West of Mars

This is another Three Word Wednesday post — one that went in directions I hadn’t been expecting. It’s also partially inspired by this prompt at Thursday Tales.

“Give it up, Trev,” Mitchell said from behind him. “We’re gonna get wet.”

“I don’t want to get wet.”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll melt?”

Trevor turned to the big idiot. “Because I don’t want to,” he said, making each word come out of his mouth as precisely as possible.

“It’s another science experiment, right?” Mitchell went on, giving Trevor’s shoulder a shove. “If you go without washing your jeans, they’ll get so dirty, they’ll disintegrate, but they’ll do it all gradual, so no one’ll ever know what’s skin and what’s jeans. You’ll go around bare-assed naked and no one will know the difference.”

Trevor sniffed and stuck his nose in the air. “You’re the one who likes to go without clothes. All I said was that I didn’t want to get wet.”

“I still don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I don’t see your precious ass out there.”

“It’s a downpour. I’m waiting for it to let up a bit.”

Trevor nodded knowingly. “Because you don’t want to get wet, either.”

“I don’t want to get drenched. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, like the difference between a girl and a woman. They got all the same parts. It’s just that some aren’t fully formed yet and others are overripe.”

Mitchell gave him an odd look. Trevor figured his example hadn’t gone down quite right. Time to abandon it and go for something else. “You know,” he said, “if we were real rock stars instead of guys on our way up, we’d have people here to hold umbrellas for us.”

“We’d have someone here to wash your jeans, too.”

Trevor smirked. “They are clean. Eric took my stuff when he went to the laundromat the other day.”

Mitchell nodded like he’d known that. Probably had, the wanker. Hell, he’d probably been there with Eric, combining their clothes so no skivvies got turned pink. Not that it mattered if they did; they’d just give them to some eager girls and send ‘em on their way.

“Then why don’t you want to get wet?” Mitchell asked.

Trevor turned to the idiot. This conversation was old. Time to end it.

Even though his back was to the door, Trevor took that dreaded step outside. At least he was facing Mitchell and could see the guy’s eyes get all wide as Trevor was suddenly as wet as if he’d walked into a car wash.

Being wet sucked, but laughing at Mitchell was worth every second of the way his jeans were about to chafe.

*
It seems that a reluctance to go outside into the elements is a common theme with me. Remember Smoke Break, now found in Demo Tapes: Year 1? Or Hot, in Demo Tapes: Year 2?

This is a darn good time to join the Trevolution. Pick up the books, in print or digital format (I have copies I can sell you directly if you’d like autographs), and get ready as the Trevolution goes novel length in the near future!

And don’t forget to stop by (or join!) the Weekend Writers Retreat, too.

Well, okay. Maybe I don’t covet this one, but it’s definitely interesting enough to tell you guys about. Make conversation in the comments (I’ll add my own, too. Promise! I won’t leave my 2c at your blogs) ’cause this one? It’s a conversation piece and then some.

It’s called Sex Tips From Rock Stars: In Their Own UNCENSORED Words

Yes. I’m serious. And look who’s in it:

* Acey Slade (MURDERDOLLS, DOPE)
* Adde (HARDCORE SUPERSTAR)
* Allison Robertson (THE DONNAS)
* Andrew W.K.
* Blasko (OZZY OSBOURNE, ROB ZOMBIE)
* Brent Muscat (FASTER PUSSYCAT)
* Bruce Kulick (KISS)
* Chip Z’Nuff (ENUFF Z’NUFF)
* Courtney Taylor-Taylor (THE DANDY WARHOLS)
* Danko Jones
* Doug Robb (HOOBASTANK)
* Evan Seinfeld (BIOHAZARD)
* Ginger (THE WILDHEARTS)
* Handsome Dick Manitoba (THE DICTATORS, MC5)
* James Kottak (SCORPIONS, KINGDOM COME)
* Jesse Hughes (EAGLES OF DEATH METAL)
* Jimmy Ashhurst (BUCKCHERRY)
* Joel O’Keeffe (AIRBOURNE)
* Lemmy (MOTÖRHEAD)
* Nicke Borg (BACKYARD BABIES)
* Rob Patterson (KORN, OTEP)
* Toby Rand (JUKE KARTEL)
* Vazquez (DAMONE)

Okay, so only Evan Seinfeld and Lemmy would be reason enough to make me pick up this book; more and more, I am lapsing back into my pre-radio days of the only important thing being the music, not the people behind it (weird, considering I almost went to work for a record label. Or three).

