Renee Bernard's Blog

When I was young, comedy was like a forbidden and guilt-tinged pleasure.  It started with the Smothers Brothers but it rolled from there in our house.  My teenage sisters had somehow smuggled in comedy albums into their collections…and I never missed a chance to lurk with my ear pressed against their bedroom door when they played those albums.  The language was raw sometimes–shocking and wonderful.  And I associated all of it with “being an adult”.  And when Robin came on the scene, from Ork or a hysterical universe beyond–and we had the same first name…

I was hooked.

So memorizing Robin Williams’ comedy routines, imitating that rapid fire delivery and trying to do all the insane voices…that was my gateway to walking the walk.  My parents thought I was funny but there was a secret source for a lot of my amateur routines.  I idealized him.  I watched him on television, illicitly recorded his specials off cable when Mom and Dad weren’t paying attention, wore out the albums and just tried to keep up with the genius that was Robin.

The movies came later and like most of the world, I was happy to go on whatever journey he was captaining.  Comedy, drama, it didn’t matter.  It was Robin.

He’s gone.  So now the pettiest and small minded have a chance to dissect and criticize, belittle the challenges of depression or speculate on his failings… But I see only Robin, the way he could never sit still or the way he could look into the camera and tear you apart.  I can still hear those characters, the riffs on Shakespeare, and that laugh.  So many are talking about the laughter he evoked but I remember him laughing.  It was so pure, that laugh.

It’s been several days.  I never met him in person but apparently, that makes no difference.  The heart wants what the heart wants.

And mine wants to hear that man laugh again.

I’m not sure why….no, wait, that’s a lie.  I’m completely sure why the news that Kim Kardashian’s latest selfie book news hit me hard.  I think like most writers, so much energy is spent on trying to write a better book, to create a better story, to elevate your game that when someone who I genuinely consider a celebrity for all the wrong reasons just–takes a 300+ page bowel movement and calls it “art”…or “a book”….or….I don’t know what she thinks it is.

I know what I think it is.  But I also know that she’s likely to make more money than I’ve ever seen, more money than I have ever made with my work and that nothing about this fact is actually fair.  I can rant and vent against a publishing world that promotes putrid work or embraces the cancer of Bad, Bad Writing if it adds to their bottom line and…  Oh, I could rant.

But the depression came because I realized there’s no point.  I’m howling at the moon.  We sat with friends last night who were very encouraging but the hardest question is always something along the lines of, “I love your books!  Why aren’t you a big name?”  The answer is, who knows?  It’s word of mouth, reviews, promotions, blogs, and whatever I can do on my disastrously non-existent marketing budget.  You fight the demons that whisper that perhaps you secretly suck at this and no one has been brave enough to tell you.  You pray for the “Big Break”, you write as fast as you can and as well as you can, you applaud your friends when they soar to the top of best-seller lists and tell yourself that one day it will be your turn.

One day.  But not today.

Kim Kardashian didn’t write a book.  She just took pictures of herself.  Apparently, one of her favorite activities to please her equally self-obsessed husband. And because that’s not enough in their strangely public self-worship of each other, she’s having some of those pictures published in a book titled “Selfish”.  The title is so appropriate, my stomach hurts.

This is the world I live in.   If there’s a consolation prize, it’s that no matter what else I may be guilty of…. I doubt anyone who knows me would throw out the word “selfish”.  So it’s back to the salt mines, boys!  Ignore the flash and the distraction.

Time to write.

Although, I won’t lie.  I’m adding a publishing department to H.E.LLc and oh, yes….I’ll have my revenge

A strange new irony presented itself in my little author world this  week.

You see, a lot of my friends are in San Antonio at RWA’s National convention.  Authors have traveled from all over to meet together, to attend workshops about craft, to hone their marketing skills and to talk about all things books.  I mean it.  ALL things books.  The quest is to get better, to improve, to succeed at writing books.

And what lands in an inbox today?  A note from a Major NY Publishing house asking if their book club members would be interested in getting wines with book labels on them.  You  know.  ”Is that something you would pay X for?  Would that be fun for you?”

