A MONTH. AWAY.

Yes, you heard me.  SISTERHOOD IS DEADLY, the first Sorority Sisters Mystery, ever, in the history of the world, will be released unto mankind A MONTH FROM TODAY. Can you feel it?  The trembling excitement that readers everywhere are hearing about?

pitch perfect dancing

And no, authors don't exaggerate AT ALL about their books.

the rock rolling eyes

Everyone says self-promotion is super awkward and difficult and I agree. I'm not going to spend everyday tweeting and posting about this book because once it's released, it's kind of out of my hands.  A really good friend of mine recently came clean and apologized for not reading KNOW WHEN TO HOLD HIM yet. And I just laughed and said, "It's okay" and something like, "I don't care if you do or not."

She's never looked that shocked by me before.  And I've shared deep, dark, secrets with this woman, like how I was thisclose to getting a Grateful Dead dancing bear tattoo when I was eighteen.

I tried to explain, and I'm still not sure I was successful, that when I say "I don't care if she reads it" it's because I know she's a super busy high powered executive and involved mom of three active kids.  She barely has time to return texts but I know this person has my back 100% and is a huge cheerleader for me and always has been.  Her love and support are what's important to me.  That's what keeps me going.

I recently wrote the dedication to SISTERHOOD IS DEADLY and I knew exactly who I wanted to dedicate this book to: Women everywhere who share their light with others and shine brighter for it.

Because in the past six months, I've learned a great deal about support - from other women, other writers, from friends, from maybe-enemies.  Support that comes from unexpected corners and support that never materializes from those you relied on.  The message has been reinforced from other things I've been reading, like an article about how women need to stop criticizing each other and play bigger.  This older piece on Shine Theory was particularly eye-opening for me, especially this quote:

When you meet a woman who is intimidatingly witty, stylish, beautiful, and professionally accomplished, befriend her.Surrounding yourself with the best people doesn’t make you look worse by comparison. It makes you better.

Publishing is an extremely tough business, maybe even cutthroat, but it's also filled with women who build each other up, believing and living the above mantra.  I've benefited tremendously from the support of many amazing women and I hope to give back twice as much.

This is, probably not uncoincidentally (that's a word, right?), the philosophy of Margot Blythe, the protagonist of the Sorority Sisters Mysteries.  Whatever you think about Margot (after you've read the book, at 12:01 am on July 7, 2015, of course) know that she only wants everyone to succeed (except for that trashy sorority chapter - you know the one.)

So yeah.  I'm really excited about what's to come.  SISTERHOOD is a beautiful culmination of so many positive experiences that just having it published is pretty damn good. But it will also feel pretty good when y'all buy it.

jim fist pump

Romance, Hermes & Paris

It's February! Valentine's Day! Time for romance and love and roses and champagne.  And what could be more romantic than... PARIS?

Last month, I was fortunate to zip across the Atlantic and spend a few days with my sister who, until two weeks ago, had called Paris her home for over two years.

I was also able to visit her last year, and as this was my third trip to Paris, this visit wasn't as much about the sightseeing and touristy to-dos as it was chilling with my sister, shopping, strolling, and eating.

Shopping

Each time I've gone to Paris, it's been in January, during the Soldes, the twice-yearly fortnight where every single store has some kind of sale going on.  This is a good strategy for all budget-minded ladies. Tickets to Paris are pretty much as cheap as they're going to get in January and then when you get there, everything is on sale!  Ok, not everything.  But a lot.  Even...

Yeah. There is an actual Hermes sale. We went my first day there, I was still dressed in my airplane-grubby comfiness and we were there for at least four hours. (I say at least, because I was a little confused on what day and time it was).  It was like Luxury Disneyworld.  You stand in line to get into the sale (with some fabulous people watching all around you, of course). Then you stand in line to check your coat.  Then you are checked by security who log onto a form (that you must carry around) what Hermes items you are wearing into the sale. (The answer for me, naturally, was zero. See, above, airplane grubbiness).  THEN you stand in line inside the sale for different sets of items. A line for silk scarves, a line for wool scarves, a line for enamel jewelry, etc.

