The Glamorous Author–NOT!
A bad thing happened to me the other day. My very first book, THE RAVEN PRINCE, is out and some idiot called my publicist at Warner Forever and asked to interview me for a radio show.
“So can you do it?” the publicist e-mailed me.
“Of course!” I e-mailed back, flinging happy face emoticons right and left. “I’m so thrilled!!!”
Then I called my sister. “Oh, God,” I whined. “The interviewer guy is going to want to know about me.”
“So?” my sister said in an unsympathetic voice.
“So, I’m boring.”
“Well, yeah, but they don’t know that.”
“They should,” I muttered darkly. I propped an elbow on my desk and a stack of papers, books, bookmarks, and a half-eaten bag of Fritos went cascading to the floor. Fritz, my middle dog, pounced on the Fritos bag and dragged it under the desk. “What do they think authors do all day? Drive race cars? Have tumultuous love affairs? Listen, I’m lucky if I can find a clean pair of sweats in the morning.”
“Yeah, and then you go to work and stare into space.”
“I’m composing profound thoughts,” I said with dignity. Bag-rustling sounds came from under my desk.
My sister snorted. “Sure looks like staring into space—”
“Anyway,” I said loudly, “what am I going to say to this guy?”
“Maybe you can tell the interviewer that THE RAVEN PRINCE is based on your life experiences.”
“It’s set in 1760.”
“Past life experiences, then,” my sister said airily. “You can say that you once met a dark and dangerously arrogant earl in a scandalous London brothel.”
The bag-rustling noises were becoming frantic. I peered under my desk. Fritz’s head was stuck in the Fritos bag. Naturally. “I think they sent my photo to the interviewer.” I pulled the bag off. Fritz looked sheepishly up at me. His black nose was covered with Fritos crumbs.
“Okay, that’s off, then.”
“No kidding. What am I going to doooo?” I moaned. In despair I tossed the Fritos bag on the floor and Fritz went after it again. Slow learning curve.
“There’s only one thing to do,” my sister said sternly.
“What?”
“Tell the truth.” And she hung up laughing sadistically.
Doomed. I’m doomed.
So tell me. What–if anything–do you want to know about the author in an interview?