Wines.  This of course, after previous surveys asking if book club members would like to receive Weight Loss Powders/Products or how about Cosmetics?  Instead of books.  Or maybe with them.  (Who doesn’t love a little protein powder with their latest serving of reprinted category romances, right?)

Hey, NY Publishing House complaining about how self-pub is eating your cake and stealing your lunch money, how about offering book club members…. wait for it… BOOKS!  Good books.  Better books.  Well-written books.  What a remarkable concept?!  Right???? How revolutionary!!!

It’s a snapshot of where their hearts and minds are and where we’ve always been as their unknowing dupes.  Who cares about the craft? About the product?  About the future?  Answer = Authors.  Who apparently has forgotten what they do and why they exist?  Answer = Traditional Publishers.

Wine?  Wine.  Sure.  Because someone in NY has gotten the brilliant notion that the way to compete with Amazon isn’t to invest in authors and a better product.  It isn’t to use whatever channels or powers you still have.  It’s to try to sell groceries, sundries and diapers, perhaps?  It’s to do anything and everything that undermines their credibility at a time when they need it most.

I have an idea.  Keep the wine.  Start opening bottles and drinking heavily.  Party like it’s 1999.  And when that hangover kicks in and you don’t understand where the good times have gone… Feel free to send out another survey.  I’m sure you’ll get plenty of answers.

So, here we are.  Yes, I know.  I’m like an annual blogger.  It never happens and then all of a sudden, it never ends.

Quietly, behind the scenes, I’ve been going through a mini-revolution.  Nothing too ground breaking as I see so many of my fellow authors fighting to find their own new paths in the wild wild world of publishing.  Some posts about Indie Publishing draw incredible fire, but I have the feeling I can sneak this one in without anyone noticing.  After all, it’s just me, right?

So, confession time.  I got tired of pitching amazing concepts, dream stories and books that in my soul I felt that if I didn’t write them, I may as well quit.  At the start of my “Cinderella” career, I had never gotten rejections.  I sold, for the most part, my first book in that dreamy haze and felt very blessed.  The slow and subtle sensation of being “unwanted” or “found wanting” came later.  The rejections came later.  The publishing industry changed and I was just new enough to the game to be in a “last one hired first one fired” dance with publishers that couldn’t remember the difference between Regency and Victorian romances, couldn’t remember much of anything when it came to my stories…except that I wasn’t the magical breakout I needed to be for them to bother to try to remember…except to ask if I was interested in writing contemporary erotica.  (Hey, can you do 50 Shades of Grey stuff?)

The snubs were unbelievable and I swallowed all of it.  I truly hoped that if I just kept writing good books that eventually they’d love me again and somehow value me.  My books got better as I went, as I grew, and the publishers could not have cared less about what was happening between those covers.  It was a numbers game and I just didn’t have the winning lottery ticket.  So they starve you out…

I had agents that I needed to remind them what I wrote.  I would be the one to tell them I’d won an award or to attempt to earn some kind of applause.  But there was always another bigger name on the other line and I wasn’t really worth their time.  I don’t blame them.  A percentage of nothing is nothing, so I wish them success in their future endeavors.

But through it all, the readers never turned away.  The readers kept me going.  Little notes and emails, support and encouragement.  ”When is the next book coming out?”

Well, now I can answer that question.  Because I’ve ended the bad marriage with traditional publishing.  Nothing against them.  I’m sure there’s a good one out there somewhere but for now, I’ve had enough of the one-sided relationship with NY.  Life is precious and time is short.  And if I want to focus on the positive forces in this universe, I can’t keep getting in bed with publishers that make me feel dirty and then don’t even have the courtesy to pay you for services rendered.

I’m on my own.  I’ve never been more terrified and more exhilarated.  Because now, it’s just the readers and me.  And we’ll see what happens next.

I’m releasing a Historical Romance trilogy this summer.  Three books in three months – June, July and August.  And yes, they are unlike ANYTHING out there.  The Black Rose Trilogy will be a make or break with: LADY FALLS, LADY RISES, and LADY TRIUMPHS.  Strap in, readers.  If you like kickass heroines, (think “Revenge” meets “Upstairs/Downstairs”) then pull up a chair in the parlor of the Black Rose and hang on…that’s all I can say about that.