There were no purses or wallets. But there were shoes! And ties! And amazing Hermes bathing suits that belong in Megan Mulry's Roulette.  And yes, I made a small purchase. How could I not?

There were so many other busy,pushy stores. Some of the Soldes experience is just the browsing and people watching and elbowing.

And of course, I made several stops at French pharmacies, including the famous Citipharma. Something about a French pharmacy makes even muscle relaxer gel seem so glamorous.

Eating

 Since I was lucky enough to stay with my sister, she cooked me several lovely meals and we ate out at some new and old favorites.

Breizh Cafe is one of my hands down- must-eat recs in Paris.  Four years ago I walked straight in, but today you'll need a reservation.  It's known for crepes and artisanal ciders. I dream of this place when I'm back in Dallas. Delicious.

Another favorite meal of mine is eating falafel in the Marais.  I've been to L'As du Falafel several times but this time we tried the spot across the street, Mi Va Mi,  which  was just as delicious and ate a la Parisienne, by the trash cans.  It's a sisterly tradition.

As I visited just after the Charlie Hebdo massacre, you could definitely feel a difference in the Marais, which was traditionally the Jewish Quarter, where soldiers with machine guns  were stationed.  But there also signs like these posted everywhere.

Touristy To-Dos

 

As I said, I didn't visit all the must-see sights this time.  The one time I saw the Eiffel Tower, I was on a train and hurried to grab this shot, French Kiss style.

Of course I've been to the Louvre and the Musee d'Orsay but I'd never been able to see the Picasso Museum until this visit, as it has recently reopened after a massive multi-year renovation.

I would definitely recommend this compact yet thought-provoking museum (buy advance tickets! I'm so glad my sister did or we would have had a 1+ hour wait to get in).

The museum is organized thematically, not chronologically, and really helps you see the depth and breadth of Picasso's works.

:

This was one of my favorites, a painting of his studio,  Blank Space. To me, it said so much about the creative mind:  "Here's my work. Here's what I'm going to create next. And it could be anything."

Chilling

Just being in Paris is the best part of being in Paris. It's romantic, it's spontaneous. It's the type of place where you may walk by the neighborhood wine bar and be pulled in for several hours of sampling bubbly wine and enjoying charming French/Swiss/German men's company. Hypothetically.

The city is also exhausting and overwhelming and historic and very now. It's one of my favorite places in the world and I'm so blessed that I was able to spend some time there with one of my favorite people.  It's every writer's dream to have an apartment in Paris and for a few days, I could pretend that I did.

And yes, I was inspired while I was there. I had a kernel of a book idea and my sister helped me plot it out. Let's just say one day there could be a book featuring a sexy wine seller, a widowed chef and mistaken identities on the Left Bank.

A newsletter will be going out soon, with super big announcements. Make sure you sign up for my newsletter  and I'll include insider pics of my sister's amazing flat on the Left Bank.

A Bigger Year

Everyone's been writing their New Year's blog posts. Me? I've been sitting here, digesting 2014 (literally and figuratively.) Also, I've had site problems. (One of my 2015 resolutions is to have a prettier lindsayemory.com - started working on that and ran into some *cough* technical difficulties. I'll be bringing in the professionals shortly to get this place shiny & new.)

Basically, I keep going back to the beginning of 2014. I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought I knew what was going to happen. 2014 turned that all upside down.

In the best ways.

If you forced me to, I couldn't put a finger on when it happened. Or what, exactly, happened.

All I know is, 2014 was transformative.

It got bigger.

What got bigger?

Everything got bigger.

Every time I settled, every time I was happy enough, 2014 took me firmly by the chin and forced me to look at the larger blessings I was receiving.  Like a child on Christmas morning who is totally rocked by the candy bar in his stocking only to look up, and see the giant - I don't know - play kitchen or remote control car, or ten thousand piece Lego set.

