Monday, May 13, 2013

GUEST POST AND EXCERPT by Erica Lucke Dean, author of, "To Katie With Love"!

Today, we have a very special treat! We have a Guest Post by Erica Lucke Dean, author of "To Katie with Love"! The Guest Post is about names. Interesting! PLUS, we have  an excerpt of "CHAPTER ONE" of "To Katie With Love"!

Let's start with the Guest Post, first!

GUEST POST by Author Erica Lucke Dean

Finding Dory Fisher

What’s in a name? That which we call a fish would still smell after several days…
Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly what Shakespeare meant, but trust me when I say names are important. I’ve devoted entire posts to this topic, but not exactly in the same context. I’m not talking about naming my firstborn or dealing with a name I was given before my personality was developed enough to fit into it. I’m talking about naming characters in a book.
For example, I have this new book… you might have heard of it: To Katie With Love. It’s a romantic chick-lit fraught with mystery and humor, but in the editing process, I was forced to ditch one of my character names. Thankfully, not one of my main characters, I scarcely think I would have survived such a loss, but still, it was heartbreaking. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but it was hard. I hated it. But I understood the reasoning.
I have this certain talk show host that makes a cameo appearance in the book. And in my initial version, she was played by Ellen DeGeneres. I had hopes that Ellen would read my portrayal of her, fall in like with it (and my book), and invite me on her show. Okay… no bashing my dreams, you got me? I know it was farfetched, but that was my plan nonetheless.
Enter my editor with her red pen.
Did she just tell me I have to change her name? What? What does she mean I have to change it?
At first, I was horrified to learn I could not use Ellen’s name in the book. Ellen was going to love my book! She was going to tell the entire free world how excited she was to make a cameo appearance! Well, according to my publisher, she wasn’t. Apparently, the concern was Ellen might not love it. And if she didn’t love it, would she take offense to it? My initial response was to say, “No freaking way!” But then I thought about it. I did take a few liberties here and there. Okay, just maybe it was a good idea to change the name.  But when you’ve spent months, sometimes years, working on a book, once those characters are named, they’ve taken on a life of their own. A “simple” name change is never that simple. This was a job for one of my most trusted advisors.
I called Laura and gave her the impossible task of tossing names at me until one stuck. Let’s just say it wasn’t a task for the faint of heart. Laura is one of the few people I know who is well equipped to deal with my (sometimes out of control) OCD tendencies. So while she tossed names at me at breakneck speed, as if we were playing a fast and furious game of imaginary ping pong, I batted them back, just as quickly, with a, “no… not that one… nope, not that one either… ewww… she’s definitely not a Nadine.” Until finally I was hit squarely in the face with Dory.
Dory is a character in the Disney animated feature, Finding Nemo, ironically, voiced by none other than Ellen DeGeneres. This little tidbit of info was lost on me at the time. I’d never seen the movie. But the name, I liked. Yes, I liked Dory very much. It was cute—quite fitting for an “imaginary” talk show host. Laura suggested Richards for her last name, but I had a better idea. If Dory was a fish, her last name should be Fisher! How clever I was for thinking that up!
Enter my editor with her mighty sword.
Apparently, as clever as Dory Fisher was (and I’m not ashamed to say, I found it VERY clever, indeed) I was not permitted to use a name that was in any way, shape, or form connected to Ellen.
Damn it! My new name had been sent to the penalty box for conduct unbecoming a character. And I was left without a name, once again. This business of naming characters is akin to finding the chick with the foot that fits the glass slipper.
Back to the phone I went, to call Laura. And back to throwing names at me she went, until we came up with Marcy Michaels. I sent the name to my editor, confident it would work. Despite the fact I didn’t love it, it was a perfectly good name.
A few hours later, my editor called me to ask where I’d come up with the name Marcy Michaels. She just wanted to make sure she wasn’t Ellen’s housekeeper or gardener or something. And the truth is, I’m not sure. She could be Ellen’s gynecologist for all I know. But I’d be pretty impressed with Laura’s sources if that turned out to be true. I mean, you just can’t make up stuff like that!
Banker Katie James has a serious thing for romance novels. She'd almost rather settle for a fictional boyfriend than risk her heart on a flesh-and-blood man. Besides, the only real guy she’s remotely interested in is her rich, unattainable client, the mysterious Cooper Maxwell.  
Looking less like the ultra-conservative man she knows and more like a drop-dead sexy character from one of her books, Cooper crashes Katie’s 29th birthday party. But one too many drinks lands Katie in uncharted territory… Cooper’s bedroom!  
Drunk on love, Katie dives headfirst into the relationship only to discover that Cooper is keeping secrets... dangerous ones. As if things couldn’t get worse, her meddling mother makes a surprise visit, digging up a whole new set of problems.  
Who would have guessed having an assassin for a boyfriend would be the least of her worries? 