I’m also releasing a Romantic Comedy, DEVIL TO PAY on August 8.  The first in my new Eternity Gambit Series, with three more books to follow before Spring 2015, so no need to wonder or worry about being left hanging  I promise.  You’re in good hands.  (DEVIL MAY CARE, DEVIL OF A JOB, and DEVIL IN THE DETAILS are all WIPs and on their way!)

Oh, and there’s more… I’m working on a single title Historical Romance for BGP (Brown Girls Publishing) which should come out next year and I’m starting a new Urban Fantasy/Alternate Future Series next year as well.  The Imbalance is a series I’ve been wanting to run with for a loooooong time and I can’t wait anymore.  My brain won’t let me hold this one in for much longer.

So I’m Indie.  It feels like coming out.  I’m going to try to make sure the books are available in every format possible, electronic and print.  Audible and who knows… But this is it.  It’s all me.

No more talk.  I’ve mourned the past, the failure of that “dream” and I’m moving on.  I’m taking charge and drafting a new dream.

The new dream is that no matter what happens, it’s just you and me.  I keep writing and somehow in the cloud of crazy chaos, we find each other and the stories land in your hands and in your hearts.  And when the dust clears, we won.  Because I didn’t quit.  And I never will.

Here we go.

Every writer goes through it.  The Doldrums.  The Self-Doubt.  The moment when whatever you’re writing just seems…questionable.

Last night in an effort to further bond with my soulmate and catch up with pop culture (thanks to my inability to get to the movie theaters when things are out), I watched “THE HOBBIT: AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY”.  I know it’s been out for a while.  If you knew my life… Anyway!!  This movie is like LOTR on steroids and as I’m watching it all unfold, it hits me.

If LOTR style fantasy is your thing, well then, there can’t be too many orcs, trolls, goblins, sword fights, magic spells and let’s face it, exceptionally good-looking elves.  There is no quota to overfill, no line where you say “enough” and no fatigue factor.  If it’s well done, it’s a feast that you are thrilled to attend.  And if you like fantasy and a writer were to skip out any of the above altogether, well, it wouldn’t be fantasy, would it?

The same apparently goes for romance.  I’ve been hacking away at a manuscript and thinking, oh, god…I apparently write books with a great deal of kissing.  I’d pushed away from the keyboard and questioned the value of putting one more word down.  After all.  It’s “just” a romance.  Not life changing.

Or is it that never-ending feast?

Bring it! a voice inside of me said.  There can’t be too many kisses, too many passionate moments, lost opportunities, heart-breaking obstacles, fantastic pitch-black moments before the glorious dawn of an HEA.  Why? BECAUSE IT’S A ROMANCE!  And if you leave any of that out, it wouldn’t be a romance, would it?  So there you have it.  No more second guessing.  I’m closing my eyes and I’m jumping.  Not into the next great American work of fiction but into MY next work of fiction…

And yes, my Dear Readers.  There will be a great deal of kissing.

So, it’s that time of year.  Witches and carved pumpkins, fake spider webs and the worst movie marathons most television channels can rummage up for our long-suffering enjoyment…  And even for a woman who LOVES the autumn, Samhain and all the delights of the season…it can wear on the nerves.

However, for my husband, who is a zombie fanatic, it is heaven on earth.  And because I love the man, I found myself hunkering down to finally attempt to absorb what it is that makes the “Walking Dead” so worship worthy.  And here, dear friends and readers, is what I’ve learned from the Zombie Genre so far:

1) Apparently, being undead improves your hearing.  Before you are dead, no big deal.  Average hearing.  AFTER, you can hear a heart beat from 800 paces.  Who knew?  Also, your sense of smell seems to get a zing, as well.

2) Being undead instantly makes your clothes ragged, muddy, torn and…well…icky.  Not one suit and tie in sight.  Not a fashion-forward walker in the mix.  Not one.

3) Serial Killers and Amoral Jerks do much better in a zombie apocalypse than your average “good guy”.

4) Zombie Deterioration Rates vary wildly.  I’m not sure what the convention on rotting corpses is but wow.  If I have chicken in the fridge and fail to get to it before a certain date, game over.  But apparently dead people walking around in SUMMER HEAT AND HUMIDITY are immune to the problem.  In my humble opinion, the undead should be fairly immobile after day three or four… but what do I know?