I am full of gratitude for the stocking full of candy (who wouldn't be? Hello, chocolate!), the same as a gigantic Lego set.  I am thankful for peaceful days filled with laughter and love and friends and good wine. I'm a pretty simple girl.

In 2015, my goals are simple.

I'm going to write more, edit more. I'm going to (probably- knock wood) get a fancier website. I'm going to sweat more, see the sun more, see my friends more.

I'm going to keep following that serendipitous whisper, the one that takes me to meet people and see places that I didn't plan.

I'm going to give thanks for what I already have. And then I'm going to dream bigger.

Thanks for dreaming with me.

A Room at the Inn

To be honest, two minutes after I said I'd participate in the 12 Days of Christmakwanzaka Bloghop, I flipped out a little. I don't consider myself a sweet holiday romance kind of girl. What the H-E- double candy canes was I going to write about? But I had an image in my head, of a rock star on a diverted airplane. I decided to make it Christmas Eve and we'd see what would happen. The story that flowed out ended up showing me exactly what the holidays mean to me. A little something sweet, a little more champagne, and a whole lot of hope. 

A Room at the Inn

I didn’t even know how to spell Reykjavik. But here I was, spending Christmas Eve in an Icelandic version of a Holiday Inn, while my Air France flight waited for the Christmas miracle of forty-eight inches of snow to magically disappear off JFK’s runways.

Halfway across the Atlantic, our jet had turned towards the North Pole in an unexpected detour to Reykjavik. I twisted the name around my tongue, just to try it out while I waited in the hotel bar for my room. Some of the passengers had opted to stay at the airport; I had jumped on the first bus out of there. No, I didn’t have my luggage. But damned if I was going to spend Christmas Eve scrunched up on a bench somewhere in an airport where even all the duty free shops were closed.

There was a gentle nudge on my right shoulder as another stranded passenger fought for space at the bar, like it was Bethlehem 2000 years ago. I moved over as much as I could. Far be it for me to stand between a man and a drink.

I glanced over briefly, just to give a polite we’re-all-in-this-together smile and then froze, as things in Iceland are wont to do. The man next to me was Cord DeBose, lead singer for the Pope Mobiles.

Deep breath, Annie. Play it cool, Annie. Just because People’s Sexiest Man Alive is standing RIGHT NEXT TO YOU is no reason to…

“Hey.” That was Cord DeBose. And that was his mouth moving and his voice emanating and his eyes looking at me.

Freak the fuck out.

“Hey,” I managed before groping for my beer.  He motioned to the bartender, who promptly brought over another beer, because even Icelandic service workers recognized the lean, mean hotness of the international superstar, even when he was just in a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal those recognizable tattoos on forearms that rocked a guitar every night. I took a deep, deep drink of Northern Atlantic ale.

“You from the Air France flight?”

My hand shook a little, realizing that Cord DeBose was making conversation. With me. “Yeah. You too?”

“Yeah.” His mouth quirked a little, and I caught a glimpse of hesitation in his face, which would be weird because Cord DeBose couldn’t be nervous. Could he?

“I love that guy.”  He gestured at the new David Sedaris book I had in front of me on the bar, the one that I had saved just for the plane ride back.

“Me too,” I said, caught off guard that I might actually have something in common with a rock star.

“I’m Cord.”

“I’m…”

“Annie,” he finished. That hesitant light flared in his eyes again. “It’s uh, on your boarding pass.”

And it was, the slip of paper sitting next to the book, my ticket to get on the Air France bus.  If any other guy in the world had sidled up next to me in a bar and spied my name, I would have backed away slowly, but I wasn’t doing that now. But it wasn’t just his fame that put me at ease. It was that light. That slow smile. That respectful pause that made me realize that there might be more to Cord DeBose. Something real.

He reached for his beer and something overtook me. Something that had been dormant for years, something that I barely recognized. I lifted my glass. “To the holidays,” I said, making direct eye contact for the first time.

Cord smiled, a little surprised, a little pleased and raised his beer to meet mine in a kiss of glass. “To Christmas.”

