Fan Girl Love and Writing

The Pens Fatales are please to welcome Tawny Weber for our friday guest blogger. :) Tawny is usually found dreaming up stories in her California home, surrounded by dogs, cats and kids. When she’s not writing hot, spicy stories for Harlequin Blaze, she’s shopping for the perfect pair of boots or drooling over Johnny Depp pictures (when her husband isn’t looking, of course). In September ’09 Tawny launched Dressed to Thrill, a fun, four-author costume shop continuity with her release of FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME. And in January 2010, her novella, YOU HAVE TO KISS A LOT OF FROGS, is out in the Blazing Bedtime Story anthology. Come by and visit her on the web at http://www.tawnyweber.com/

I’m an avowed and quite possibly obsessed Johnny Depp fangirl. I’ve had a deep and abiding lust for the man since his slick-haired 21 Jump Street days. I’m sure I’d have been a fan of his earlier work – Nightmare on Elm Street, but I covered my face about the time he was gobbled up by that bed.

But I’m not just in deep lust with the guy’s look – bad-boy-fashion-grunge – and his amazingly gorgeous eyes, his knife-edge cheekbones and that smile... OMG that smile!!!! Um, where was I? Oh yeah, it’s not all about the looks (although I could go on for awhile if I didn’t have a word count to stick to. Somehow, that’s always a challenge for me. Sticking with word count, I mean. Not babbling on and on and... Well, see what I mean?). A huge part of my fangirl adoration of Johnny Depp is his sense of humor, his ability to laugh and enjoy life. From all accounts, he’s an amazing father, the kind of guy who wears a beaded bracelet on the red carpet because his little girl made it for him. But he’s got enough of that wild bad boy thing still going on to keep him from being too sweet.

I also admire how he’s true to his beliefs. He takes roles that mean something to him – often roles that would be ignored by other stars because they don’t have enough ‘upward mobility’ in them –then he brings his own magic to them, and shoots right on up anyway. Looking gorgeous and sexy all the way.


So it’s not a surprise, given my well-documented fangirl adoration of all things Johnny (it’s even mentioned in my Harlequin bio) that I’ve been asked quite often how I’ve based one of my heroes on Johnny.

The answer? Never. I can’t base characters on real people. I know so many people who write bits and pieces of people in their lives into their characters. Or they use movie stars or roles as inspirations. Or even cut out models or photos of actors to use in character sketches.

I’d love to do that. I wish I could turn all those people who irritated me in real life into characters who ‘got theirs’ in my stories. That certain snotty in-law who always turns up her nose and insults my kids? She’d make a great villain. That obnoxious realtor who dropped the ball and made my July a living hell? Oh yeah, he’d be such a great character to get revenge on. The list goes on and on. So as much as I admire Johnny Depp, why can’t I write him into a hero in one of my books?

He just doesn’t mind that way. Real people never do.

Real people have their own motivations. Their own worlds and quite often, their own foibles and relationships. I can’t make them do what I want without taking all that into account – not even in my own imagination. If I tried to write Johnny into a hero, in the back of my head I’d always be thinking he’s cheating on my heroine (and me LOL) with Vanessa in real life. I think I’m too literal, but I just can’t find a way to combine my fangirl love of Johnny Depp and my writing.

The only exception to my not using real people? I do put some characteristic of my husband’s into every hero. It could be one of his cars, his hobbies, a song he loves. Some little thing so I don’t feel quite so much like I’m cheating when I write those hot love scenes with another man LOL.

How about you? Do you like picturing real life people when you read, putting them in the role of whatever hero you’re imagining? And if you could star in a romance with any hottie hunk, which one would it be?

Taking Things Into My Own Hands

By Gigi

I have a long history of throwing myself into things I love. Today I'll share a story that epitomizes this devotion: the making of the movie The Rescue of Mac and Sam.

It's common knowledge that the greatest television show of all time is MacGyver. A show about an ingenious special agent who uses a Swiss Army knife, duct tape, and science to beat the bad guys? You gotta love it.

I was in highschool when the show concluded in the early 1990s. I didn't want to live without it, so my best friend and I (both theater geeks) wrote a script to pick up where the show ended. After writing the script, we filmed it.

The two of us starred in the movie (do you recognize me here without my glasses?). One of our friends played our screen nemesis (she was also location scout). Others worked the camera (a now-obsolete pre-digital Sony handycam). My dad made a cameo appearance. I directed.

In case you don't remember how the series ended, MacGyver rides off into the sunset on his motorcycle with the son he never knew he had. Our movie takes place right afterward, with Mac and his son Sam kidnapped. The Phoenix Foundation's top agents (my best friend and I) are sent in to find them, using a series of MacGyverisms.

