Hi friends,
This month I’m sharing the first chapter of the new novel I’m working on. It doesn’t have a title yet, but I’m calling it The Hookup for now, which is the name of the protagonist’s gossip column. (And was also the name of my advice column at AfterEllen - RIP!)
It’s about 25,000 words at the moment, written in a kind of manic trot over the last several weeks. (And consequently is kind of a mess, but hopefully not unforgivably so.) It’s a return-to-small-town, dual POV, friends-to-lovers romance (though in actuality it’s more like friends-to-lovers-to-strangers-to-enemies-to-friends-then-back-to-lovers.
Right now it’s in present tense, third-person, but Vika thinks it should be in the past tense. The funnest part has been inventing the town of Sagebrush, Arizona, and all of its colorful characters, including a man who makes weather predictions based on his arthritic knee, a bookshop owner with an opinionated cockatoo named Ernie, a reclusive Apache poet named Serenity Steve, and the enigmatic owner of a a business that’s a diner during the day but a saloon at night.
Anyway, here’s chapter one! It’s rough and will likely change 47 more times, but let me know if you have any particular hankerings when it comes to plot points, shenanigans, or characters. I’m all ears. (Or eyes, as it were.)
And let me know if you want to read more.
xx,
Anna
It's astonishing what people will reveal when they think no one's paying much attention.
In the Astor ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria Beverly Hills, the women wear feathers, furs, and designer silks. The men scowl into cellphones as they exit Bugattis and Bentleys. Some of the accessories alone cost more than six months’ rent in Los Angeles.
They are the glitterati—movie stars, politicians, socialites, and big business moguls. Attendees at tonight’s gala laugh, drink from thousand-dollar champagne bottles, and pose for photographers as jazz music twinkles in the background. They have everything a person could want—money, influence, looks, status.
On the edge of the crowd, a woman in an understated yet glamorous Chanel suit stands just outside of the melee, nursing the same champagne flute she’s had all evening. Her blonde hair cascades down the back of her black-and-white jacket in soft waves, shimmering against all the bling from the party. Her eyes, a coppery brown, are sharp, and her ears alert. She’s not the best dressed at this gala by a long shot, but it’s enough for her to get in the door, to be inconspicuous, which is precisely what she wants.