Excerpt from "To Katie, With Love" 

by Erica Lucke Dean

“Look around, Katie. Somewhere out there is the perfect man for you. You just need to take your nose out of a book long enough to find him.” Vicky’s crimson lips spread in a wide smile, and I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at her. 
“Oh, leave her alone,” Silvia said, peering at Vicky over her leopard-print reading glasses. “It might do you some good to read once in a while. I assume you know how.” 
“Very funny.” Vicky rolled her eyes, tossing her flaming hair with a flourish. “You clearly didn’t notice the leaning tower of paperbacks on her nightstand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books in one place. They practically block the light coming in her bedroom window. And that—” She poked my arm with a lacquered fingernail. “—is bordering on pathetic. You’re just a few cats away from being a clich├ę.” 
I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off. 
“Come on, Katie, wouldn’t you rather have a flesh and blood man in your bed instead of a dusty old book? There are dozens of guys in here. Don’t you think at least one of them could drag you away from your stupid romance novels for a change? I’ll bet you’ve got a book stashed in your purse right now.” Vicky pointed at the bag I clutched in my lap. “Go ahead, Silvia. Prove me wrong.”  
Silvia shook her head and chuckled. “I’m not going to dig through her purse.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with reading romance novels,” I whispered, releasing the strangle hold on my bag to shove it behind my back against the booth.  
“Oh, sweetie…” Silvia patted my hand. “Vicky isn’t saying there’s something wrong with reading romance novels.” 
“No, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Vicky said, then took a long slurp of her frozen margarita. “And for the record, you don’t just read them. You read them again, and again, and again. Most of the books I saw were held together with tape. Do you ever get anything new, or do you keep reading the same ones over and over?” 
“I get new ones… sometimes.” 
Vicky had one thing right. I did have a book stashed in my bag, and I should have been home, tucked into bed with it. So what if I had a thing for romance novels? Ok, maybe thing wasn’t strong enough a word. It didn’t quite define the entire scope of my relationship with the paperback romance. Involved would be more accurate.  But despite what my coworkers might think, I wasn’t some un-dateable old maid, spending her nights curled up with six cats while crocheting gaudy afghans in retro-seventies colors and sipping warm milk. I didn’t even own an actual cat. 
“If you ask me, you’re wasting the perfect opportunity to find Mr. Right,” Vicky chirped.  
What did she know about my Mr. Right? A quick scan of the smoke-filled bar proved my point. Not a single guy in the place even remotely resembled the lead in my nightly fantasy. Ok, so it wasn’t a very big room, but like Vicky said, the place was packed with a wide assortment of men—like the guy with cheese dip down his front and his buddy, laughing hyena man. As far as I was concerned, not a single one warranted a second glance, certainly not an invitation into my bedroom. Definitely no one worthy of butterflies in my stomach.  
Vicky raised an eyebrow. “Well?” 
“Well, he isn’t here now,” Silvia answered, and I could have kissed her. “Which reminds me, what happened to June and Phil?” 
Vicky shrugged, slurping down another mouthful of her drink. 
“Maybe they aren’t coming.” I was ready to slide out of the booth and make my escape. 
“We should probably just go.”  
Silvia glared at me. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m sure they’re on their way. They wouldn’t dare skip your birthday party.” 
Perfect. I was trapped. 
“You know,” Vicky said, “you’re way too old to be single.”  
My mother was fond of saying that very thing, far too often. But they were both wrong. I’m still in my prime. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve even reached my prime yet. I’m only twenty-eight years old.  
 “Happy birthday, Katie!”  
Oh, wait.  Twenty-nine. 
The rest of my coworkers had finally arrived, honking plastic party horns and waving a heaping shot of Grand Marnier in my face. Just what every girl needs on her birthday—liquor. 
Twisting my lips to the side, I contemplated the drink placed in front of me.  
Vicky picked up the shot and shoved it into my hand. “You do know you actually have to swallow to get drunk, right?”  
I examined the glass filled with orange-colored liquid and shuddered. “You guys. You know I don’t drink.” A rush of heat spread across my face and down my throat as I remembered the last, disastrous time they’d talked me into drinking.  
June smiled, her rich brown skin crinkling around her eyes. “Drink it.” As the permanent designated driver of our group, she lived vicariously through the rest of us. 
“Oh, come on. You’re such a novice, James.” Phil, my branch manager—or BM as we liked to call him behind his back—made a point of never using my first name. He shook his bald head. “Just drink the damn thing.” 
Holding my breath, I put the glass to my lips and, with another shudder, took a sip, the first of what I feared would be many.

