By
Claire Gem (Guest Blogger)
Although
I’d give anything to stay home and write all the time, I’m still
an active member of the nine-to-five workforce. Well, not exactly
nine-to-five—my days begin early, 7 a.m. Which is okay, because the
schedule allows me precious writing time in the afternoons and early
evenings.
I
work in scientific research, and my latest release reflects that.
Although I do not actually work in the mouse/rat units, I am just
across the hall, and know much about the process. I’m also a 40+
woman who remembers what it was like when the odometer turned over to
that fateful number. So it wasn’t much of a stretch for me to
concoct a story based on a newly-forty-year-old woman.
As
for the locations: the story starts in Cambridge, MA, one of the
research meccas of the country. Although I never worked there, I am
quite familiar with the area, since I attended Lesley University for
my MFA in Creative Writing there. In fact, the house that the
heroine’s coworker, Marsha, lives in is on the same street as where
I went to school.
The
story soon moves to Bethel, N.Y.—the site of the original Woodstock
Festival. Okay, so I was only a kid then, but my husband and I still
have family near there. I have visited the Bethel Woods Museum,
dedicated to that tumultuous time in 1969. It’s a fabulous place,
and I highly recommend putting it on your “to-visit” list.
And
the story premise? I’m making a confession here: the line Lannie
makes at the end of the first chapter, I actually spoke. I may be
fifty-eight years old, but I am a heavy metal music freak. As is my
brother, who is ten years older than me.
Paul
(yes, the Paul in the book) and his wife Terri (Jeri, in the book),
took me to a concert in Manhattan (Dreamwish, in the book). They call
me Frannie (Lannie, in the book). And I really did crush on the
drummer (who looks NOTHING like Tristan, but I’m a fiction author.
I have creative license!). In fact, NONE of the characters in the
book look or act like their “models.” But I had to start
somewhere.
My
brother, Paul, really did say “I was afraid Lannie would run off
with the roadies.” To which I answered, “Hell, no. If I run off,
it will be with the yummy drummer.”
So
began the story of The Phoenix
Syndrome. The original manuscript won first
place in FCRWA’s The Beacon Contest in 2014. My sister-in-law
(Jeri, in the book), designed the awesome cover. And now, it’s in
print.
As
for the deaf factor: I have first-hand experience. I have 40-50%
hearing loss in both ears, and come from a family plagued with the
genetic tendency. Several of my close relations are either
substantially hearing-impaired, or profoundly deaf. As I cherish my
music, I can’t imagine completely losing the ability to hear it. So
that’s the challenge I gave to my heroine—who, to compound
issues, is seeking to rekindle her career in musical composition.
So
there you have it. The where-the-idea-came-from, and the inspirations
behind the book. I now present to you the blurb for my first women’s
fiction, The Phoenix Syndrome.
Blurb
Turning
forty, for research technician Lannie
Marvin, is
rough. It’s the day she discovers her husband is leaving her. At
work, a crazed mouse brutally bites her. Lannie snaps. She heads off
to chase the object of her newest crush, the drummer of a heavy metal
band—and an old dream of composing music.
Tristan
Allard,
said drummer, holds a benefit concert every year in memory of
his wife. The musician is beginning to doubt his ability to write
music without her inspiration. Plus, he’s damn lonely. So when a
sexually charged woman literally plows into him at the backstage
reception, Tristan is ready to learn more about her—and her
long-buried interest in musical composition.
This
new chance at life and love has them both euphoric, but reality bites
back. Tristan is headed back to the UK to audition his latest album.
And Lannie soon learns an elevated libido isn’t the only
side-effect of that experimental drug.
It’s
a musician’s worst nightmare—the drug Lannie was exposed to have
rendered the mice deaf.
I
don’t quite know how to describe the concert. I can say it was as
stimulating visually as it was to my ears. The band—four guys and a
girl—all had hair longer than mine, which was well past my
shoulders. All except for the keyboardist, whose head was shaved,
although he sported a long, red beard parted into two straggly
plaits. I wondered how he kept them from tangling with the keys. The
girl who sang vocals had inky hair hanging in strings to her
shoulders, and she wore a black leather bustier that laced up the
front. Well, almost laced. In truth, the garment left little to the
imagination.
But
then there was the drummer. If not for the overhead monitors panning
in for close-ups during the performance, I might never have known he
existed. What a travesty that would have been.