Look at this, from the Press release quoted at Blabbermouth:

“Sex Tips from Rock Stars” is the world’s first extensive study of rock stars concerning sex, in which many of music’s most celebrated rockers share their dos and don’ts on a long list of sexual topics. They provide you with an abundance of uncensored bite-sized tips and tongue in-cheek pointers on every single aspect of sex — from dating to divorcing.

Some ideas are practical and surprising, others are as naturally wild and crazy as their millions of fans would expect. These international rock stars take you deep inside their uninhibited world of sex, drugs, and rock’n'roll as they come clean on their dirty little secrets for the very first time. Your own carnal fantasies will come alive when you find yourself taking on this book’s raunchy ideas and super-hot sex tips, all with the confidence of the rock stars themselves. Don’t say you weren’t warned!

… I’m speechless.

Really. Talk to me.

The last post was getting too long, so here’s more…

Best Yo-yo adventures: So I ran into Alex Glass while drooling over Jenny Bent‘s iPad. This was first thing Friday morning. He didn’t know the way to the elevators that would take him to the third floor for his first pitch session. So I walked him over. Chatted with him.

I left him at the elevator and went to hear Jenny’s way cool panel on contracts. At the end, as I was about to run to my room and get the goodie bag for Jennifer Jackson, I heard Jenny say she didn’t know where she was headed, since she had to pitch. I told her to wait for me while I ran and got the goodie bag. Then I walked Jenny up to the pitch rooms.

That was trip two.

I came downstairs, intending to find Alex’s panel on literary fiction. Only, I charged right past the room and was headed toward the hospitality suite when I noticed a very unassuming looking woman. I confessed I had missed the room my panel was in. She said she was lost: she needed to get upstairs for pitch sessions.

What the hell, I figured. I’ve already only been to that elevator twice and it’s not like I know where I’m going anyway. So I told this woman I’d show her to the elevators.

As we were walking, it dawned on me that I ought to be polite and ask her who she was pitching to. She said she wasn’t pitching. “Oh, so you’re keeping time?”

She said, “Nooo…. There’s a third job up there.”

I counted on my fingers. Couldn’t think of the third job. She knew she had me, but when I told her I was stumped, she was almost embarrassed to admit she was an agent. My mind went EVEN BLANKER, if that’s possible.

Now remember, I’d met Alex and Jenny and Jennifer already. That meant this was … oh, SHIT. The woman I’d been Twittering with about her stuffed octopus the past two days.

She was even more abashed to say her name (Janet Reid, if you haven’t guessed), but as soon as she did, she saw my jaw drop and she knew we knew each other. “I’m Susan Gottfried, of West of Mars,” I said.

We laughed the whole way up the elevator. In the chaos of the hallway, I presented Janet loudly (hey, it was a bit after 10:30 in the morning. You should be awake by then!) and took off running.

And found Alex’s panel, where I became quite the question-asker, to the point he asked ME if I was on the Pennwriters staff or something, because I was keeping things moving.

The point of all this? Don’t EVER be shy about walking up to people and engaging them in conversation. You never know who you’ll be talking to.

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Most gratifying moment: stealing a quiet moment with Janet and giving her the formal invite to return to our conference next year in Pittsburgh — and hearing how impressed she was with the entire group. Professional, polished, with great ideas and ready to go forward toward success. When someone like Janet Reid says that, you know it’s real. She’s a bit … stingy with her praise.

The I Can’t Believe I Did it moment: Seeing that Alex Glass had no intentions of handing the cordless mic to Janet and jumping out of my moderator’s chair, swiping the mic, and running it to the other end of the table to hand off. Don’t tell my sports med guy about the short sprint, okay?