A rush of warmth flushed through me at our toast, better than any yule log. Maybe this Christmas wasn’t going to be the worst ever, after all.

Then I got a tap on the shoulder from someone in a hotel uniform. “Miss Coller?” He asked, mispronouncing my last name. “I’m sorry to say, but we were unprepared for the room requests. We have no more rooms available. The bus can take you back to the airport when you are ready.”

Cord groaned while I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of trying to make a pillow out of my sweatshirt on an airport floor. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” Cord asked.

“Oh, Mr. DeBose, your room is available now. The Presidential suite.”

Guilt and embarrassment nearly dripped off Cord as the hotel employee assured him that he would be taken care of, for as long as necessary. And when Cord held up a hand, the man stopped groveling and backed off.  Must be nice to be rich and famous, I thought, sliding off my barstool and grabbing my carry-on.

I was in the lobby when I heard Cord's call. “Annie, wait.”

I looked between the rock star with the unfortunate entitlement complex and the front door where the Air France bus was loading a bunch of other pissed off, exhausted refugees. “What,” I snapped, not really caring that I was being rude.

“You don’t have to go. You can stay.” He paused. “With me.”

Riiiiight. He must have seen that thought on my face because he amended, quickly. “Or you can have the room. But it’s a suite, so there will be plenty of space. For the two of us. To share. Or not.”

I shifted my bag on my shoulder and saw the crowd of people trudging their way into a bus encrusted with gray snow. The window reflected the single strand of twinkle lights strung over the reception desk, reminding me that this was Christmas and every cell inside me did not want to be alone, in an airport. Not this year.

“Fine,” I sniffed, like I was doing him a favor. “Thank you,” I added. Even I couldn’t be that bitchy on Christmas Eve.

++++++

"Presidential Suite?" I said in shock as Cord and I surveyed the rather small, rather plain room we'd just unlocked. Nothing about this room said, “head of state.” Maybe the view was good.  "Does Iceland even have a President?"

"They keep using that word and I don't think they know what it means."

I blinked twice and just like that, my heart unlocked. Stupid Princess Bride. Making frozen -solid hearts melt since nineteen eighty-something.

Cord tossed his backpack on a nondescript chair, oblivious to the miracle he’d unintentionally wreaked when he’d quoted my favorite movie. "Let's hope they know what 'room service' means," he said, grabbing a menu off the TV. "I'm starved. I bet you are too."

I turned away quickly before he could see the moisture welling up in my eyes. The Princess Bride reference had done its job. Simple acts of human kindness, like feeding me dinner were going to do me in. Turn me into a sniveling, snotty pile of goo. I wiped my eyes. This was so not the time. Or the place. Or the company.

Which was awesome company, I realized about thirty minutes later. Because when you stay with a superstar musician, he orders one of everything off the menu with extra fries and the hotel sends it all up pronto with complimentary bottles of pretty decent champagne.

In the years ahead, I'll look back and blame the champagne for what happened next. I felt warm and relaxed and the question just popped out of me. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Cord stilled in that rock-star-caught-in- the-flashbulbs kinda way. "No."

"What about -"

"No."

"But I read -"

"No."

I was stumped. What if everything I'd read about a famous rock star in magazines and blogs wasn't true? I was working that one out in a champagne haze when his question burst my bubble.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

An unexpected laugh exploded out of me. "No! I don't even have a husband!"

Which sounded awkward, and from the wary look on Cord's face, I knew I'd have to explain. "As of today. Or... yesterday." I fumbled and tried to remember the dates. "My divorce was final yesterday."

Cord's brows drew together. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." I reached for my champagne glass, knowing it was a teeny white lie. I had been devastated enough, six months ago, to run to Europe on an extended business trip until the lawyers finished everything up. But now... I shrugged. "After all, no good marriages end in divorce."

A smile lit up Cord's eyes. "Do you watch his show? It’s hilarious."

I put a hand to my mouth. Cord DeBose understood my Louis C.K. reference. Tears started welling again and this time, I couldn't hide fast enough.

