After the ecstasy, the laundry

After the ecstasy, the laundry. That’s the name of a Jack Kornfield book about a Zen koan. To me the meaning is clear. No matter how many wonderful things happen, there’s always the mundane day-to-day housekeeping duties that need our attention.

Like in February, at my huge launch party, I signed books for about 150 people attending, I had a blast, meeting up with old friends, giving a speech about the meaning of my book, collecting kudos all around. The next morning, I was washing clothes. Quite literally, the ecstasy and the laundry.

This week I got wonderful news. Stamped Out, the first in the Stamping Sisters series, was singled out for a starred review in Publisher’s Weekly. This is big news, so exciting, so validating, I’m thrilled. According to my editor, Sandy Harding, this is the first time a cozy mystery from Berkley has received a starred review. Getting the review will translate directly into more sales from bookstores and libraries. Awesome. I was flying high.

You can read it here. Scroll down to Mass market. You can't miss it. It has a big red star.
http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6583334.html

And then the computer died. A quiet death, so unlike it’s usual noisy everyday existence, that I knew it was a lost cause. I tried to hang on to my good feelings engendered by the review, blocking out the lost files, the backup detail, all of the time and energy that would be necessary in getting and setting up a new system. Not to mention the inconvenience of working on my 13-inch laptop.

There’s another not-so Zen koan that’s also in play here. My own little truism. It goes like this: Make a little money and it will be spent. I was so looking forward to the paycheck for doing the Santa Clara Library Mystery Author panel talks that I’ve been taking part in this summer. Just a little mad money. Don’t get me wrong, I would have done the panels for free. I’m having a marvelous time, being on panels with Penny Warner, Kelli Stanley, Cara Black, Claire Langley-Hawthorne. No remuneration required. But nice to have.

And now it’ll go to pay for my shiny new computer.

Catch me at the Milpitas Library on Thursday, August 14th at 7:30 with Penny, Cara, Claire and Mark Coggins or at the Saratoga Library on Monday the 18th with Penny, Cara, Mark and Michelle Gagnon.

I’ll show you my starred review. It’s a beaut.

Oh, the fun places you'll go!

Last Friday's guest, author Michelle Gagnon, just wrote a funny post about her recent book tour over at the Kill Zone. Now that I'm preparing to launch my own book tour for A KILLER WORKOUT, which hits the bookstores on October 7th, I'm in the mood to anticipate and do a little neurotic worrying ahead of time:



Gas. Yikes! Gas is nearly five dollars a gallon in LA! It puts a pricey pall on those long drives to Phoenix, Las Vegas and points north. If I wind up running out of gas and hitchhiking down a lonely stretch highway, don't worry--I won't climb into any pickup trucks or white panel vans.

Book signings. You just never know what to expect. Some bookstores promote your appearance and assemble people for a discussion--others stick you in the "gilded cage" to the side of the front entrance,where you basically collar anyone coming through the door with a pitch. Sitting quietly does not sell books, so I've developed a special smile and greeting that makes me feel like an airline stewardess. The funny thing I notice is that there are two types of people--those that engage with you easily, and those that avoid eye contact and actually do a flanking maneuver around my table to avoid interacting. The second group are the people who hate a hard sell. But they sometimes sneak back and shyly buy the book on their way out.

Bringing goodies. I always bring cookies and water with me to hand out. I don't know if that helps me sell books, but I'm a hit with kids and homeless people.

Being a trooper. I hate canceling things at the last minute. One time I was scheduled to do a signing, but I woke up that morning feeling sick, and getting sicker by the minute. Twenty minutes before the signing was supposed to start, I was sitting in the car with my husband, projectile vomiting into a plastic bag. The appearance went off flawlessly. I had a surge of adrenaline that magically suspended the illness for precisely one hour. The instant I got back into the car after the signing, I resumed vomiting, and continued do so, all the way to Urgent Care.

Maximizing family connections. I combine book tours with as much family interaction as possible. Fortunately, I have family spread all over the east and southeast, so I can combine book stops with mini-reunions. My husband is used to chugging along in my wake, and he tries not to fall asleep as I give the same talk or sign books. I suspect this year, however, he may chug off in search of a golf course while I'm doing my book thing.

Being zen about what you can't control. Things I can't control 1) the book retailing model, 2) the publishing business, 3) the fact that people who can't find my book in the bookstore, because they've sold out, wind up buying them at deep discounts online.