The She did NOT just say that moment: dinner with Janet and the rest of the Mary Roberts Rinehart Sisters in Crime. Janet said something I won’t repeat. And something else I won’t repeat.

In fact, I am carrying a lot of secrets home from this conference. Don’t ask what they are. I’m not spilling.

Now, about my Sisters in Crime group: These ladies were every bit as cool as I knew they would be. Having not just one but two (I made Jennifer join us, as well) top literary agents join us for dinner would be enough to make even a cucumber lose its cool. These ladies in my chapter are NOT vegetables, boys and girls.

And a special shout-out to Joyce for extending the initial invite to Janet. She got there first. I just refused to accept that Janet wouldn’t join us.

The Moment I went Fangirl: While looking up Jennifer Jackson’s web address to link to it, I realized one of her clients is the Tour Manager’s favorite writer.

The One I Pulled on Jennifer: Telling her the Tour Manager’s real name. He shares a name with a famous dude (who she knows, which I expected) instantly. Her face was priceless.

The Hey, You Didn’t Have to do that, but Thanks! Award goes to Leis Pederson and David Pomerico, both of whom excused themselves from other conversations to tell me they appreciated the job I’d done as moderator of the editor’s panel. THAT alone would have made my weekend, without all the other stuff.

The This May Not Come Off as Intended Experience: I was laughing that after that intro to Jenny, Alex, and Janet, I kept an eye on them, as well as on Jennifer (who proclaimed me a most excellent stalker, I might add). Even though Alex, Jenny, and Janet had their own conference-goers to keep an eye on them, I seemed to be doing a lot of it.

Which was fine. What wasn’t fine was any implication anyone may read into it that the other three volunteers weren’t up to snuff. SO not true. Those three agents … they just needed a bit of extra extra attention and I found that with my background in the music biz (at least the radio, stage crew and promotion parts), keeping half an eye on the talent comes second nature. Besides, when the talent pulls a proverbial Spinal Tap and can’t find the proverbial stage, it makes the organization look bad. I’ll gladly chip in to help keep the Pennwriters organization as stellar (or better) than it already is.

And if you follow Janet’s Tweets, you may have seen this one: @WestofMars I’m attaching myself to you for PennWriters 2011 conference!

Again, the other PennPals were great. But you know what? They are there to attend the conference, themselves. To go to panels and mix with other writers. I mean, so am I, but you guys know me. Spending the whole time hanging out and chatting would have been every bit as fine as attending the panels (and that’s saying a LOT. I did not think a single one was anything less than great. Although I wish Ramona had had more time to really get into the meat of short stories.).

So. Onward to 2011, May 12 through 14 in Pittsburgh.

I KNOW you’re not surprised to hear I’ve already volunteered to run the PennPal program for next year. Go figure.

I’m starting this post as I’m waiting to head out to breakfast on Saturday morning. I figured I’d start writing down what I’m taking in:

The biggest light bulb moment of the day: Agent Jennifer Jackson telling me that the covers of the Demo Tapes are great, but they don’t tell her what the book’s about.

(Just wait until you guys see the cover for Trevor’s Song. There will be NO DOUBT what that book is about.)

Jennifer’s comment reminded me of the genesis of The Demo Tapes. That I’d intended for it to be a strictly vanity thing, and it was you guys who asked for an ISBN and started setting up book tours and the like for me. But clearly, choices made for one reason aren’t helping to further my cause.

Biggest But…. but…. but … Moment: Talking with Emmanuelle Alspaugh of the Judith Ehrlich agency, who I also really liked. I asked if the plot of what I’m working on was marketable, or if I am still too left-of-center to expect commercial publication. She focused on the setting. Fictional cities, even ones as kick-ass as Riverview, aren’t hot right now, she said. I either need to take the story urban fantasy or move to a real city.

But… what about the PLOT???

Yeah, I’m cautious. Spell it out or I have trouble believing it’s okay.