By nine thirty, Silvia, June and Vicky were flitting around the room, trying to convince Phil to sing karaoke. I sat alone at the table, wishing I was home with my imaginary cat and my fictional boyfriend.  
“Aren’t you going to come watch Phil make a fool out of himself?” Silvia’s sudden reappearance startled me back to reality. Her highlighted, teased hair reminded me of one of her Yorkies.  “Uh…” I wasn’t about to stand elbow deep in strangers by the stage just to listen to our boss sing karaoke, especially not dressed in the Hookers R Us outfit Silvia had given me for my birthday, no matter how amusing that might be. I also didn’t want to be anywhere near there after the morbid dedication they just played. Who would dedicate a song to a murdered politician? 
And did they have to mention a dead guy on my birthday? That might very well be a jinx. Well, at least I’m wearing black.  
“Come on, Katie. It’ll be fun.”  
Tugging at the tight leather skirt barely covering my thighs, I glanced down at my knee-high stiletto boots, remembering the way my legs wobbled dangerously when I walked in them. 
“No, I’m fine.” I flashed Silvia the best fake smile I could manage.  
She frowned. “You aren’t going to find anyone worth checking out over here, sweetie. Trust me, Vicky already looked.” Vicky leaned over the booth, her red hair only inches from my face. “There’s nobody worth bending over for, that’s for sure,” she said with a wink.  Silvia snorted. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then she turned to Vicky, grabbing her by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s go watch Phil sing.”  
I watched Silvia’s spiky caramel hair bob as she dragged Vicky away from the table and made her way through the crowd—shoving bodies out of her path with a perfectly manicured hand—and it occurred to me how much she reminded me of my mother. They were both a little bit scary. And like my mother, Silvia was forever trying to drum into my head how I would never find a real man as long as I kept pining for a character in a book. 
Ironically, Silvia was the one who gave me the first three volumes in a series of vampire romance novels, introducing me to my fictional boyfriend… and my new favorite author—Elizabeth Jayne. Like we were kindred spirits, the woman spoke to me, as if she’d poked through my fantasies and written them down. I’d already read every book of her Immortal Blood series cover to cover and back again so many times the pages were pulling loose.  
What I wouldn’t give to jump back into volume five, Blood of the First, the one I’d tucked into my bag. Bright orange sticky notes peeked out from between the pages to mark my favorite sections, and I’d seriously considered pulling out my trusty highlighter from the desk drawer and highlighting a few really juicy parts. But at midnight, the time I was typically immersed in the story, I hardly felt like climbing out of bed to dig for a marker. And besides, that would be pathetic.  So instead, I’d memorized the page numbers. I reread my favorite passages each night before slipping off to sleep, hoping Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome would visit my dreams. Sometimes, I imagined I was falling asleep in his arms.  
My fantasy man was simply better than any real man I’d ever met. Romantic, mysterious, and did I mention hot? Sure, hot in print, but I had a really good imagination. Besides, real men all seemed to be interested in the same type: the cocaine-chic supermodel. But that definitely wasn’t me. So what if my dream guy had a few drawbacks? Besides being completely one dimensional, which was not much different than a lot of the real men I’ve dated, and a seven-hundred-year-old vampire with fangs—he was and always would be trapped inside the pages of a book.  But all men had their flaws. Didn’t they?  
“Oh my God! Did you hear Phil?” Vicky landed in the booth across from me, and I nearly jumped out of my skirt. “I laughed so hard I almost peed myself.”  
“Oh, I’m pretty sure she wet herself.” Silvia flashed a wicked grin as she slid in beside me. Vicky pursed her lips and glowered at Silvia as she waved for the waitress. “How long does it take to get a drink in this place?”  
June squeezed her plus-sized bottom into the booth beside Vicky. 
“He wasn’t so bad. I thought he was almost good. I believed he found paradise by the dashboard light. That was a Meatball song, right?”  
“Meatloaf, June. Meat. Loaf,” Vicky said. Meatball or Meatloaf, it didn’t really matter, I’d heard Phil sing. In fact, I was pretty sure all of Atlanta had heard Phil wailing up on stage. June was being too nice. But June was always too nice. 
“James, did you drink my beer?” Phil shouted as he got closer to the table.  
“Don’t be ridiculous. Katie would never drink beer, let alone your beer,” Silvia said. “You drank it before you went up there.”  
“Did you find any hot guys in the five or so minutes we were gone?” Vicky asked me. 
“Do you mean besides Phil and his Day-Glo golf pants?” I bit back a grin. “It’s not like I could’ve missed him coming from a mile away.” 
“What’s wrong with my pants?” Phil laughed, and I practically got a contact high from his beer breath. “You don’t like green?”  
