then Khela had read a few of Merrie’s books, and she’d discovered her secret. It was easy to write dozens and dozens of books when you were recycling the same story over and over.
Khela swallowed back her catty deduction, and scanned the crowd. She had no right to criticize Merrie’s work, or anyone else’s. There was a time, not too long ago, when she had attended her first romance writers’ conference, and she had been captivated, listening to a seasoned author who had taken time out of her life to impart wisdom and encouragement to a roomful of writers.
She and Daphne, her roommate of three years, had been juniors at Fieldcrest. Back then, Daphne had the largest personal library Khela had ever seen, and it was built solely of Cameo romances. While Khela had been an able student, double majoring in biology and western civilization, Daphne had been working on a creative writing degree, with the ultimate goal of becoming a Cameo author.
Khela majored in fields that would prepare her for employment that would grant her financial security, but she honored her love of storytelling through a minor in English. And she continued to scribble her stories in spiral-bound notebooks, which she never showed to anyone, not even Daphne.
Daphne had done all the right things—according to Daphne. She’d joined RAAO and one of its Missouri chapters; she had attended meetings, annual conferences and the national convention. She belonged to critique circles and book-discussion groups, and she maintained the strictest discipline, faithfully writing from 10 p.m. to midnight five nights a week.
When Daphne invited her to the Chicago RAAO chapter’s fall conference, Khela had gone primarily out of curiosity and to enjoy a weekend with her roommate in the Windy City. Daphne had registered for a one-on-one appointment with one of the major-league editors attending the conference. Her fearlessness hadn’t fully matured yet, so she dragged Khela with her to the five-minute, make-or-break meeting. Tongue-tied, Daphne had barely managed to babble the pitch she’d practiced for two weeks prior to the conference, and afterward, she’d rushed off to the ladies’ room to barf up the bleu cheese and artichoke soufflé she’d had at lunch.
Assuming that Khela was next on her appointment list, the editor had beckoned her into Daphne’s vacated seat. Khela had pitched a story idea that she made up on the fly, splicing together everything she’d ever learned from Daphne about romance novels with one of her favorite pieces of classic literature.
“My hero is a stormy, husky, brawling man with big shoulders,” she had said, wildly improvising. “And my heroine is a painted woman with a reputation for luring one too many farm boys. My book is the story of how these two disparate souls use their cunning, strength and tenacity to defy expectations and overcome the burden of destiny to find love on their own terms.”
Cameo editor Fawn Ellman had then asked Khela the one question that almost tripped her up. “What’s the title?”
And without thinking, Khela had responded with the first thing that popped into her head. “ Satin Whispers. ”
The name of the moisturizing body lotion in the hospitality basket at her hotel.
Fawn had requested the full manuscript, and Khela had spent the next two months working furiously on a book that hadn’t existed, not even in her imagination, before her sit-down with the editor. She found out about Fawn’s acceptance of the manuscript the hard way—through a phone message relayed to her by Daphne, whose conference experience hadn’t been so fortuitous.
Daphne had spent one week in a sulky, sullen mood, but then she had read Khela’s first few chapters. Enraptured, she had congratulated Khela and had become her staunchest supporter, even helping her with some of her class work so that she could devote more time to her manuscript. Satin Whispers was released a year later, on Daphne’s twenty-first
Khela swallowed back her catty deduction, and scanned the crowd. She had no right to criticize Merrie’s work, or anyone else’s. There was a time, not too long ago, when she had attended her first romance writers’ conference, and she had been captivated, listening to a seasoned author who had taken time out of her life to impart wisdom and encouragement to a roomful of writers.
She and Daphne, her roommate of three years, had been juniors at Fieldcrest. Back then, Daphne had the largest personal library Khela had ever seen, and it was built solely of Cameo romances. While Khela had been an able student, double majoring in biology and western civilization, Daphne had been working on a creative writing degree, with the ultimate goal of becoming a Cameo author.
Khela majored in fields that would prepare her for employment that would grant her financial security, but she honored her love of storytelling through a minor in English. And she continued to scribble her stories in spiral-bound notebooks, which she never showed to anyone, not even Daphne.
Daphne had done all the right things—according to Daphne. She’d joined RAAO and one of its Missouri chapters; she had attended meetings, annual conferences and the national convention. She belonged to critique circles and book-discussion groups, and she maintained the strictest discipline, faithfully writing from 10 p.m. to midnight five nights a week.
When Daphne invited her to the Chicago RAAO chapter’s fall conference, Khela had gone primarily out of curiosity and to enjoy a weekend with her roommate in the Windy City. Daphne had registered for a one-on-one appointment with one of the major-league editors attending the conference. Her fearlessness hadn’t fully matured yet, so she dragged Khela with her to the five-minute, make-or-break meeting. Tongue-tied, Daphne had barely managed to babble the pitch she’d practiced for two weeks prior to the conference, and afterward, she’d rushed off to the ladies’ room to barf up the bleu cheese and artichoke soufflé she’d had at lunch.
Assuming that Khela was next on her appointment list, the editor had beckoned her into Daphne’s vacated seat. Khela had pitched a story idea that she made up on the fly, splicing together everything she’d ever learned from Daphne about romance novels with one of her favorite pieces of classic literature.
“My hero is a stormy, husky, brawling man with big shoulders,” she had said, wildly improvising. “And my heroine is a painted woman with a reputation for luring one too many farm boys. My book is the story of how these two disparate souls use their cunning, strength and tenacity to defy expectations and overcome the burden of destiny to find love on their own terms.”
Cameo editor Fawn Ellman had then asked Khela the one question that almost tripped her up. “What’s the title?”
And without thinking, Khela had responded with the first thing that popped into her head. “ Satin Whispers. ”
The name of the moisturizing body lotion in the hospitality basket at her hotel.
Fawn had requested the full manuscript, and Khela had spent the next two months working furiously on a book that hadn’t existed, not even in her imagination, before her sit-down with the editor. She found out about Fawn’s acceptance of the manuscript the hard way—through a phone message relayed to her by Daphne, whose conference experience hadn’t been so fortuitous.
Daphne had spent one week in a sulky, sullen mood, but then she had read Khela’s first few chapters. Enraptured, she had congratulated Khela and had become her staunchest supporter, even helping her with some of her class work so that she could devote more time to her manuscript. Satin Whispers was released a year later, on Daphne’s twenty-first
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