A bit from Chapter OneAlthough I'm hardly a famous writer, I decided to post a bit of my own novel here on my blog. If you are not an aspiring writer you may not know the whole query deal where you send an agent a letter asking them to read your novel, or a piece of your novel in hopes they will love it and want to represent you. Then, if you are super lucky and talented and have put in the hard work it takes to be the next hot author, they will agree to represent you and editors will be clamoring to publish your book and you will receive an advance that will enable you to buy breast implants and a new Infiniti SUV with money left over to fly to Cannes for the yearly film festival.
But other writers like myself, labor day in and day out, trying to make contact with an editor or agent that falls in love with the book but to no avail. Letters are mailed, emails are sent as you wait in anticipation....and wait...and another month goes by and more waiting...meanwnile Im not getting any younger. Therefore I'm posting a chapter of my book here, casting a wide net for internet users to read my words.
And so I present to you, a little taste of What It Must Be Like To Sleep With a Star. Book three of my Distressed Jeans collection of written words just waiting for an agent.
a sample from Chapter One
If you ever spot someone sporting a mullet or a tight poodle perm, please give them my name and number and let me set them straight. There are certain things that are just unacceptable in today’s fashion forward society and really, the control top pantyhose with open toe sandals is just the beginning. After that it’s just an avalanche of poor sartorial choices from bohemian-homeless chic to spandex bike shorts and half shirts, especially those of the mesh variety.
I’ve been working on the New York Times future bestseller entitled, The Diva’s Fashion Bible. No, I haven’t secured an agent and no, I have only been making mental notes so I don’t actually have chapter one completed.
But in my own mind, I know it’s going to sky rocket to the top. How could it not, I mean just look at me! In my Prada ensemble, ( a brilliantly fashioned knock-off) croc skin heels and matching purse, the simple strand of elegant pearls culled from the finest oysters in the Caspian Sea, and my perfectly smooth strawberry blonde hair, high-lighted to achieve that ocean bleached, sun-kissed look, I am a picture of perfection. Now listen, it takes time and effort to pull this off effectively. You cannot just assume you can do it, most can’t. Many have tried, few succeed. For example, how many times have you paired a cotton pull- over with a poly-blend skirt and then stepped into low heeled loafers with trouser socks? Exactly.
Before you assume you know my type, cool your jets and let me introduce you to moi. Thirty years old give or take, I work at an illustrious magazine, Ladies Monthly. Have you heard of it? I didn’t think so. You’re not alone, sweetie. It’s geared towards middle- aged haus fraus with strictly a west coast demographic. Our advertisers are items like cleaning supplies, adult diapers and heartburn medication instead of Guess jeans, Tod’s bags and Tiffany jewelry. What was I doing here you are asking, I can read your mind. After a stint working at a national tabloid magazine, performing menial secretarial tasks like making copies and brewing large pots of coffee for executives who wore cheap suits and horrible shoes, I peaked and plateaued, then gave my two weeks notice. A girl like myself doesn’t toil away at grunt work forever. I was desperate for a place where I could move in and take over as a staff writer. And then take over period.
So I didn’t exactly stage a corporate coup at Ladies Monthly but I did get to see my name in print every month and the stress was low. Plus I worked with a bunch of women and I was not only the best looking, but by far the best dressed. With Vogue and Elle as my guides, I continued to wear clothes that made other ladies drool. I drove a neat little car and lived in a cute apartment. I was every inch the essence of a successful woman with money to spend and a life that others envied. Don’t you wish you were me? My paycheck afforded me all the clothes I wanted plus all the ice-burg lettuce salads I could eat. I had to sacrifice somewhere you know, and I would choose Armani over food any day.
At eight o’ clock in the morning after two venti non-fat decaf soy lattes with a single Sweet n’Low, I had zero enthusiasm and even less energy to begin my tasks. Unfortunately, I would feel the same on Tuesday and quite possibly until five o’clock on Friday. A memo floated down on my desk and I picked up the slip of paper that could only mean one thing: a meeting. Maddie Thorton, the editor of Ladies Monthly, loved to hold meetings just to remind us that she was the boss and every single detail had to be done to her liking. She was all khaki and chambray, but underneath the loafers and frosty blonde hair, she was a barracuda who was known to make grown women and the occasional man cry.
So everything wasn’t as perfect as I made it out to be. Every cloud has it’s Swarovski crystal- studded, sterling silver lining and mine just happened to be the fact I worked in a cubicle at the far end of the office, tucked away in the back where I could spend time reading my fashion magazines and indulging in various tabloids. I spent a lot of time scanning the internet for celebrity news. Just like shopping and looking at myself in the mirror, it was a harmless hobby.
Glancing at the pink slip, I saw I had fifteen minutes until the conference. I used my time wisely and got a mug of bitter coffee from the break room, chatted with the girls in advertising then went back to my desk to check email.
Aside from my fashion news and advertisements for porn and penis enlargements, there was nothing of interest in my box. I logged onto Ebay to bid on some Kat Savage concert tickets. One hundred and sixty dollars was a small price to pay for third row seats. Worth every penny. I would drag my best-friend Nicky along and we could get crazy and throw panties up on the stage. Just kidding, of course. You should know that I am too refined for such behavior, although it wouldn’t be out of character for me to toss up a friendly note with my phone number.
Let me fill you in case you’ve been living under a rock or on a planet where leg warmers are still in vogue: Kat Savage was a gorgeous pop star with hair as soft and fine as spun gold. She had big brown eyes and a wide smile filled with bleached white teeth.
The only problem was lately she was looking - how shall I say it? Trashy. Her normally glowing skin was pallid and haggard, dark shadows circled her eyes and her usually glossy hair was dry and limp. Each time I came across a photo of her in the magazines, my heart broke. Sure, that breakup with Trevor Lake was devastating. I mean, he split up with her via an interview on Entertainment Now. And if I hadn’t been sitting on the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with my Maltese pup, Johnny Depp, I would have read about it a day later when I received my US Magazine in the mailbox along with Celebrity Star and the Gossiper and I would have found out with the rest of the celeb-obsessed world. But as luck would have it, I saw it first with my own two eyes.