Some day your nerd will come.

Here is the most recent cover, blurb, and first chapter. The book will be available before the end of next week. Not quite a June release, but very close. If you see any typos or weird sentences (relatively speaking), don’t be afraid to tell me; I’ll be grateful.

Readers first met Mark Johnson in Love Handles (2011) as Liam’s brilliant but awkward younger brother. In The Geek Who Loved Me, Mark the software engineer decides to break away from his computer and get a life, starting with the petite woman who’s moved in next door. But when he meets her large, blond housemate, Rose, he starts to dream… bigger.

Twenty-six-year-old Rose Devlin may shop in the plus-size department, but she’s never had a problem attracting men—with disastrous consequences. Recovering from her latest mistake, Rose has sworn off casual sex and moved to California to grow up, help her best friend, and make something of herself.

When Rose asks the cute-but-geeky Mark to help her land a job in high tech, she never expects to unearth his quiet strength, stunning accomplishments—and hidden talents. With a secret in her own past, Rose tries to keep her distance, but she finds that nerdy Mark isn’t so nerdy when the lights go out. And that maybe, just maybe, she’s not too grown up to risk one more disaster…

* * *

An excerpt:

The Geek Who Loved Me –  ©2012 Gretchen Galway

CHAPTER 1

It was the first time Rose had ever been asked to take off her clothes for a job interview.

“You want me to strip?” Rose asked, surprised. “All the way?”

The woman in front of her wore a measuring tape around her neck and had hair like a snowball, white and round. Like me, Rose thought.

“What kind of bra are you wearing?” Snowball asked, looking her over.

Rose glanced down at her chest, unusually compressed for the occasion. “It’s a sports bra. Brand new. I thought, since you’re looking for a model for workout clothes, I should—”

“Panties?”

Rose paused. “What about them?”

“What kind of underpants?”

This is a very odd conversation. The receptionist had sent her up to the engineering floor for her appointment, and Snowball had ushered her down a hallway without any preamble, not even a quick exchange of names.

“They’re just… regular,” Rose replied. “Not a thong or anything.”

“Control-top?”

“No.”

The woman nodded. “Good. We’ll need to know your real numbers. We’ll add on a little for the bust. Just strip down to your underwear and let me know when you’re ready.” She nudged Rose deeper into the storage closet and pulled the door shut between them.

Rose looked around. She’d imagined something a little more glamorous than a dim closet overstuffed with clothes on racks and sagging shipping boxes. Maybe the fashion industry in San Francisco was as casual as everything else on the West Coast. And, of course, Fite Fitness was just a fitnesswear company, not couture or anything.

She unzipped her knee-high leather boots and pulled them off, unwound her favorite silk scarf, then stripped off her low-rise black pants and magenta wrap sweater and folded it all into a neat pile. Wearing only her underwear and jewelry—a trio of long silver necklaces and assorted bangles—she peered into the small mirror on the wall to check her lipstick.

Satisfied, she pulled open the door and strode out into the workroom.

It was drafty. She hoped she didn’t have to wait out here like this for very long. Snowball was nowhere in sight, so she walked down the hallway and past a row of long, flat tables covered with patterns, bolts of fabric, piles of clothes. “Hello?”

A bald man in his fifties with purple reading glasses glanced up from a table. With a start, he dropped his pencil and stared. Then he looked around.

“Where’d she go?” Snowball was saying behind her. Then, “Oh!”

“Plus-sized fit model on the loose,” the man said, propping his forehead on his hand and going back to his work.

Another head popped up from another table off to the side. The woman’s eyes went wide.

Rose turned to Snowball. “Sorry. Was I supposed to stay in the closet?”

There was a snort from the man at the table.

“Most girls prefer a little privacy,” Snowball said.

Shrugging, Rose walked back to the closet, head high. “I’ve never done this before.”

Snowball joined her in the closet and shut them inside. “Have you done any kind of modeling?”

Oh, sure. Whenever I’m not selling used paperbacks on Amazon to pay off my college loans. Keeping a straight face, Rose said, “It’s been a few years.”

“You’ve got the hair for it. And the skin.” Her gaze dropped down over Rose’s exposed, pale form.

“Thanks.” Rose was used to people complimenting her Barbie-like blond hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. Right before they suggested how lovely she could have been if she’d just stop eating. “By the way, what’s your name? I like to know the names of people I get naked with.”