5) No one in these films has any working knowledge of armor, medieval weaponry, battle tactics or how to use a shield wall.  Seriously.

and finally, 6) I love my husband so much that I kept all of the above to myself.  I nodded, I covered my eyes when it was appropriate (and silently wished we could watch Downton Abbey re-runs) and when it was all over, I vowed that when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I will save his life.   Even though he made me watch the “Walking Dead”.

Because it’s true love.  Scary.  But true.

1.  What is the working title of your book?

Instead of battling with working titles, I’ve decided to forego the struggle and give them really fun zippy names that make me smile when I click on the file.  No, really.  It’s true.  So now that I’ve just finished the last book in the Jaded, “Desire Wears Diamonds” (which coincidentally was ALWAYS the title for that book), I get to go back to the drawing board.  Current Working Titles Include: A Dance With the Devil in the Pale Moonlight, Too Many Men Too Little Time and You Can Give A Demon A Donut.

2.  Where did the idea come from for the book?

Seriously?  From the vast swirling nonsense that is my brain.  From arguments with imaginary people about the nature of the universe.  From a weird dream I had after eating too many kiwis and from my aversion to the very male-centric view of the apocalypse.  (I mean, why do the boys get to have all the fun?)

3.  What genre does your book come under?

I apparently have one WIP in each of the following categories:  Historical Romance, Contemporary Paranormal, Alternative Future/Urban Fantasy/RB Brain Fever.  That last one is sure to be a mega-hit!

4.  Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

If a movie is ever made of one of my books, I imagine I will have no protests as I sit happily on the sidelines, with a big sappy smile on my face….  the muppets could do it and I’d be overwhelmed.  Now, that’s not to say that at the premiere or after-party I’m not angling hard to spill a drink on Gerard Butler….

5.  What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Which one?  Here’s the one-sentence synopsis of my life.  “Renee Bernard lives a life on the edge (of reason, of sanity, of normal, of the suburbs) and yet battles a fear of falling as a one-woman contradiction of why some people have to write in order to appear normal at PTA functions.”

6.  Is your book self-published, published by an indie or represented by an agency?

I have an agent, Eric Ruben.  I pay him in compliments.  He is wonderful. (see?  Right there, that was July’s installment.)  No, he is lovely (see? that was extra!) and we have a professional contract involving money at some point (or so I keep promising him.)  The last one was self-published after working with a publisher for the rest of the series, so apparently I’m ambidextrous or ambipublished.  Bi-published?  Omni-published?  oh. my.

7.  How long did it take you to write the first draft of your MS?

Too long.  Stupid brain.  Way too long.  (I’m thinking about “Desire Wears Diamonds” here.)  My own fault.  I didn’t want the series to end.  I didn’t want to say goodbye to those characters and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone with the “Big Finish”.  What a goof!

8.  What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Okay, I’m assuming we’re back to “Diamonds” here.  Um…ooh, if I pick somebody spectacular will people believe me and buy the book??  I want to say Laura Kinsale, because I LOVE Laura Kinsale.  But honestly, I don’t know.  I deliberately don’t read books in my genres because I don’t want to accidentally borrow someone else’s mojo.  I did read Heather Snow because Lindsey Ross made me.  I loved her books, too.  Does that count?

9.  Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Okay.  Isn’t this like #2?  But let’s stretch it.  I was INSPIRED to write “Desire Wears Diamonds” because I didn’t want to let the readers down and if the series had been cut off after “Obsession Wears Opals” with no answers, resolutions, and No Michael Rutherford’s Story, I didn’t think I could live with that.  So I went on, and wrote it for them and for me.  So that we can sleep at night.

And the new stuff.  I’m inspired by the world around me and the chaos around me.  Hold on, my few faithful fans.  I think I’m finally hitting my stride.

10.  What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

For “Diamonds”? There’s a gory penny dreadful in the bonus material I think everyone will get a nice thrill out of (it’s dreadful.  No.  That’s the point!)  But pop over for excerpts on Amazon and please please please buy my book.

New stuff….hmmm….let’s see….

***

“You’re mental, right?”