Thus we were able to make a 30 minute movie without Richard Dean Anderson appearing on screen -- except for the brilliant last scene of the movie with some expert editing by a 16-year-old me.

This was long before the days of YouTube. However, a couple years after we made the movie, I had the opportunity to attend an event at the Directors Guild in Los Angeles that was honoring the MacGyver TV series. The whole cast was there. I brought a VHS copy of our movie.

Richard Dean Anderson has got to be the sweetest man on earth. He graciously listened to me ramble on about the movie we made to pay homage to MacGyver. He even took the tape.

Here's a photo of me looking dumbstruck in the presence of the man who played one of the greatest characters of all time.

I'm still waiting for the right opportunity to pass along my sequel to The Goonies. But that's another story...

Martha Supersucks At This Fan Thing

Exhibit A: In 2001, when I decided to become "a serious writer" I joined the local Romance Writers of America (RWA) chapter and unknowingly walked into their "author appreciation event" and sat down at a table of Big Names. Only I didn't know they were big names. I didn't know their names at all.

Poo on me, right? Well they did. Not literally. But they ignored the crap out of me. They let my one-liners drop on dead air with a look of disdain before continuing their conversation. In short, they were douchebags. And I let it get to me. And a few months later I quit. Which makes me a douchebag, too.

Exhibit B: In 2003 I went to New York for the summer with the husband. We passed the most adorable little puppy so I started freaking out. The husband started freaking out. I said, "Wasn't that the cutest puppy ever?" And the husband said, "What are you talking about? That was Isaac Mizrahi holding some dog." Oops.

Exhibit C: In 2008, I returned to writing and to RWA and found that Fate and Karma had weeded out the douchebags (thank you, ladies).

I stuck around, met the Pens, and together with a few other lovely ladies we rocked a suite at Nationals. I was chilling in our suite in a night shirt when a voice drifted in: "May I see your room?" "Oh sure," said my roommates. I jumped up, walked over pantless and promptly met Kristin Higgins. I Heart Kristin Higgins. I workship at the altar of Kristin Higgins. I only worship at about five altars, for the record.
I shook my hero's hand without my pants on. I waited until she left. And I promptly had a shit fit. What did these lovely ladies of this blog do? THEY INVITED HER OVER FOR A DRINK THE NEXT NIGHT. Kristin is lovely. Hilarious. Gracious. Which is probably why they proceeded to tell her of my pantless hero worship, which she found (god I hope) amusing.

I guess I found it amusing, too. Until the next night when I was in the bar networking. Meeting agents. Meeting authors. Putting on my game face. Rachael put in a teasing note about how I'd managed to wear pants. And Big Name Agent looked at me and said, "Oh, are you that girl Kristin was talking about? Oh, she loved that story. She was quite flattered."

Yes. Me, too. I'm THAT GIRL. Without the pants.

Conclusion: I am no good at being a fan. Not of people I should be in awe of nor people I actually am in awe of. Just lock me in a small room and make sure I don't meet anyone. Ever.

Explorer Fan Girl

by Lisa Hughey

My inner Fan Girl is expressed through traveling to new places. I love exploring cities, wandering the streets, absorbing the energy and immersing in the culture.

Kinsale, Ireland


I love thinking about where I’m going to go next (when the budget permits) and dreaming about the places I’ll see and the experiences I’ll have. And just so I don’t miss anything, I’ve pretty much reduced my obsession to a science.

I love to research every little detail. Yelp, TripAdvisor, AAA, Lonely Planet are all my friends. I spend hours reading and culling information so that I know exactly what is a must see, what is a if you have time and what will be saved for another visit. But I don’t strictly plan out a schedule and there are always surprises along the way.

I’ll admit to a weakness for luxury accommodations when monetarily possible. The modern swanky Sofitel in DC, or the grande old dame of the Waldorf in New York, or the quirky renovated Kennedy School House in Portland. Each unique, yet so totally perfect for the city they reside in.

I’m a sucker for history of just about any kind.



The sense of awe that accompanies standing in the Courthouse where the Declaration of Independence was signed, knowing that Ben Franklin, John Adams and George Washington stood in the very same place;




standing on the parapets of a fort in Ireland, where hundreds of years earlier, the Irish stood ready to defend their homes from the invading English;



standing in front of Monet’s Impression at Sunrise, knowing that the Impressionist period was named because of this painting.

