helped if you’d stuck with the group. Hey, this is my roommate.” She grabbed the arm of a young woman with short spiked hair and a bolt through her nose.
“Amanda Morning,” the girl said, shoving a piece of glossy paper shaped like a flame at each of us. “I’m handing out my bookmark to everyone. It won first prize at the Southwest Regional Romance Lovers Festival.”
I read the print copy aloud. “ ‘
Passion’s Flame.
The sweeping romantic saga of a lovely young woman thrust into a vortex of danger and desire…and the one man who could awaken in her a sweet fire that would not stop burning. On sale soon wherever books are sold.’ ”
“This is the sixth time I’ve won the contest for best bookmark.”
“Six books?” I marveled. “Wow. You must have your own section in Borders.”
“Well, I haven’t actually written anything yet, but I bought a really expensive computer system so I can begin. And Keely’s promised to help me.”
Which was bound to assure her of at least one chapter of award-winning prose. “But shouldn’t it go the other way around?” I quibbled. “You write the book,
then
you design the bookmark? Kinda like, pillage then burn?”
Amanda quirked her mouth to the side and glared at me, her nostrils flaring around the silver bolt in her nose. She looked angry enough to do something really menacing — like sneeze. “I can tell you’re not one of us. You nonwriters just don’t get it. There was a contest! If you want to be a writer, you have to enter contests.”
Nana stared up at her with curiosity. “Do you ever get sinus infections, dear? They must be a real nuisance for you.”
Amanda kept talking. “Saying I’ve won six
consecutive
contests is going to look really impressive on a cover letter to some publisher.”
I didn’t want to appear naive, but I wondered if actually writing the book would appear even more impressive.
Keely elbowed Amanda out of the way and directed her to Duncan’s cooler at the front of the bus. “Publishing’s changed a lot since I won my first contest. It’s not about the manuscript anymore; it’s about who you know. And I’m going to know a lot of people by the end of this trip.” She blew a bubble the size of a grapefruit and sucked it back into her mouth with a pop. “Hey, look who else is in line. Fred!”
She clapped the shoulder of the man standing next to her and swung him around to face us. “Fred published a biography of his cat two years ago through a vanity press, so he’s an honest-to-gosh author, aren’t you, Fred?”
Fred was small and stooped and looked like an advertisement for J. Peterman in his safari shirt and pants. On his head he wore a matching cloth hat with a floppy sunblock brim that he was making no attempt to remove. Either he didn’t want to ruin the look of his ensemble, or he was afraid some ornery ultraviolet ray would eat through the solid steel of the bus’s roof and zap him. Considering all the holes in the ozone layer, I guess you couldn’t be too careful these days.
“Some author,” Fred said in a timid voice. “They told me I was going to make a bundle. They said the demographics indicated that elderly women
love
to read feline biographies. But what I ended up with was a storage shed full of books I can’t distribute and a big fat debit in my checking account. I’ve gotta hand it to the little jeezers. They delivered the books just like they promised, but they didn’t tell me that bookstore people refuse to handle the self-published stuff. You gotta do it yourself. Out of the trunk of your car!”
I suspected that could be pretty dicey, especially if you were stuck having to drive a subcompact. “Were you able to sell any?”
“Four. To my mother. She said they were a huge hit in her assisted living facility. People were clamoring for them in their little library there. But I’m not letting the hype influence me. I’m switching to romances. According to what I’ve read
“Amanda Morning,” the girl said, shoving a piece of glossy paper shaped like a flame at each of us. “I’m handing out my bookmark to everyone. It won first prize at the Southwest Regional Romance Lovers Festival.”
I read the print copy aloud. “ ‘
Passion’s Flame.
The sweeping romantic saga of a lovely young woman thrust into a vortex of danger and desire…and the one man who could awaken in her a sweet fire that would not stop burning. On sale soon wherever books are sold.’ ”
“This is the sixth time I’ve won the contest for best bookmark.”
“Six books?” I marveled. “Wow. You must have your own section in Borders.”
“Well, I haven’t actually written anything yet, but I bought a really expensive computer system so I can begin. And Keely’s promised to help me.”
Which was bound to assure her of at least one chapter of award-winning prose. “But shouldn’t it go the other way around?” I quibbled. “You write the book,
then
you design the bookmark? Kinda like, pillage then burn?”
Amanda quirked her mouth to the side and glared at me, her nostrils flaring around the silver bolt in her nose. She looked angry enough to do something really menacing — like sneeze. “I can tell you’re not one of us. You nonwriters just don’t get it. There was a contest! If you want to be a writer, you have to enter contests.”
Nana stared up at her with curiosity. “Do you ever get sinus infections, dear? They must be a real nuisance for you.”
Amanda kept talking. “Saying I’ve won six
consecutive
contests is going to look really impressive on a cover letter to some publisher.”
I didn’t want to appear naive, but I wondered if actually writing the book would appear even more impressive.
Keely elbowed Amanda out of the way and directed her to Duncan’s cooler at the front of the bus. “Publishing’s changed a lot since I won my first contest. It’s not about the manuscript anymore; it’s about who you know. And I’m going to know a lot of people by the end of this trip.” She blew a bubble the size of a grapefruit and sucked it back into her mouth with a pop. “Hey, look who else is in line. Fred!”
She clapped the shoulder of the man standing next to her and swung him around to face us. “Fred published a biography of his cat two years ago through a vanity press, so he’s an honest-to-gosh author, aren’t you, Fred?”
Fred was small and stooped and looked like an advertisement for J. Peterman in his safari shirt and pants. On his head he wore a matching cloth hat with a floppy sunblock brim that he was making no attempt to remove. Either he didn’t want to ruin the look of his ensemble, or he was afraid some ornery ultraviolet ray would eat through the solid steel of the bus’s roof and zap him. Considering all the holes in the ozone layer, I guess you couldn’t be too careful these days.
“Some author,” Fred said in a timid voice. “They told me I was going to make a bundle. They said the demographics indicated that elderly women
love
to read feline biographies. But what I ended up with was a storage shed full of books I can’t distribute and a big fat debit in my checking account. I’ve gotta hand it to the little jeezers. They delivered the books just like they promised, but they didn’t tell me that bookstore people refuse to handle the self-published stuff. You gotta do it yourself. Out of the trunk of your car!”
I suspected that could be pretty dicey, especially if you were stuck having to drive a subcompact. “Were you able to sell any?”
“Four. To my mother. She said they were a huge hit in her assisted living facility. People were clamoring for them in their little library there. But I’m not letting the hype influence me. I’m switching to romances. According to what I’ve read
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