“I think if we were having this conversation in a basement decorated with torn out newspaper articles, black-light posters and me drooling about how I have conversations with dogs and wear tinfoil underwear, you might have a case.”  He deliberately glanced around the room, silently pointing out the lack of “mental” revealed by his beautifully appointed modern office and furnishings.  The view was worth millions and if it weren’t for the black onyx desk, it would be easy to mistake it for an ordinary executive’s digs.  “I think we can rule out insanity—on both sides of this argument.”

“Right, since I’m not the one proclaiming to be the Prince of Darkness,” she said with a touch of sarcasm she couldn’t prevent.  After all, even pretending to take him seriously made her consider that she might not be firing on all cylinders.  “Is it possible you’re just a very wealthy man in need of medication?”

“Sure.  Anything is possible,” he conceded, his open smile disarming her as he was obviously beginning to genuinely enjoy the debate.  “Laura, I could be an eccentric billionaire intent on impressing you by pretending to be Lucifer.   Stranger things have happened.”

“Name one thing stranger than this.”

“Besides the fashion of the 80’s and people who resemble their dogs?”

She smiled.  The man was just too charming for his own good.  “Okay, stranger things have happened.  It doesn’t mean you’re the devil.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?  That’s it?  No offer to demonstrate your powers or even just a few more clever arguments about how medication won’t help?”

“It’s a job, Laura, not an illness.  But a demonstration… It might work.”

“Might?”  She crossed her arms playfully.  “What kind of lame demo are you imagining if I can potentially blow it off?”

He laughed.  “The human mind is a tricky thing, lady.  No matter what the “wow factor”, I’ve seen people blame food poisoning or look for green screens before they believe their own senses.  It’s always a revelation how far you’ll go to ignore the truth after it’s bumped up against your nose.”

“You?”

“I meant to say, “you” as in the general “you human beings”… I’m not going to thump you on the nose, if that was a concern.”

He was so calm and she suddenly had the sinking feeling that there was a small chance that she was wrong and that he wasn’t lying or playing a game.  But I need you to be crazy, big guy, because the alternative is…unacceptable.  I can’t be standing here making cow eyes at a man who wears horns and a red suit on casual Fridays!

“I’ll skip the demo then,” she offered, hating the tremor in her voice that made her sound frightened and small.  “But I will say this, for the Devil, you’re being very forthright to admit it, aren’t you?  I mean, wouldn’t lying be more in line with your character?”

He shook his head.  “Ah, the myth about being the Prince of Lies!”  He gestured her toward one of the comfortable looking upholstered chairs situated over by the bar on the wall.  “Fiction and dogma have done a lot for the job’s reputation, but seriously, while the first Lucifer may have bent a few rules as directed, deception’s not our strong suit.”

“Deception isn’t whose strong suit?”  She took the seat he’d offered and admired the man as he settled in across from her.

“Angels.  Anything a shade or two past a white lie, which even we need for our social survival on this planet, but anything heftier than that—it’s like retching up battery acid.  I’ve never heard of anyone of my peers even attempting a good whopper.  It doesn’t exactly make sense, considering the omniscient powers of Upper Management.  I mean, a lie is a pretty stupid invention, isn’t it, if you report directly to God?  I’m guessing He doesn’t have to wait for a performance evaluation to call you on it.”

“So you just tell everyone you’re the Devil, right up front?  Doesn’t that make the soul collecting a little challenging?”

“No and no!  Souls are not like souvenir spoons to be collected and what in the world would I do with such a thing!”  He looked genuinely insulted.  “I don’t tell anyone much of anything, since I don’t usually interact with too many people.  So there’s no Faustian quest… Your soul is yours to protect and keep just as it should be, Laura.”

“I’m sorry.  I just… Okay, what is your job, exactly?”

“Well, besides just existing and providing a focal point and scapegoat for those who need it, there’s a lot of paperwork and record keeping involved.  It’s not as exciting as one might imagine.”

“You don’t…create evil and destroy people?”

He ran a hand through his unruly curls and sighed.  “Evil may have required a nudge in the early days, but that hasn’t been the case for more centuries than you want to count.  Human beings are capable of inventing their own atrocities and coming up with their own methods of destruction.”  His grief was palpable.  “I’m just the unlucky guy who gets a front row seat.”