Each place has its own feel, its own highlights and its own traditions. For me some of the musts were: tea at the Brown Derby in Denver and tea at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, Canada. A musical (Spamalot) on Broadway. Times Square. The Liberty Bell. Alcatraz.



Powell’s Bookstore. The Eiffel Tower. The Mall in DC. The Book of Kells at Trinity College. The Japanese Tea Garden.

I have itchy feet, always wanting to wander, and you know I realized it’s time to plan another trip.

Lisa

p.s. I’m also crazy about food and restaurants, researching five star, hot new places and local dives. Each city has their specialty dishes specific to the locale, but that is a topic for another day....

Fan Shui

I'm pleased to welcome our guest for today: Camille Minichino, aka Margaret Grace, prolific author, career scientist, and unrepentant New York lover. When I was taking my first unsteady steps as a fledgling author, Camille welcomed me with open arms, a big smile, and a confident "of course you can do it". She has helped more authors along their professional --and, I'm sure, personal-- paths than she knows. Oh, and she's also an engaging, witty, fabulous author!
--Juliet


Camille Minichino, aka Margaret Grace:

It's such a treat to visit Pensfatales, which I've had bookmarked since its opening day.

Here's what I think of as the ultimate fangirl photo:Supposedly, the breeze was made by a passing subway train. What are the odds? I've always thought that a fan put a fan under that grate just to fan prurient flames.

I'm a big fangirl myself, with an object of my devotion in each of many categories: books, movies, television, science, hobbies, politics. I won't get specific here lest we go off topic and argue about my choices. (It happens at breakfast every morning.)

Surely my most obsessive fan days were when I almost followed the Boston Braves to Milwaukee. Lou Perini (the bad guy) moved his baseball franchise when I was junior in high school. All my meaningful life to that point had been given over to the Braves, the perfect friends for a shy girl. I never missed a game on the radio and my room, in typical teen style, was plastered with photos of the players. "Like a boy's room," my mother called it.

Fandom is usually accompanied by superstitions and promises—I gave the Braves a lot power over my life: If the Braves beat the Brooklyn Dodgers tonight, I'll never swear again; if Earl Torgeson hits it out of the park, someone will ask me to the dance; if Eddie Mathews is safe at second, then I'll be safe at home and in this world. I had no plan for If the Braves leave Boston ...

One time I signed a card to a boy I had a secret crush on, Merry Christmas from Lou Perini and the Boston Braves, as if my own name had too little weight to hold ink. Other girls were pretty and confident. They had the right to say "hi" without apology. I could only say, "Did you see that third inning catch last night?" or "I'll take Spahn and Sain over Mel Parnell any day."


I was devastated when the Braves abandoned me. I applied to the University of Wisconsin so I could be with them! (Is that a fangirl, or what?) Once I realized the Boston subway didn't go that far, however, I had to reconsider.

It took a while for me to absorb the fact that baseball was a business, not a sport played for the pleasure of its fans. It was a rude but necessary awakening, one I would need for every undertaking (and they are legion) in my life.

Ouch. It's a tough lesson, but all fans have to learn it.

One exciting thing my fandom got me was my very first published piece: a letter printed in the Boston Globe. In it I begged Tom Yawkey (the other bad guy), owner of the Boston Red Sox, to share Fenway Park so the Braves could make it financially. I pleaded with the fans of Boston not to be taken in by the Sox leftfielder who treated his followers with crowd-pleasing, obscene gestures every game. It didn't work, but maybe seeing my name in print in a major newspaper was what started me down this blog path!

Fandom can go very wrong and I should be grateful that I got out of it when I did, whether I liked it or not. Remember Robert De Niro, the out-of-work knife salesman in "The Fan"? I keep this still from the movie nearby:

-- along with a line De Niro spoke: "Excited and anxious I await my dream / To escape, applaud, and embrace my team."

Creepy, huh?





Camille Minichino, aka Margaret Grace, has eleven published mysteries. The latest, "Mourning in Miniature," will be out October 6 from Berkley Prime Crime. Available now for pre-order! Visit her at http://www.minichino.com.

I Believe in Miracles

--Adrienne Miller

I held my boyfriend’s hand as he stepped up to my parent’s porch. Though I could tell he was doing his best to hide it from me, he was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? Meeting the parents is a stressful thing.

The door swung open and there was my dad--a formidable man--blocking the entrance.

“So, you’re Tom, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like hockey?” my dad asked. We both got the sense that our entrance depended on his answer.

“I love it.”

Now I was nervous. I knew Tom had never seen a hockey game in his life. The only little bits he knew of the game came from what I had told him on the car ride over--the basics of offsides and icing and interference. That was it.

