So I was curious.
Whenever I walk into a bookstore I'm accosted by at least one, maybe two, Danielle Steele novels, hardcovers baby, brand spanking new, sitting there on the shelf.
Without giving away my age, okay I'm 42, I started reading Ms. Steele's drivel, ahem, I mean wonderful romance novels, when I was about 15. She's been doing this a while.
So have I.
But I wanted to know what all the continued fuss was about. Why do people keep buying her books?
Doesn't the formula get old? I haven't read one of her offerings in years, probably not since I started writing my own stories,
but as I said, I was curious.
There's a saying isn't there, something about getting a cat killed?
At the risk of a major lawsuit, I have to do this.
Bear with me if you will:
Carole Barber has come to Paris, with its rain-slick slate roofs and winding streets, to work on her novel — and to find herself after a lifetime in the spotlight. A legend of film and stage, Carole has set a standard of beauty and grace, devoting herself to her family and causes around the world. But on this cool November evening, as her taxi speeds into a tunnel just past the Louvre, a fiery instant of terror shatters hundreds of lives — and leaves Carole alone, unconscious and unidentified in a Paris emergency room.
At the Ritz, they wonder where their famous, incognito guest has gone. From California to London, Carole’s friends and family begin to make inquiries. Then comes a moment of shock as they realize that Carole is in a hospital far from home, fighting for her life.
In the days that follow, the paparazzi swarm. A mysterious stranger, a man famous in his own realm, quietly visits the hospital to see the woman he once loved and never forgot. Carole’s two grown children rush to her bedside, waiting and praying — until the miraculous begins to happen . . . But as a woman whom the whole world knows slowly awakens, she knows nothing of herself. Every detail must be pieced back together — from a childhood in rural Mississippi to the early days of her career, from the unintentional hurt inflicted on her daughter to a fifteen year-old secret love affair that went tragically wrong. But for Carole, an extraordinary opportunity has arisen in a life-threatening crisis: a second chance to count her blessings, heal wounded hearts, recapture lost love . . . and to live a life that will truly honour others —beginning with herself.
A tale of survival and dignity, of small miracles and big surprises, Honuor Thyself creates an unforgettable portrait of a public figure whose hopes, fears, and heartbreaks are as real as our own. Her courageous journey inspires us all.
Okay, so I'd read that. Maybe. Sounds good. A little cliche perhaps, but hey, Diana's not here to argue the point.
Read an extract from Honour Thyself (Yes, lets!)
It was a quiet, sunny November morning, as Carole Barber looked up from her computer and stared out into the garden of her Bel- Air home. It was a big, rambling stone mansion that she had lived in for fifteen years. The sunny greenhouse room she used as an office looked out over the rosebushes she had planted, the fountain, and the small pond that reflected the sky. The view was peaceful, and the house silent. Her hands had barely moved over the keyboard for the past hour. It was beyond frustrating. Despite a long and successful career in films, she was trying to write her first novel. Although she had written short stories for years, she had never published any. She had even tried her hand at a screenplay once. During their entire
marriage, she and her late husband, Sean, had talked about making a movie together, and never got around to it. They were too busy doing other things, in their primary fields.
Will you excuse me a moment? Oh, just ignore the trail of blood gushing from my forehead when I return. And the wall in my study will have a dent in it.
If I were able to use red marker on this post, you'd probably have very little left to read in the above section.
Why, why, why....please, somebody tell me...have I been slogging away for the past umpteen years, going to writers conferences, paying money for professional edits and rewriting my manuscripts until I'm blue in the face???
All I had to - ooops - did I say had? All I should have done was pulled out the first piece of crap that came out of my head, put Danielle Steele's name on it, sent it off to some schtick in New York and presto - I'd be rolling in dough and you'd all be my partying posse.
Am I overreacting? No, I didn't get a rejection today - not yet anyway. But after reading this, I think one must definitely be on the way. Because apparently I've been doing it all wrong.
Is there a Danielle Steele School of Writing somewhere? I'm thinking I should apply.
End of rant.