Angels. Demons. Devils.  Every word had felt a tad cartoonish before this moment.  But here you are, and I’m looking at you and if ever a man looked like an angel with those burnished gold curls and those tawny eyes—okay, guy, I’m not laughing anymore.

“So, you’re—“

He reached out and took her hand, the movement swift enough to arrest her train of thought but not fast enough to be alarming.  “Demo time, Laura.  Then I promise I’ll answer any question you have.”

“D-demo?”

The shift was instantaneous and didn’t come along with a single movie sound effect to undercut its impact.  One moment she’d been sitting in a leather upholstered chair across from Luke and the next, Laura was standing with him on the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking a vast ocean lit with the orange glow of a setting sun.  There was a tropical warm breeze pushing her hair back from her face and somewhere far below the surf pounded in a rhythm that synchronized with her heartbeat.  His hand holding hers was the only constant, and it was all she could do not to start screaming or babbling in sheer terror.

Omigod!  Holy freakin’ mother of all hallucinations!  What the–?!

His voice was calm, holding her in check.  “I told you a demonstration isn’t always the way to go.  But to be honest, I need you, Laura.”

“Y-you need me?”  His words were so unexpected that Laura’s shock at locale gave way to focus only on him and the flow of a conversation more surreal than anything else.

“I need you to believe me.  I need you to trust me.  And—“ he paused suddenly.

“And?” she prompted him breathlessly, her grip on his fingers tightening.

“I need you to love me.”

Game over.

**

Self-appointed guardian of the Jaded, Michael Rutherford, faces the ultimate test of his loyalty when he meets his perfect match. The final battle with the Jaded’s greatest enemy puts him between the Jaded and the lady he loves. It is a dance with the devil for a chance to taste the kisses of an angel.

My Mom and Dad with my Eldest in 2008

Today, as my daughters present their father with “breakfast in bed” including a lovely glass of their version of strawberry milk and peanut butter pancakes, I watch the man rave about the dining experience until they giggle with delight (and I think he might be risking a repeat for lunch!); I can’t help but think of my dad.

He doesn’t like to be embarrassed and I will do my best not to make a run at it.  But I have a lot to thank him for… After all, whenever I get a compliment on my sense of humor, I think of him.  I think of my dad, who encouraged us to be witty and funny, who taught us how to tell a great story and a great joke.  He taught us how laughter can be a survival skill.  He taught us that at the end of it all, no matter what’s happened, it’s better to cap it off with a smile.

He’s not perfect.  (What man is?)  But I have such a vast love and respect for him as a person, and even now, a woman Very Grown, with little girls of her own, I acknowledge that making my father proud remains a life goal.  There is almost nothing that will push me harder or faster than the notion that I might disappoint if I don’t try.  As my family jokes, I’m slow to get on my feet but once I’m there… Watch out!

And on Father’s Day…I have to share a story.

My father was in the Navy and when I was very little, I used to love his patent-leather shoes.  Every day when he came home, we had a little ritual, where he would change out of his good polished uniform dress shoes and into his house slippers at the door.  It was my job to bring the slippers and I’m sure the mind exaggerates these things, but they filled my arms and it was this “Big Job”.  I loved it.  I loved huffing and puffing and making a show of it and then lining up his mirror-sheened black shoes up against the wall by the door.  I would rearrange the laces and take extra care not to put what my mother called “pudding fingers” on daddy’s nice shoes to ruin the shine.

And then he was deployed to Vietnam.

My mom put a picture of him by my bed and we did what all military families do every day when they have men on tour.  We hung in there, we went on with our lives, we prayed and we worried. Well, mostly mom and my sisters worried.  I was Very Little.  I was fairly certain that Daddy was enjoying his “cruise” and that life was good.  I had the distraction of teddy bears and hobby horses and barbies and cardboard boxes and cookies…I used my popper vacuum while mom watched “days of our lives” and played the days away.  Months passed.  Maybe it was years.  I was in a bubble of motherly love and family adventures…

And then the ship came in.  We dressed in our Sunday best which meant lace-topped socks and my shiny black mary-janes, a navy blue pinafore with a big white collar that I wasn’t a fan of… Mom was so nervous and the twins were, too.  Me? I was just looking at the gigantic grey ship and wondering what all the fuss was about.