Most pleasant surprise: Hearing Jenny Bent, Alex Glass, Janet Reid, and Jennifer Jackson say they’ll sign authors who have self-pubbed. They are totally open to it. Jennifer even said the fact that I’m making money with The Demo Tapes is a huge bonus. (But you should still buy more copies and keep spreading the word, okay? The more, the better!)

Biggest shocker: How much fun I’m having getting to know Janet Reid, Jennifer Jackson, Jenny Bent, and Alex Glass. These are all people I could be friends with if I lived in New York and worked in publishing. They don’t just know their stuff, they have given me an insight into what it REALLY means to be an agent.

I mean, think about it. They have big client lists. Clients who need stuff — and who don’t operate on regular 9 to 5, Monday through Friday schedules. And yet they give up a weekend to come talk to people (some of whom are quite clueless, although well-meaning) and educate people about the publishing industry. They don’t NEED to do this, boys and girls. Not THIS group. We’re talking about agents who are at the top of their game.

Their kindness, their giving, and their heart is something else. If you think all agents do is sign people to contracts and sell their books, you are SO WRONG.

Best I Should be Dying but Instead, I’m Eating This Up Moment: When Janet Reid started picking on me during her social networking panel. Every last person in the room turned to see who the cut-up in back was. Worst of all for my defense, I had pulled my chair out into the center aisle, the better to see Janet. I smiled, waved, and fought the urge to say, “I’m @WestofMars. Come follow me and buy my books!” Seriously. I ate it up.

Best meal I Ever Paid For: Sharing a plate of nachos with Jennifer Jackson and hearing HER take on both the bad agent I wasted five years with (back before you could research agents on the web and had this great writerly support. Yes, I’ve been doing this THIS long) as well as the agent who offered representation two years ago and promptly vanished. Janet agreed about the Disappearing Agent. Alex and Jenny heard the story of the Five Year Waster and absolved me of that crime, too.

Most charming woman on the planet: Ramona Long. You may remember her from the famed B&B flood in Confluence, PA. If not, you’re missing out. The more time I spend with Ramona, the better.

Best Jaw-dropping Moment: when CJ Lyons said Erin Brockovich wanted HER to co-write some books. Yay, CJ! (who is also a nice and amazing person on her own. Very warm — just the type of doctor you want when you take your kids to the ER.)

I can go on and on. But… I’ve got breakfast to get to (It’s now Sunday morning) and a long drive ahead of me and intentions, intentions, intentions. I need to act on them. So I’ll let you all digest this. Trust that I’ve learned even more than I arrived here knowing, so stick around and I’ll share the wisdom.

I’m writing this as my Internet is down (and posting from a hotel. See previous post for why). I hope I have the right Three Words for Three Word Wednesday!