In
a word, he was . . . magnificent. He sat like a king on his throne at
the elevated rear of the stage, sparkling silver-flake drums
surrounding him like loyal minions. The monitor directly over our
seats focused on him often, so close and so clear I could see the
sweat glistening on sculpted upper arms, bare beneath a black muscle
shirt stretched taut across a broad chest. Some sort of ink crawled
over one bicep. A black-and-white paisley bandanna covered most of
his head, but long, dark curls framed his face and clung damp against
his neck. His facial hair, limited to a sparse mustache and goatee,
was chocolate brown. I indulged in the fantasy that his eyes were
that same sweet, smoldering color.
His
passion for his work was palpable. Hands flying, head bobbing, he was
completely engrossed, as if the music were a drug he was tripping on.
His hooded eyes gave him the look of a sleepy lover, but when he did
open them, I could swear he was gazing directly at me.
Looking
back on that night, I can’t be sure how long we’d sat there
before I fixated on my drummer boy. The music, which at first grated
on my senses as way too loud and completely discordant, gradually
began to permeate my brain. Before long, my bare toes started tapping
against the carpeted floor. I freed one hand from my cup of wine to
pat my thigh in time with the music. When my head began to bob,
almost of its own accord, I smiled.
Ah,
now I know why they call progressive metal fans head bangers.
The
next hour and a half went by so quickly I might have slipped into a
time warp. At one point I wondered if my cup of nine-dollar wine was
laced with something mind-altering and illegal. I began to dig the
music. I was actually enjoying the concert.
But
before I’d seen nearly enough of my chocolate king behind the
drums, the stage went black and the lighting came up. The band did
not return for an encore. My first heavy progressive experience had
come to an end.
I
blinked in the sudden brightness, dazed for a moment, like I’d
woken from a dream. Jeri was struggling with the strap of her shoe,
her other hand braced against her forehead as though she had a
massive headache. Grommet guy, too impatient to wait for the two
elders beside him to vacate the aisle, vaulted easily over the backs
of the seats into the row in front of us and disappeared into the
crowd.
I’d
almost forgotten my own young progeny—a son and a nephew—were in
the same building.
We
reunited on the sidewalk fifteen minutes later. The rain had ceased,
leaving the city gleaming under the streetlights, clean and brand
new.
Somehow,
I felt that way too. Clean and brand new.
We
were climbing into my brother’s SUV, Paul at the wheel with Jeri
and Jay next to him in the front. I sat squashed between my husband
and son in the back. Jeri’s head immediately dropped to Paul’s
shoulder. I knew she’d be asleep before we got onto the West Side
Highway.
I
so wanted to do the same, and cuddle against my husband. But he’d
said barely a meaningful word to me all evening. I sighed, dropped my
head back against the seat, and closed my eyes.
“So,
what did you guys do for all that time?” Ryan asked.
“We
saw Dreamwish,” Paul piped up from the front, sounding as though
his statement actually made sense.
“You
saw our concert? You guys?” Jay sputtered through his laughter.
I
opened my eyes to find my son staring at me in much the same way Jeri
had been earlier.
“How’d
you like it, Mom?” Ryan asked in a slight singsong of ridicule,
which I chose to ignore.
I
caught my brother watching me in the rearview mirror. He was wearing
an impish grin. “For a while there,” he said, “we were afraid
your mother might run off with one of the roadies.”
The
next words popped out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to
stop them.
“To
hell with the roadies. If I run off, it will definitely be with the
yummy drummer.”
Shocked
silence extinguished all laughter, and I peeked up to see four pairs
of owlish eyes fixed on me.
“Go
to sleep,” Karl snarled under his breath. “You’ve had too much
to drink.”
Media Links
About Claire
Claire
writes emotional romance—contemporary, paranormal, and women’s
fiction. Her heroes are hot, her heroines strong and brave: a
combination lighting the spark to fan the flames of your most intense
romantic fantasies. Claire's characters are human—they make
mistakes, get clumsy sometimes, and they're not too proud to laugh at
themselves and each other.
She
writes in contemporary and paranormal romance, as well as women’s
fiction. Claire's books are like a thrill ride at a theme park.
Whether it's spooky-scary, angst-ridden relationships filled with
gut-wrenching turmoil, silly chuckle moments, or face-fanning sex,
Claire guarantees to take you on an emotionally intense romantic
journey.
Buy
Links
The
Phoenix Syndrome
Trailer:
http://bit.ly/2bpRSqG
Amazon:
http://amzn.to/2bIMkHJ
A
Taming Season: A Love at Lake George Novel
Hearts
Unloched (Winner 2016 New York Book Festival)
Phantom
Traces
Amazon:
http://amzn.to/19OUERc
