Sun Never Sets on Tomorrow.  I wasn’t surprised at all when she got the role.  For one—I was twelve years old at the time, and when you’re twelve years old, you tend to think that anything is possible, even impossible dreams.  For the other—by fifteen, her boobs were already bigger than mine are now, and she had the same silky black hair and big blue eyes that I have.  Dez and I found Bessie a fake ID that said she was sixteen and had Dottie mail in parental consents to get her on the set. 

Bessie was tutored on the set until she was eighteen and she somehow got me a scholarship to a fancy Upper East Side private high school.  I don’t know how she did it, but my sister is one of those people who can make anything happen.  From my fancy Upper East Side private school, I was a shoe in to get into Harvard.  They didn’t offer me a scholarship, but by then, Bessie was making enough money as a soap star to foot the bill for me and it was my dream to go.  I know that she never would have paid if she knew that the real reason I wanted to go to college was to get a degree in business and re-open my daddy’s shop in Vegas, but by the time I graduated and told her of my plans, it was already too late.  When we argue, she sometimes tells me that she wants the Harvard money back, with juice.  I try to be careful not to argue with her.

            “Just sign here and we’re all set,” I say to the frat boy with a smile.  Usually, I have Heavenly take care of the minutia like this, but with a bond so high, I want all my “i”s dotted and “t”s crossed.  I cannot afford to lose this money.  The 10% I’m collecting on this bond is enough to keep my lease on the building and the business just barely in the black.  This business is all I have left of my daddy, and it’s not going anywhere as long as I have something to say about it.

            I look over his paperwork as he examines mine before signing.  This frat boy is attaching his two million dollar brownstone in D.C. as collateral for the bond.  I see from his application that these kids go to Georgetown.  I try not to think about the fact that this kid who is ten years younger than me owns more real property than I do as he signs his name—Albert Thomas Finnegan, the third.

I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. (And, ahem, the very unpublished LOVE, LOSS AND BAIL ON THE VEGAS STRIP.) My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, will be published by St. Martin's in 2013. 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.