Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,5

tour was Passion and Pasta and it provided an opportunity for romance fans and unpublished writers to rub shoulders with established writers, editors, agents, and other publishing luminaries. Guests were promised exciting excursions to historic venues as well as daily lectures from the experts on how to write a best-selling romance. My group of Iowans weren't particularly interested in the romance market, but when a slew of cancellations in the main tour occurred a couple of months ago, Landmark Destinations needed to fill up the empty seats, so they offered me some great discount prices, and I'd scooped them up.

"And you see the woman standing to the right of Blackmore?" Jackie continued. "The one in the floral muumuu with the horn-rimmed glasses and Cleopatra hair? That is none other than Marla Michaels. The Marla Michaels."

I gave the woman a quick look-see. "Who's Marla Michaels?"

Jackie stared at me in disbelief. "Emily! Do you live under a rock? Marla Michaels. The Barbarian's Bride? The Viking's Vixen?"

"Oh. That Marla Michaels. The world renowned" -- there was only one occupation I could think of where barbarians and Vikings would be commonplace -- "opera singer."

Jackie threw up her hands. "Marla Michaels is only the most famous historical romance diva in the world! Hightower lured her away from her old publisher by offering her a very lucrative contract that includes theme park rights and extended author tours to exotic places."

"She's a romance writer? How was I supposed to know that? I don't read romances." I cocked my head and smiled coyly. "But it seems one of us does. How do you know about her?"

"The seminar last night? She gave a talk? She autographed books? If you'd been less interested in complaining about your missing luggage and more interested in the theme of the tour, you'd know about her, too."

"Right. You read romances, don't you, Jack? Oh, my God. I bet you were reading them when we were married! That's why you were sneaking into the bathroom so much in the middle of the night. You weren't treating your athlete's foot. You were reading bodice rippers!" Wow. He'd kept a lot of things hidden in the closet back then.

"Are you guys in line?" I heard a chirpy voice inquire behind me.

She was one of ours -- a flaming redhead in her twenties who was snapping gum like a kid snaps rubber bands. The wording on her name tag read, Hi! My name is Keely.

"You're on the tour!" she said, aiming a finger at Jackie. "I recognize you from the seminar. I would kill for that leather bustier you were wearing last night. Can you believe this? Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones in the same room together?"

"Gillian Jones?" I asked tentatively. "Another romance writer?"

"I'll say." Keely popped a bubble, then sucked it back into her mouth. "Sixty-four weeks on the New York Times Best-seller List for A Cowboy in Paris. Eighty-six weeks for A Cowboy in Sydney. The reviewers said books about cowboys wouldn't have global appeal. Boy, were they wrong. She's the most successful writer of contemporary romance ever."

"She's standing behind Marla in line," Jackie pointed out.

Gillian Jones was waifishly petite with platinum hair cut close to her head and huge cactuses hanging from her ears. I suspected the oversized earrings might be her trademark. The Lone Ranger's was a silver bullet. Gillian's was desert vegetation.

"Marla and Gillian supposedly hated each other for a lot of years," Keely explained, "but now that they've signed on with the same publisher, I've heard they've become the best of friends. I want to learn so much from them. I don't mean to brag, but I've won every regional First Chapter contest ever offered."

"That's great," I enthused. I had a hard time writing postcards, so I admired anyone who could actually win a contest for putting words on paper. "But you're unpublished at the moment?"

"Prepublished," she corrected. "Unpublished gives the wrong impression."

Right. I guess it would give the impression that...you're not published.

"But I'm this close" -- she flashed a quarter-inch space between her thumb and forefinger -- "to getting published."

"Have you had any nibbles?" Jackie asked with girlish excitement.

"Not exactly." Keely blew a bubble the size of her head, then had to use her fingers to shove it all back into her mouth. "I need to complete the manuscript first, but finishing up should be a piece of cake."

"Are you close to the end?" I asked.

"Real close. Only thirteen chapters to go."

Thirteen to go? I couldn't imagine the fortitude it took