Those of you who remember Springer may remember the girl he met at one of the Musical Hanukkah Celebrations. Trinity. For those of you meeting her for the first time, I think you’ll like her.

~~~~~~~ (this is the cool separator Anne Tyler Lord taught me. Isn’t it great?)
“Ignore the fear!” Sandusky said to Trinity. “Just leap up, ignore the fear, and go for it!”

Trinity nodded and licked her lips. It seemed so easy. Sandusky said it was unlike anything she’d ever do. It was paradise, he said.

“Leap up,” Sandusky said again. “Put your hand on that guy’s head and push yourself as high as you can. I’ll grab you and help get you up there.”

Still, Trinity held back. She’d been watching people in the pit surf the crowd ever since Sandusky had taken her to her first show, a couple months ago. She’d even put her hands up over her own head, helping keep the surfer from kicking her in the face — she’d seen people that had happened to. Swollen, black, bloody. Things broke if you weren’t careful, especially when the surfers were the assholes who wore steel-toed boots.

Sandusky was pretty sure they’d dig Trinity. Her clothes were, like always, tight up to her body. She wore simple black boots, not combat boots, not work boots. Maybe you’d call them fashion boots. But really, they were something in between. They wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not too much.

This scene was still new to her, and already, she loved it. She loved that she fit in, that only the really snooty girls Sandusky called the Dick Bunnies tried to make her feel inadequate. She loved that the more outrageous she was, the more approval she got and the more they wanted her around. And she loved the ear cuff Jameson had given her, daring her to wear it. She’d wanted to know why she wouldn’t wear the image of a guy with a hard-on. Maybe the problem was that Jameson didn’t know what one was good for.

She knew she could surf the crowd. She knew she’d love it, all those hands holding her, supporting her. Sandusky said it was like being weightless, but Trinity wasn’t so sure. She didn’t see how. Wasn’t weightless all about being in zero gravity?

“Come on, Trin!” Sandusky yelled.

Trinity licked her lips. He was right. The song was almost over. It was now or never.

She didn’t think. She looked up toward the heads in front of her, imagined herself up there.

Trinity jumped.

As Sandusky promised, as soon as her hand made contact with the head of the guy in front of her, her friend gave her the push. The guy in front grabbed at her; Trinity didn’t think he gave it a thought. When you stood in the pit, this was what you did. Feel a body, lift it up.

And then she was on her back, her arms spread out to the sides, her legs flopping open, shut, up and down. Same for her ass. She laid her head back and laughed, then jerked as someone squeezed her tit. At a hand that snuck between her legs and tried to check out the folds there.

It kept coming. Pinches. Pulls. A scratch on her hand.

It wasn’t fun.

Trinity started to fight her way down. She bucked against them, growing frantic.

And then she was on the ground and Sandusky was pushing through the crowd. He grabbed her, hugged her, and told her she’d done great.

She had. She knew it. She’d ignored the fear.

It had been totally worth it.

Ignore the fear. That sounded like a new motto to Trinity.

Last March, when I went away with a bunch of writers to Confluence, PA, we got flooded INTO the B&B we’d rented out. It was quite the adventure.

Tomorrow — that’d be Thursday, for those of you stopping by after today, which is Wednesday, or who are in different time zones — I’m heading out to the hopping town of Lancaster, PA, for the Pennwriters Conference.

I’m hoping to spend some time chatting with Pam Jenoff, whose first two books my book club and I read and really liked.

I’ll be hanging with my roomie, fellow author Holly Christine.

I’ll be pampering Jennifer Jackson, introducing Ramona Long‘s short story workshop (which goes over really well when you’re flooded into a B&B, I’d like to add), trying to keep from throwing Janet Reid‘s octopus at any TV foolish enough to show a Red Wings game. I’ll also be introducing two other panels, and keeping time for pitch sessions.

I’m also planning to break some rules. Business casual dress? Ha. I’m the rock and roll author. I dress the part when not sitting behind my computer. And I’ll be pitching a book idea — not to see if the agent I’ll be facing down will want to represent it so much as to see if my plot ideas remain too off-center for the mainstream world of published books.

But there’s more! More in the form of postcards with a big old West of Mars on the front. Postcards with coupon codes for 50% off Smashwords downloads on the back. (Those are actually two different postcards. Ha. I’m the postcard queen.)

And a heck of a lot more I have yet to discover. I’m still debating what to wear to the masquerade ball, after all. (The temptation to be a Normal Person is strong. I have the perfect shirt!)

So… don’t expect to see much of me around these parts, even though I’ll be bringing my laptop (and a flash drive, loaded with lots of fiction I fully expect to never touch. Call it my security blanket, why don’tcha).

