Throwback Thursday is a time to showcase early work by myself or fellow authors. Today I'm going to share my first full-length novel. Throwback Thursday with J. Rose Allister
It was roughly early 2003, I'd been writing fiction for a while (as my alter ego Lisa Logan), and I had a dream. I don't mean I dreamed of someday being a novelist, I mean I had a literal dream one night that sparked the idea for a story.
I began writing Visions as a short story, because at the time, short fiction was all I wrote. In fact, I couldn't imagine every tackling something as daunting as a full-length novel.
Then this dream happened, and I started trying to capture what I saw in that brief scene, and soon I realized the plot was growing more complex and detailed than what could ever hope to remain short fiction. And so my first novel was born. A difficult first child, this novel took me over a year and a half to complete and still longer to edit and revise. But by the summer of 2005, I'd had an offer from a publisher--and I realized that after several published mystery/horror stories, what I really wanted to do was write romance novels.
So what was this dream? I dreamed that a movie star accidentally bumped into a stranger and suddenly becomes psychic. The stranger--a woman with visions herself--somehow triggered his powers, starting with a vision of a romantic future for the two of them. While this dream was no more than a strange and short-lived scene, the aftermath of that meeting brought a lot more dire consequences for the characters in my book, including unwanted attention from the press for Glory Windsor, a reluctant psychic who wants a simple life and to hide from the powers that has brought her nothing but heartache.
I began writing Visions as a short story, because at the time, short fiction was all I wrote. In fact, I couldn't imagine every tackling something as daunting as a full-length novel.
Then this dream happened, and I started trying to capture what I saw in that brief scene, and soon I realized the plot was growing more complex and detailed than what could ever hope to remain short fiction. And so my first novel was born. A difficult first child, this novel took me over a year and a half to complete and still longer to edit and revise. But by the summer of 2005, I'd had an offer from a publisher--and I realized that after several published mystery/horror stories, what I really wanted to do was write romance novels.
So what was this dream? I dreamed that a movie star accidentally bumped into a stranger and suddenly becomes psychic. The stranger--a woman with visions herself--somehow triggered his powers, starting with a vision of a romantic future for the two of them. While this dream was no more than a strange and short-lived scene, the aftermath of that meeting brought a lot more dire consequences for the characters in my book, including unwanted attention from the press for Glory Windsor, a reluctant psychic who wants a simple life and to hide from the powers that has brought her nothing but heartache.
Here's a snippet from Visions:
Her sprint brought her to the old-world European
splendor of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where she wasted no time peeling
through the glass doors. Still at racing speed upon entering, her black flats
slid across the shiniest floor she’d ever seen. A quick look back offered
reassurance that no one had followed her. Yet. She leaned against a massive
square column, her breath coming in short, mouth-drying gasps.
Rodeo Drive rolled under the
wheels of the Camry only four turns and ten minutes after leaving Trenton’s driveway.
The midweek crowd was sparse, and within a block she was able to whip greedily
into a curbside parking spot abandoned by a silver Maserati. She got out and
strolled past posh storefronts to one with Kiera
Olin lettered in gold on a pair of windows flanking the entrance. Pink
awnings fluttered like giant eyelids over each.
Stepping inside, she noticed that
unlike other boutiques she’d visited, there were few racks of actual clothing.
This one had a small selection of items, each displayed on stylized mannequins
in black lacquer. Some were headless; others lacked arms or had legs amputated
above the knee. The designer favored stark, geometric lines and solid colors,
currently in a fall palette of coppery apricot, dusky eggplant, and
mustard-tinged brown. Everything appeared to have been designed for the chosen
few who were capable of pouring themselves into a size five or less. Aside from
Olin’s modest line, a complement of designer accessories were arranged on
stacked Plexiglas cubes, giving each item the appearance of floating in midair.
As she made a quick sweeping
appraisal of the room, her eyes came to rest on a pair of sales clerks. The
first was an impeccably groomed metrosexual male in his mid-twenties, the
second was a girl with cropped hair bleached near white, spiking out over a cold
stare heavily ringed with eyeliner. Her expression indicated she had elevated
herself to a spot in the shopping universe well above Glory’s own.
“May I help you?” a pair of
wine-stained lips beneath the stare asked, though the girl made no move to show
she intended to do so. Based on the tone, Glory translated this to, “Why do you
think you belong in here?”
Refusing to be cowed by a kid
with poor manners and questionable fashion sense, she drew her posture upward, keeping
eye contact with the girl as she spoke. “Your shop was recommended by a friend.
I believe Trenton Dane phoned ahead. He told me to ask for Melissa?”
It was obvious that the correct
password had just been given. The narrowed eyes morphed into something almost
resembling friendliness.
“Oh, yes ma’am! I’m Melissa. We’re holding something
for him–you–in the back. Just a moment.”
The mystery item must have been
heavy, because both clerks scurried off to retrieve it. Glory chuckled at their
retreat. So, she thought, it truly is
a matter of who you know.
Turning back to the displays, she
picked up a Hermes scarf in swirling jewel tones of purples and blues. It would
be a perfect companion for the boring navy blazer she wore a bit too often at
the office, had it not been for the hefty price tag. Perhaps if she had two
more jobs.
Her eye landed on a stunning
handbag of hand-dyed red leather. Flinging the scarf around her neck, she
grabbed the purse from its Plexiglas roost. Prada, worth more than her monthly gross
income.
“Glory Windsor?”
Her head snapped up, startled to
find flashbulbs going off from over a nearby display rack. She hadn’t noticed
anyone come in. “Yes?”
“Glory, can you really see the
future?”
Two photographers slapped at
shutter buttons as she tried to process what was happening. The press? Had they
followed her here?
“What’s the future look like for
you and Trenton Dane?” Another reporter chimed in.
“Are you taking money for your services?
Is it true you’re running a scam on celebrities?”
“No!” She looked around, silently
pleading for help. The sales people were now huddled together by the register,
making no move to intervene. For one of the most famous shopping destinations
in the world, she decided some Rodeo personnel could stand lessons on customer
service.
The press stood between her and
the exit, leaving her trapped, like a mouse about to be picked off by a
circling hawk. Desperate, she dropped to her knees and shuffled through two
small racks of designer dresses before hopping up and rocketing out the door. Not
to be outdone by the feeble trick, reporters pushed after her.
Another flashbulb, this time situated
by the curb, caught her head-on as she fled out onto the sidewalk.
“Glory, who’s going to win the
playoffs next week?”
The question sent up a ruffle of
derisive laughter.
“Hey, she didn’t pay for that
stuff!” The spiky-haired salesgirl protested. But Glory was too far out the
door–and moving too fast–to register the words. Without thinking, she dashed
across the street, narrowly averting a trip to Cedar Sinai hospital courtesy of
a midnight blue Mercedes. The driver was still yelling at her as she took the remaining
few feet of Rodeo Drive in long strides and rounded the corner, nearly taking
out a woman heavily laden with shopping bags labeled Escada.
~~~~
I'm J. Rose Allister, wife, working mom, and the author of over twenty-five books. Somewhere in between one and the next, I love hanging out here on my blog and over on Twitter. Give me a comment or follow-I love chatting with people!
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