"I wrote my first book in under 15 hours." Lala Scrivano flicks an errant olive from her Amaretto and Frangelica after examining it under the neon blazing from the drinking establishment's window. "Fifteen hours that likewise allowed for several bathroom breaks and two amorous encounters with Penne Libri, the second quite prolonged and very loud." Lala Scrivano drains her glass and clunks it onto the counter, her ice cubes clinking at the insult. "Had it not been a Thursday, I never would have managed it."
The bartender, Joe, refills her cock and bull. He's a nice guy but the look in his eye says he doesn't believe her, doesn't believe any of them who come every Thursday like New York shoppers sniffing out a sale before the weekend rush.
In the corner, Canuck tosses back another Pap Smear and beer while she mutters to the Asian chick sitting beside her. "Goddamned princess always has to be the center of attention. Never met an idea she didn't steal."
The Asian chick shoves the rest of her Kahlua with rice wine into Canuck's hand. She always does that. She just wants to see if Canuck notices. Canuck never does.
"Of course," Lala admonishes, "Working under such time constraints requires good tight plotting and spare writing. The word count was light and I was forced to leave out all adjectives and adverbs, most of the nouns and verbs and a number of other parts of speech as well." Lala, shrugs, her roots becoming evident as her admirers' eyes accustom to the dim lighting. "No matter, I sent it off in a promo package to every agent in the free world, living and dead, letting them know that I'd offer an exclusive if they'd contact me between three and four in the afternoon of the following Wednesday." Lala pauses. "I got most of the gin stains off the pages before sending."
"Did you include an SASE?" a nice voice came from the corner, polite, with a sweet southern accent.
Lala pins the interloper, her gaze shooting great icy ropes of contempt. "Don't be ridiculous."
"But what if the mails were late. What if the agents didn't get your package until after the deadline." That sweet southern voice drawls into a pitiful squeak as all eyes turn to her.
Lala flicks her head. Several goons, big ham-handed guys with chest hairs peeking out the tops of their nehru jackets grab the polite southern gal by her shoulders and escort her off the premises.
"By 4:30 on Wednesday," Lala continues to pontificate, "I had seventy-three agents on the line and seventeen more on call-waiting. I had no trouble choosing one. He had broad shoulders, a deep throaty laugh and dark, glossy hair that flopped over his forehead when he became...intense."
Lala smiles at a group growing larger by the moment. Joe doesn't look like he minds. They're all ordering drinks and most are so enthralled with Lala Scrivano's story that they're forgetting to collect their change.
"He signed me to a fifty-book deal as soon as we finished...negotiations. But the bastard did tie me down for three full days in...rewrites." Lala held out her glass for a refill. She knocked it back as quickly as she had the four previous. "Getting blurbs was no problem. Given the lightness of the word count, and general lack of plot or characterizations, we only asked for one word from everybody. Most authors can manage a word, some can even manage two. Next stop was the Best Seller's List and the rest is history."
In another corner, the other chick whose name ends in an 'o' shakes her head. "We'll see how superior Signorina Lala Scrivano feels when book number twenty-three is remaindered, then marginalized in the Not Latin Enough Authors with Attitude section of the bookstore."
"You tell her," Canuck murmurs from across the room, then whispers to the Asian chick with the big boobs. "Ha! Twenty-three! Like Lala will be able to focus long enough to count that high."
For another view of Thursdays go to E. Ann Bardawill's from whom I stole the idea.