Hold the fort down for me. Go like my fan pages at Facebook. Add me to your Google Friends thingie-ma-bob. In short, help spread the Trevolution. This is the perfect time to do it… I hear talk of the novel that started it all. Something about cover art and then it’ll be on its way to your greedy little hands…

Happy Mother’s day to my fellow moms out there. Yes, even if you’re only the mom of a cat, dog, or bunny. (I was going to say pet, but that’s too vague, isn’t it?)

I’ve been doing my mail call posts over at Rocks and Reads of late, the better to showcase my fiction over here (a lot of you were dropping me e-mails, complaining you were missing the fiction). But with nothing really on the horizon right now, I figured this was a good time to remind you to add Rocks and Reads to your feed reader and follow the book talk over there.

So. Last week, my trusty PO Box had an insecurity attack. No books!

This past week was better. I got two.

The first is Rebecca Kohn’s Seven Days to the Sea. My book club read Ms. Kohn’s The Gilded Chamber, and it’s a book I consider one of the best Biblical Historicals I’ve read. So I’m more eager than a beaver to read this. Once again, my book club will read it together. (If you’d like to read along with us, watch the book club page for dates and all that.)

The second book that arrived this week was another one of those bonus prizes I sometimes get for putting so much time into Win a Book. My good friend Christie Craig was kind enough to send me a copy of a book she co-wrote with Faye Hughes. I think she’s telling me something (and I might even listen) because the book is The Everything Guide to Writing a Romance Novel. Like all good non-fiction books, it’s got a super long subtitle, which is something I like to make fun of over at Win a Book. (see what you’re missing? And you thought all I did was tell contest groupies where to go to find stuff they can resell on eBay!)

Thanks to The Story Siren and The Printed Page for hosting Mailbox events on Sundays/Mondays. I’m meeting a lot of new bloggers and, of course, am watching my wish list grow. As well as the TBR mountains.

As always, if you use the buy links, they’ll take you to Powells.com, where I am an affiliate. I’m saving up the money you may earn me to … buy books to give away to you. No profit to me; it’s all about YOU guys.

Well, drat. It’s been 24 hours or so since I came across an apparently not-as-new-as-I-thought line of rock and roll clothing. And in that time, I’ve managed to completely space on who was kind enough to point me in this direction. (Okay, it’s now been a few months after I started this post. Still spaced.)

I suspect either Blabbermouth or Brave Words. Maybe Metal Sucks. You know: my usual haunts for all news rock and roll.

Anyway, this is DirtBag. Yes, that’s the name of the company. As soon as I got to the page, I was in love. I mean, hello? That’s Phil Demmel on the front page. Phil Demmel of Machine Head, formerly of Vio-lence.

Phil Demmel, who I had a small crush on back in my radio station days. Never did anything more than sigh at the man, and never regretted my lack of action, either. I mean, heck. I got the Tour Manager! Who needs Phil Demmel when she can have a Tour Manager???? (Mrs. Phil may not agree, if there is a Mrs. Phil, but hey. I saved her man for her. Look at it that way.)

Back to the clothes. So far, these Dirt Bag folk have got the requisite tight clothes for super skinny girls and not much for us moms of two who have sort of made peace with being a bit curvier but who are finding it easier than ever to rock out. *sigh*

Bummer because I want the t-shirt with the wings on it. I never really wanted to be an angel, but to have wings? Up to now, I’d figured the only way to have wings would be to attach a set for a Fairy Ball at the Romantic Times convention or something.

With this shirt, I could have my wings AND be the cool metal chick you guys expect to see ogling the fairies at the Fairy Ball.

I’m off to diet (’cause I biked over 10 miles today and am I less curvy? Hell no. But my calves are… strong). And the DirtBag folk? As always when I find great clothes, my offer remains: you give me free clothes and I’ll make sure I get in front of cameras with those clothes on. Maybe even a pro’s camera when it’s time to take those fancy-schmancy author pictures.

Man, my books would look awfully good poking out of one of those messenger bags, too. Know that????

C’mon, DirtBag people. Who needs to sponsor bands when you can sponsor a WRITER???

(yes, typing that last line made ME snort with some form of fake laughter. Why do you ask?)

Mother’s Day – Twitter Chats Blog Tour

You will be directed to your next stop at the end of this post. Please feel welcome here, and have a happy Mother’s Day!

(I’m supposed to insert a separation here, but damned if I know how to)
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Sonya held the precious bundle more securely and bowed her head over it. Her boy. She and Patterson had made a boy at last.