The woman glanced up at her over her bifocals.

She peeled off one of the measuring tapes dangling around her neck and moved closer, her arms extended in front of her like a cartoon zombie. “Hands up. And don’t suck anything in, please.”

Rose did as she was told, feeling the brush of the Meryl’s fingers against the sensitive flesh of her waist, the small of her back, her abdomen. The tape met over her tummy in Meryl’s small hands.

Don’t suck it in. What did that mean? It was impossible not to tense a little bit under the circumstances. Taking a shallow breath, Rose looked over Meryl’s fluffy white head and focused on a very slim pair of black running pants hanging on the back of the door. “You’re just starting a plus-sized line?”

“Mmm,” Meryl said. “Waist, thirty-five and a quarter.” She let one end of the tape fall to the floor as she jotted a note in a yellow pad balanced on top of one of the lopsided boxes. “That might be a problem. We’re looking for thirty-six.”

Rose smiled. “I’m too small? That’s a first.”

“In the waist, anyway,” Meryl said, staring at her chest.

“I told Blair I didn’t know what my measurements were, but she said you guys wanted to meet me anyway.”

“Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

“Plenty, as it happens,” Rose said.

Meryl leaned in to measure her bust. “Arms up again, please.” She slid the tape back and forth, paused. “Forty-five and three-quarters. But I’ll have to add on an inch to allow for the bra.”

Rose stared at the ceiling as Meryl went back to her notebook, muttering, “Forty-six and three-quarters.”

This was unexpectedly awkward. When Rose’s roommate had told her about a job that paid seventy dollars an hour just to try on clothes, she’d been happy to hop on the first BART train to San Francisco. She hadn’t considered how being poked and prodded might make her feel like a twelve-year-old undressing in the school locker room for the first time.

Meryl wrapped the tape around her again. She wiggled it down to Rose’s hips, holding on with one hand as if she were lassoing a calf—

Don’t go there, girl, Rose told herself. Chin up. Big and beautiful.

“Forty-eight and a quarter,” Meryl said, draping the tape around her neck. “Well, that one’s a deal-breaker.”

“I really do wear an 18. Often,” she said. “Well, sometimes.”

Moving to the door, Meryl tucked her yellow pad into her pocket. “You can get dressed. I won’t need the rest of your numbers.”

Rose propped her hands on her hips. “Too big?”

“A little bit. Thanks for coming in… uh… ” She stared.

“Rose.”

“Right,” Meryl said. “Rose. Thanks for making the trip. You can bill us for the full hour.”

Rose let out the breath she’d been holding. So much for that. For a few days she’d enjoyed a little fantasy about making some easy money. It would’ve been fun to tell people she was a model.

Without lying.

“If you lose a few pounds,” Meryl said, “Call us. We could measure you again.”

Rose flashed a half-smile. “Don’t count on it.”

With a shrug, Meryl said, “Best of luck to you,” and closed the door.

While she got dressed, Rose faced the hard facts. She was unemployed and thousands of miles from home. Her monthly college loan payments were killing her. The glamorous world of plus-size fashion didn’t want her.

She draped her scarf around her neck, combed and fluffed her hair, looked around the dingy closet.

Just as well. She was twenty-six, long past time for her to find a real job.

Preferably one that didn’t involve taking her clothes off.

 

 

 

Harlequin’s Dirty Laundry Flapping in the Wind

Today Joe Konrath has a guest blogger, Ann Voss Peterson. She has some fun (as in awful) stories about writing for Harlequin, and why she’s gone indie. The comments are filled with more accounts of pathetic royalties, shady accounting, evil contracts. Passive Guy also picked up the post.

Here’s Ann’s story:

So why can’t I afford to write for them any longer?

Let me share with you the numbers of a book I wrote that was first published in January, 2002, still one of my favorites. My life-to-date statement says this book has sold 179,057 copies so far, and it has earned $20,375.22. (bold text by Joe) That means the average I’ve earned is a whopping 11 cents per copy. If you use the cover price to calculate (the number used in the contract), which was $4.50 at the time of release, I’ve earned an AVERAGE of 2.4 % per copy.

 

The horror stories shouldn’t be surprising to any romance writer who’s paying attention, especially now that many are self-publishing and speaking out, no longer terrified of being black-listed.