And then this man came up in his crisp dress uniform and Mom was crying and hugging him and the twins were climbing this guy like a tree and… I wasn’t having it.

He didn’t look like daddy in the picture.  He looked different to me.  And I just wasn’t sure about this guy.

To his credit, my dad didn’t push.  He told my mom to give me time.  ”We have all the time in the world, babe.”

He took us on a tour of the ship and that I remember…the smells and the painted EVERYTHING (rails, floors, doors, ceilings, everything seemed to be painted with grey or white or…) Up ladders and down corridors, in hangars and in quarters, we got to explore to our hearts content with “The Guy” as our friendly guide.  I didn’t pay attention to the narrative details…but most of the men on the ship knew “The Guy” and wanted to shake his hand.

And then we were on the vast deck, and by chance, I was standing next to “The Guy”.  And I looked down.  And there they were.  Black patent-leather mirror polished dress shoes.  My heart was beating fast so I decided to test the waters.  I put my own little black patent leather shoe up alongside his, measuring a bit, inhaling the scent of his cologne and listening to the sound of his voice.

And then it hit me.  This wasn’t “The Guy”.  This was MY Guy.  This was MY Dad.

I begged him to pick me up and then I don’t think I let go of him for hours.  He carried me around and let me hug his neck and it was the homecoming I hope he’d wanted.

Bottom line: Neither one of us let go after that day.  Thick and Thin, Ups and Downs, Adolescence and Growing Up and Older…nothing will ever change how much I love My Guy.  I love you, Dad.  And don’t worry.  We have all the time in the world.

That moment I'll always treasure!

There’s a moment at every convention–at least for me–when I think, “Okay.  If nothing else happens, it won’t matter.  It was worth it.  The sore feet or the stress, the fears, the nerves, all the doubts you overcome when you step out at an event with your peers…it disappears.  Not that I’m not genuinely happy at events, mind you.  I love love love meeting people and brushing up against all the talented and incredible authors who inspire me to try harder.

But I’m human and a relatively small fish in this enormous pond we swim in.  So when that moment comes when you forget all of that, you embrace it.  I do.  For me, for 2013, it was my friend, Lindsey.  She’s more than a reader.  She’s a sister/friend and that person you correspond with or talk to without edits.  And this was her first RT.  She came because I sort of, begged her.  And then it was magic.  I had the wonderful treat of watching her meet her favorites for the first time, get books, get hugs, get invites and then have dozens of writers excited to see her and vying for her attention.  Her excitement and enthusiasm was contagious and I was reminded how unique your first convention experience is…

Lindsey was crying she was so happy.  And that was it.

So I had my moment.  Because Lindsey let me share RT with her.   And I honestly accepted that if I didn’t sell a single book at the fair on that Saturday, I wouldn’t care.  (I sold out BTW but I was very happy to be a relaxed human being that fateful day  And then the moments just kept coming!  I met other super readers (Crystal…you know I’m talking about you, right?) and fans that made me feel humbled and honored that they even knew my name–much less had read my books!!  Every encounter made it clear that I’m on the right path.  Maybe not for fame and glory (which I will take if they come as I’m no fool!) but I’m on the right path for happiness.  I’m following my bliss and despite the ups and downs, I’m moving forward.  And who can complain about that?

I’ve stumbled onto the most amazing inner circle of writer friends a girl could ask for.  (I LOVE you, guys!  I’m not listing all of you because then it starts to sound like an acceptance speech or farewells….besides if I brag about you, there could be poaching!)  I’ve got friends and readers I wouldn’t trade for any amount of money.  I’ve got a sister/friend in Australia that I’m determined not to stalk (I’m very very very attached, Megan. How many skypes in a 24 hour period is considered excessive?) and I’ve somehow tricked new people into letting me text them…

Life is good.  RT was great.  Because it felt like my first one.  Thank you, Lindsey.

ps.  Nancy Goodman, you realize I will be expecting you next year in New Orleans.  I will beg you and then…you’ll be my moment.