Even though Patterson had Beth playing baseball in their back yard, she knew he privately hoped for a boy he could play with. Patterson was good with their two girls and they adored their daddy, but Sonya believed it was true: every man pined for a son. Sons didn’t grow their hair long. They didn’t wear earrings. They played baseball, not softball. In the Voss family, boys were as American as hot dogs, apple pie, and the Fourth of July.

Sonya smiled, remembering the Christmas just past. The two grandmothers had stood in Sonya’s kitchen and stared at her swelling baby, debating. Boy or girl?

Everyone had agreed: it was a boy in there, a boy who would eventually come out of Sonya and drag half her innards along with him. Or so it felt. It hadn’t mattered once she’d laid eyes on him, of course, the doctors working frantically above her. The baby was perfect. Boy or girl; all that mattered had been the perfection.

It was later, during these quiet times, when Sonya could reflect on how important it had been to her, too, to have a boy. Especially after this little one had made sure the family was complete. It was as if he’d said he was special enough, there could be nothing to follow him. It didn’t matter that his parents had wanted four children. No one would follow Mitchell into the world.

He scrunched his face, yawned, cracked his eyes, and smacked his lips. The perfect baby.

Sonya’s heart melted as her son started rooting, hungry again.

Three children had never seemed more perfect.

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(I’m supposed to insert another separation, but I’m still damned if I know how to.)

Thanks for stopping by! Your next stop for the Mother’s Day Twitter Chats Blog Tour is Tony Noland of Landless.

The complete list of participants can be found at the host’s blogs: Mariana N. Blaser and Anne Tyler Lord.

My friend Mary made a derogatory statement about some of the LA wanna-be types who are so desperate to belong to the scene that they’d attend the opening of an envelope. I loved that idea. Attending the opening of an envelope. I’ll probably get more fiction out of the idea than this one scene.

Walter let Lila help him shrug into his familiar black leather blazer. She freed his ponytail from underneath, and took a minute to wrap it around her finger, as if doing that would make it curl.

That was Lila’s way. It reinforced her sense of order in the world, playing with his ponytail like that, so he smiled as he tolerated the gesture.

He hoped there would be more smiling once he entered the ballroom. He’d never done this sort of thing before and frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Lila had been forced to give him something to calm his nerves.

Walter Cichewski could stand under a spotlight in front of thousands of people. He’d been doing it for years, in fact. There were days when whatever Dr. Rosen had given him made him feel as if he was moving through sludge, but as soon as he stepped onto that stage, it all melted away and he was young again. His energy came back, better than any rush from any drug he’d ever been handed.

This was something different entirely. He had to step out there, not in front of fans, but in front of television cameras. Instead of fans, every person in the room would be part of the media. There’d be no one to introduce him. It would be him, just him, and no music to make.

Walter hadn’t wanted to agree to do this. But Lila and Dr. Rosen had agreed with his manager: it was good for his image. Good to remind the media who he was, that he was still making music, that Walter Cichewski was all about the best music out there.

“You’ll be fine,” Lila said, leaning forward to kiss Walter’s cheek. Her lips brushed at him more than anything else, reluctant to mess up the slight makeup she’d put on him, declaring him too pale to be visible to TV cameras.

Walter didn’t answer. He watched the people in charge stare at their watches, lips moving as they counted down. He watched two of them, one dressed in a butter-yellow skirt suit and the other in jeans and a t-shirt, black lanyard around his neck, move to the door. The suit motioned Walter forward, her eyes still on that second hand. Jeans motioned him to stay until the suit gave the sign.

“Hello,” Walter said, walking up to the podium. He knew his shoulders curled, that too many years of hunching over a guitar had destroyed his posture — which had been hopeless from the get-go. Walter had never been one to stand proud.

He picked up the envelope that had been placed on the podium and smiled. He introduced himself briefly, then said, “You’re all here to watch me open this envelope today. What’s inside will affect the careers of musicians all across the industry. Please help me in congratulating every last artist whose name is inside here.”

He could feel the media-types hold their breath and lean forward. The people in the back rooms would be pleased with him, Walter knew. He’d done better than they’d hoped for, building up the expectation.

With the flourish they’d asked for, he held the envelope up and made a show of opening it. He pulled out the papers inside, unfolded them, and began reading the list of Grammy award nominees.

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Be sure to stop by Sunday Scribblings, where this week’s prompt is The Event. And then stop by Weekend Writer’s Retreat, too. There’s good fiction happening around the Internet these days!