Thursday, April 23, 2015

# Post # Promotion

Throwback Thursday - Visions by Lisa Logan

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.

Here's a snippet from Visions:

    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.

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. 

   by Lisa Logan
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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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