“Don’t you listen to them, sweetie.” Silvia patted my hand. “I have a feeling you’re going to find a nice man very soon, someone with infinitely better taste than Phil, and a lot more hair.” 
“Hey now, don’t hate. I have hair. I just choose to shave it off.” 
“Because you’re essentially bald,” Silvia said, laughing.  
I didn’t have to say anything. Silvia already knew about the only real man I’d ever be interested in. And he was completely off limits.  So where did that leave me?  Right here. Smashed into a booth, three hundred sixty-five days away from the big three-oh, breathing in second-hand smoke and sucking down shots with the people who were nearest and dearest to me in the whole wide world… the people from work.  I had just one word for that. Pathetic. The waitress came by with another round and handed me a shot I didn’t order. Perfect. Like I said, what more could a girl ask for on her birthday? 
I pressed up against the wall of the booth and sipped from my second drink. The amber liquid warmed me all the way down, and I felt my inhibitions drifting away. Silvia gave me a thumbs-up, and I threw back the last swallow, eyeing the room once again. The place had gotten crowded, but I still didn’t see anyone worthy of a good stomach flip. I was, however, vaguely aware of my name being called over the speaker system. I cringed as I heard it, “…birthday girl, Katie James. Where are you, Katie?” My friends started to cheer, and a beaming Silvia shook my arm. 
“That’s you! Get up. Go sing!” Oh, Crap. As my clapping and shouting coworkers nudged me out of the booth, I felt the color drain from my face and thought I might faint. The simple fact was I loved to sing… when I was alone. I’d never sung in front of a crowd, certainly not at a karaoke bar. Yet, there I was, being propelled toward the stage by Silvia, the real manager in my office, title or no title. 
I dragged myself forward, feeling more like I was headed to the guillotine than the stage, looking back to my table for moral support the entire way. They waved me on, cheering like a bunch of high school girls at a pep rally. Even Phil.  I spun around to watch where I was going, and a guy shoved a microphone in my hand. Next thing I knew, I was facing a crowd filled with semi-drunken college students and business bankers. Dozens of eyes stared at me, and I really wished I hadn’t worn the short skirt and form-fitting blouse Silvia had promised would make me look hot.  I was a banker, not a prostitute. I didn’t dress hot. I dressed professionally—not that kind of professionally. Well, not usually anyway. But on the night of my big birthday soiree, I was Silvia’s science project.  
I stood in the wash of the spotlight, my heart slamming in my chest beneath the sheer black blouse. My insides did a mini flip as I started to sing the first line of the Etta James song. At last… Then I saw him step through the door—the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in all my twenty-nine years. He was the epitome of tall—at least six-two if I was any judge—dark—thick wavy hair, just long enough to run my fingers through—and handsome—with that sexy just-rolled-out-of-bed look that always made my heart race. A serious ripple began to build in the pit of my stomach. I could only see him in profile, but he obviously hadn’t shaved that morning, maybe not the day before either. He could have stepped right out of one of my romance novels. I couldn’t have written him better myself.  
My mystery guy appeared to be searching the crowd for something or someone. And when he ran a hand through his hair, the way I’d just imagined doing, it was all I could do to breathe.  
Sing, Katie. I reminded myself. It was a wonder I could sing at all. From his dark jeans and gray Henley shirt, to his battered brown leather bomber jacket, I quickly memorized every inch of him to recall later. He didn’t notice me, but I was barely aware of a single other person in the room. I was trying to send a telepathic message for him to turn my way, and either my message got through or he felt my eyes burning a hole through him because he spun around to look directly at me.  
Even from up on the tiny stage, half-blinded by the lights, I saw a flicker of heat radiating from his dark eyes. Then he flashed his perfect white teeth in the most dazzling smile, threatening the last shred of my composure, not to mention setting loose a swarm of butterflies.  
But I knew that smile… didn’t I?  
The little fantasy I’d created cracked along the edges and reality spilled out. How could I not have realized it was him right away? I tried to chalk it up to the two shots I’d polished off before stepping onto the stage and the sheer terror coursing through me as I belted out the song.  
It couldn’t be. He was too unbuttoned. Too disheveled. Too… perfect?  
Mr. Off Limmts himself. 
Cooper Maxwell. 

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  1. Thank you for having me on your blog today. This post was so much fun to write.

  2. Hi Erica!
    You are VERY welcome! I LOVE having this book on my blog because it sounds SOOOO good! I LOVE the part about having a 'fictional boyfriend', and how HOT they are! LOVE it! This is one book I HAVE to go buy!
    Thank YOU for stopping by! It's been MY pleasure!
    Thanks again! It's an honor that you stopped by!


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