I just have to smile, show up, and keep on writing no matter what.

What about you? Are there any things you most like, dislike about pitching your book on the road?

The Shocking, True Story behind my Russian Supper Club Performing Career

Note: Our guest blogger today is the multi-talented Michelle Gagnon. Michelle is a former modern dancer, bartender, dog walker, model, personal trainer, and Russian supper club performer. Her debut thriller The Tunnels was an IMBA bestseller. Her next book, Boneyard, depicts a cat and mouse game between dueling serial killers. In her spare time she wonders what happened to Miami Sound Machine.

I confess, this doesn’t really count as a hobby since I was paid to perform (not well paid, but money was involved). But the item on my resume that elicits the most attention is always the bit about how I was once a performer in a Russian Supper Club. This generally provokes questions running along the theme, “Were you naked?” (I wasn’t, I swear).

So let’s clear up any misconceptions. I got the job through a friend from one of my dance classes who knew I was between gigs (which is a nice way of saying I was out of work at the time). I usually filled those interims with bartending jobs, but had a bad experience recently and wasn’t eager to continue slinging drinks. Rent was coming due and my bank account hovered around zero. My friend approached me after class one day and said, “I know how you can make decent money for a half-hour show three nights a week.”

Sounds sketchy, right? But my friend assured me that there was no nudity involved, in fact the costumes were elaborate to the point of being ridiculous. I tentatively agreed to come to rehearsal that afternoon. If all went well, I’d be onstage the following night. I walked in and met the seven other performers (six dancers, two singers). Over the space of two hours they taught me six dance numbers. I found it curious that everything was set to early-eighties tunes like “Beat It” and “Turn the Beat Around,” (this was the mid-nineties), but figured it could be worse.

I was still reluctant, but agreed to try it out for the weekend. I left the club address with my boyfriend just in case I arrived home with one less kidney (or didn’t turn up at all) and headed to Times Square. A van shuttled us from there to Brighton Beach, where a huge neon sign announced “Club Versailles” on a building that looked like a storage warehouse plastered with fake Doric columns. We went in the back way. I followed my friend down a narrow staircase that opened into the kitchen. The room was filled by men in ragged tank tops, most with a cigarette dangling out of their mouths (and dropping ash into the food, at which point I made a mental note not to eat the free dinner). They all leered as we passed, following the snaking corridor to a tiny room at the end of the hall where we were meant to change. A rickety screen in front was supposed to shield us from prying eyes, but let’s just say that it was fairly ineffective.

As for the show itself, let me give you the backstory (yes, there was a running plot):

Aliens have landed in Brooklyn (this was illustrated by the descent of a miniature spaceship from the ceiling, accompanied by clouds of fake smoke. I was actually fairly impressed by the recent immigrants metaphor). The singers (aka the aliens) learn all about American culture via a series of songs and dances. These included, paradoxically:

1. a disco routine where we wore towering French powdered wigs, lacey bodices, and hoop skirts.


2. a Michael Jackson number complete with Jerri-curl wigs and black spandex outfits, and


3. a flapper-style tap routine featuring the Charleston.
   Confused? I was. The modern day equivalent would be teaching people about American History by showing them Youtube clips.

The dining room was packed with families seated at long tables (I was told most of these were local mobsters). Vodka flowed freely, and kids ran around the room despite the late hour. We closed the show every night by grabbing people from the crowd, dragging them onstage, and forcing them to perform the Macarena with us. I’m not kidding.

And here’s the funny thing: in retrospect, it was the most fun I ever had dancing. Up until then I’d worked with a series of very serious modern dance companies doing “important” pieces. So I’d be rolling around the stage in a black leotard simulating the situation in Rwanda, or wallowing in pieces called “Disconnected” that were supposed to illustrate the dehumanizing effect of machinery on modern existence (mind you, this was pre-internet). And the Club Versailles job was just pure fun, the dance equivalent of a summer blockbuster film. I had a blast doing it for the three months the gig lasted. Then one night, we were all abruptly terminated. Apparently the owner suddenly realized she could hire Russian dancers for a quarter of what she was paying us, and wouldn’t have to provide van service.

So I bid the mobsters a forlorn dasvidania and returned to the bar scene. A few months later, in the face in worsening knee injuries, I hung up my dance shoes and moved west in search of a new life. So in the end, Club Versailles closed out my dance career. I’ll admit it, I still get a little teary whenever “Beat It” comes on the radio...

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