Cord cursed and reached over the table to take my hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that your divorce was hilarious."

I shook my head. How could I explain? "You're just so nice. And I haven't felt like this in such a long time..."  Good one Annie... Now he'll be terrified of you. I tried snatching my hand back, but Cord held it in a firm grip.  I swallowed. "Not like that. I'm sorry. I'm not insane or declaring my love or anything." Call it the Princess Bride effect, but I looked him straight in his dark eyes and took a chance. “What I meant was, I've forgotten what a connection with another human being felt like.”

Cord's thumb brushed my sensitive wrist, sending tingles up my arm. "You know why I came to talk to you in the bar?"  When I didn't answer, he continued. "I saw you, on the plane, reading your book. You were laughing at David Sedaris and then you snorted."

Oh God. I was going to die of embarrassment in Iceland. How embarrassing.

Cord continued. "And I wanted to spend Christmas Eve with someone I could laugh with." He paused and let go of my hand. "I didn't want to be lonely tonight, either."

This time I reached for him, clasping my fingers around his long, callused ones. We sat and searched each other's faces, and I saw the realness I'd seen first in the dim light of the bar. I saw warmth that had taken the place of loneliness. I saw shared jokes and champagne and Christmas and loved what I saw. And when he squeezed back, I guessed he liked what he saw, too.

Cord ended up ordering more complimentary champagne, as rock stars do. We shared another bottle, watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on the television, the Icelandic subtitles hypnotic, Clark Griswold and Cousin Eddie hilarious. We laughed at all the same parts and when I inadvertently snorted, Cord took my face in his hands and kissed me, a sweet, hot, gentle kiss that could have melted a hundred inches of snow on JFK's blessedly frozen runways.

The kisses continued, each one a simple, sparkly gift between two souls who needed to make room for one more person. We fell asleep holding hands, neither of us alone on Christmas Eve.

Thank you so much for reading! And many tinsel-y thanks to my A+ super amazing beta, Katy. If you liked this, check out my Pinterest page devoted to inspiration pics and retweet/ regram my link.  This is the sixth day of the 12 Days of Christmakwanzakah Blog Hop. I’m sharing the day with the talented Rebekah Weatherspoon. Check out her story and many others  here or follow #12DaysHop on Twitter.

For more stories like this and to keep up to date with all my big news, sign up for my newsletter.

Sisterhood is Deadly

For the past 12? 13? months I've been the biggest publishing tease. Without further ado, I'm about to (dis?)continue that tradition. I HAVE NEWS!

That's right! It's a new book deal!

This one has happened pretty quickly. Last May, I was floating in the pool and this book spilled into my brain. A murder in a sorority house. Elle Woods meets Jessica Fletcher. I finished the book and then didn't know what to do with it. It's a little quirky, a little sassy.  I went to RWA and when people asked me what I was working on, I said, "this funny mystery that there's probably no market for." My cousin, the big time famous author Jill Alexander Essbaum (of the soon to be released Hausfrau), urged me to send it to agents (an ego-demolishing but necessary process called 'querying,')  I got a little interest. Then some more. Then I signed with my faboo agent Cassie Hanjian who got more people interested.

Now Margot Blythe is coming to a bookseller near you.

You'll meet her in the spring. Of 2015.

I know.

Then she'll be back, hopefully in fall 2015.

Now I can hear what you're saying. "We've heard this before Lindsay." "What about those other books you said were going to be 'published'?" And, "Where's that leopard print belt I loaned you?"

I swear I didn't make the other books up. I've worked hard on them. Other people are working hard on them. They're coming. I just can't say when.

Yet.

(And that leopard belt looked darling on me, thanks)

I'll make you a deal. Sign up for my newsletter  and I promise, you'll be the FIRST to know about appearances, signings, and (yes, yes, I KNOW!!!) release dates. Not Twitter. Not Facebook. Newsletter gets big news first.

Because you're going to want to hear about Margot Blythe. She's loyal, she's funny. She'll be the sister you always wished you had.