I’m crazy about Jordan Dane. When we finally met in person at Bouchercon in Alaska, I felt as though I were getting together with an old friend. She has a big heart, and talent to match. On March 25th, she’s going to step out into the world with a brand-new book, her debut and the first in a three-book series from Avon. No One Heard Her Scream has been labeled by Avon as Romantic Suspense, but what it really is is damned good suspense. Jordan’s brisk, highly physical prose will grab you and leave you breathless until the book’s–well–terribly appealing, sexy conclusion. She’s such a dear, she wrote a little piece just for the Handbasket. Welcome, Jordan!
Yet Another Great Shoe Story
By Jordan Dane
Do you remember little Dorothy Gale? She was a terribly naïve teen from Kansas with questionable taste in fashion who owned a scruffy little dog named Toto. Dorothy used to daydream about traveling “over the rainbow.” (During the 60s, anyone might have accused her of partaking in one too many shrooms—but for the sake of this post—work with me.)
Before I sold, Dorothy and I had a lot in common, but like her, a looming cataclysmic event would change my future.
Avon HarperCollins purchased my debut series in auction and is about to launch an aggressive back to back release event for all three books April through June 2008. By the time my releases happen, I have no doubt my experience will be comparable to little Dorothy’s. She’d been swept away by a tornado from her black and white world into the cosmic rainbow colored realm of Oz with its Munchkins, Emerald City, and enchanted ruby red slippers.
Getting published in this manner can be exhilarating and frightening at the same time, like being sucked into a life-changing vortex and whisked away to a distant and strange land. Here’s my take on it.
Selling felt like it had taken an Act of God. But now that I have embraced a full-time writing life, there are days it feels like winged primates are dive-bombing my head with deadlines, copy edits, and promotion. And whenever insecurity creeps up like bad underwear—when I ask myself, “My God, what were you thinking?”—I pray my good witch Glinda (my agent) will swoop down and reassure me that I had the power all along. And that my bodacious red slippers, that I’d worn from day one, had indeed helped me weather the storm. The similarities are astounding. Don’t you think? And for a chance at finding charming reader companions like Scarecrow, Lion, and Tin Man, my future journey down yellow brick road may be fraught with wicked naysayer witches and indifferent review wizards.
Are you beginning to see the parallels like I did? (Pass the shrooms. It might help.)
I believe that if you squint real hard and get your head wrapped around this concept, getting published can feel like being blown into an alternative universe where snappy red slippers are not just a fashion statement. Depleting hourglasses, flying chimps, burning scarecrows, and witches who melt when doused by H2O can be daunting unless you know how to wield the power of a good pair of shoes.
So my question is—if you could possess magic ruby red slippers, what powers would they have and how would you use them?