But seeing so many come forward today in such popular (and male/mainstream) publishing-centric blogs will make an impact. If not on the company itself, then on the writers currently under contract and the aspiring newbies.

I’ve never written for Harlequin, but I’ve been a member of RWA since 2007 and their presence there is ginormous. The organization couldn’t exist without it.

Which may be one reason RWA is dragging its feet on the move to digital. Self-published digital.

Big changes, getting bigger. I’m glad to have the chance to write directly for readers.

(Which I’m doing as soon as I finish this post. The Geek Who Loved Me, in which Mark from Love Handles gets his happy, will be available in June!)

 

A Daydream of RWA in the Future

Unicorn And Rainbow

Romance Writers of America had their annual national conference last week in New York City. In the middle of Manhattan, in the moment of a massive change in publishing that will disenfranchise many and enrich many others, no official workshop or spotlight addressed what was buzzing in so many minds.

This wasn’t a surprise; the conference content is designed the year before, and the tsunami of digital self-publishing happened in the past six months.

Nevertheless, as a member of RWA, I was personally disappointed.

Many great conversations were probably had at the bar, and over meals outside of the hotel; in the elevator; in quiet corners; in the hallways. Not openly. Not where it could be discussed as a business topic instead of as the dreadful family secret that everyone was really thinking about but was too afraid to discuss openly.

I expected debate. Those who had put their work on Kindle and Nook and Smashwords talking about their experience with those who were still adamantly pursuing print contracts with trade publishers.

Instead, mentioning self-publishing was like mentioning a parent’s alcoholism at your grandma’s Christmas Eve party. Bad form. This was a time of celebration, of connecting with old friends, meeting loving fans, taking a break from all the hard, isolating work of being a writer. No time to talk about how scared shitless everyone was.

No, not everyone; that was the thing. Some of us are thrilled. I am. Madeline Hunter, in a keynote address, mentioned the viability of self-publishing as a market, how it was a path out of fear. Some clapped, many were silent.

RWA is a fantastic group of people, and I’m optimistic that they (we) will come around. Not as optimistic as I was last week before the conference, but it’s hard to redirect an enormous ship in the open sea.

So here’s a daydream of what could be. Maybe not next year, maybe not ever, but I’ve always been afflicted with a vivid imagination.

RWA National Conference of the Future!

1. Self-publishing as a market, not a religion. Just like some write category romance for Harlequin, others write ebooks directly for their readers, bypassing trade publishers. And many write both. (Note: Amazon and Barnes & Noble are not necessary for this.) A workshop would discuss formatting, social networking (not just Facebook), royalty rates, freelance editors, cover artists – everything. Because it would be a career-focused group of writers intent on making a living.

2. Free books in digital format. No more piles of mass-market paperbacks to lug up to your hotel room and pay to get home. Samhain gave out plastic freebie cards – why not everyone? Getting an author’s signature could be a matter of adding a signature strip, like on a credit card. Or on a postcard. Or digitally on a touch screen. The technology is already here; habits will follow.

3. No more How To Write a Query Letter workshops.  As self-publishing becomes the norm, for new and established writers alike, the cold-call query will be a thing of the past. Why not sell a few copies while you’re trying to break in (if you still want to)? And if you’re an editor or agent, why would you want to buy a new author that didn’t even try selling it for Kindle first? This is controversial, and I’m relying on my own crystal ball for this one, but that’s what I see in it.

4. Less fear.  I owe this one to Madeline Hunter (who has an awesome series out right now, by the way. I especially loved Sinful in Satin.) If writers can get their books directly to readers on their own, much of the Culture of Suck-up falls apart. Granted, you’re sucking up to the reader instead of the panels of experts (agents and publishers), but that’s cool with me. I love readers. Less fear means better, more original books. Less fear means happier writers. Less fear means strength, power, unicorns dancing through rainbows . . . Okay, maybe just happier writers.

I would go on, but it’s the Fourth of July and my household doesn’t care about any of this, so I’m wanted elsewhere. Imagine – what is such a taboo topic to people deeply vulnerable to the matter is totally boring to everyone else.

If you have any visions of RWA in the future, please leave a comment or email me privately at gretchengalway@gmail.com. I’m extremely curious to know if I’m the only one having these thoughts.