Tom was going to have to bring his A bullshitting-game to survive the next three hours with my family.

Turns out, my future husband--himself no scrawny weakling--was up to the challenge. One game, that was all it took and he was hooked.

Now, I’m not sure this is really how it went down, it was over a decade ago. My parents might have a different account of the story, but I swear this is how both Tom and I remember it. And it gives you a pretty good idea how crazy my family is over hockey.


I love hockey. I love the speed, the athleticism, the intensity and the tension. I love the feeling of being a fan--I’m a San Jose Sharks girl, in case you haven’t noticed--the sense of belonging, the hope, the pride, the rivalries.

To me a big part of hockey is family. We have a family high-five-handshake-thingy that we do every time someone scores. My dad and I call each other after every goal. I even talked to my parents about what they thought I should write about in this post.

My mom joked that I should write about how hockey is a metaphor for life. Which is funny, since we all know that its the other way around, right?

But it's a good a theme as any, so here goes: What hockey has taught me.

If you want something you’ve just got to get in there and put on your warrior face. There are going to be times where you have to face off against someone with better stats. Every now again you’ll have to battle it out along the boards, and you’re not going to win if you’re worried about getting hurt.

Celebrate every goal. You worked hard. Have your moment. Then get back in the game. Some days you’ll win and somedays you’ll lose, but every goal along the way is awesome.

Sometimes you can do the impossible. You can make that jaw-dropping save, snatch victory out of thin air, make something out of nothing. Really. I’ve seen it.
Of course, when all else fails you can do what Tom did and just fake it.

Juliet's showing her age...what's a fangirl, exactly?

The first time I heard the topic for this fortnight, "Fangirl", my mind went immediately to fan dancers.
I do like the idea of fan dancers -- a great deal, actually-- but having never been one I wasn't sure what I should write about the topic.

I did have a brief fantasy of using this topic as an excuse to go out one night and give fan dancing a whirl, but I'm going to have to put that on my list of Things To Do One Day on Lower Broadway, right after pole dancing (Sophie Littlefield and I saw some great pole dancing in L.A., and felt inspired...)

But I quickly realized I must be wrong. As my 17-year-old son likes to remind me with many scathing I-can't-believe-I'm-related to you eye rolls, I'm not exactly up-to-date on modern lingo.

So I looked it up. According to the fabulous Urban Dictionary, a fangirl is:

1. A rabid breed of human female who is obesessed with either a fictional character or an actor.

2. A female who has overstepped the line between healthy fandom and indecent obsession.

Hmm, rabid AND indecent obsession. Sounds right up my alley. But I'm having a hard time thinking of someone --or some character-- for whom I've felt that kind of love and devotion...other than, of course, my childhood wonderdog, a cockapoo named Princess:

(We did share a rather indecent closeness, bordering on rabid obsession. On my part, not hers. She was a very patient, mature canine, while I was very young and in love.)

Then there's always David Cassidy. I know my age is showing like a frilly undergarment below a 1970s miniskirt, but y'all don't know quite what the Partridge family meant to me, back in the day. And David Cassidy's total awesomeness...well you kind of had to be there. It's a little hard to explain to those coming to maturity in the world-weary 2000's. I know we have great characters surrounding us today, but please -- do any of them ride around with their singing family on an old schoolbus with a Mondrian-inspired paintjob? I ask you, is that not worthy of fangirldom?
Plus, that feathered hair was sigh-inspiring....

Ah well. As for current fangirl squeeing...hmmm. I did enjoy Spike on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And I Javier Bardem raises my temperature whenever he walks on the set. I got tongue-tied when I met Maya Angelou, and was pretty fluttery when Octavio Paz made a pass at me at a cocktail party (he was pushing eighty at the time, but still).

But when it comes right down to it, I still think fan dancing sounds like a whole lot more fun, not to mention squee-inducing.


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Rachael Is a Fan Girl

There's an ad campaign where a famous person is lounging in some hotel (I want to say it's W, but I can't swear to it, so I guess it must not have worked that well) and the copy just says, for example, "Judy Dench is a fan." I could be that kind of fan. I'd like to try.

But none of us are ordinary fans. Sure, we get everyday crushes. I'm a fan of Alexander Skarsgard. Of course. Yum.

But I'm also a fan of African violets.

I'm a fan of Shetland wool.

I'm a fan of Venetian lace and the smell of diesel on a wet Venetian morning.

I'm a fan of broken pens from the fifties.

I'm a fan of cleaning the grease from around the edges of stove tops.

I'm a fan of forgetting to dust baseboards for years on end.

I'm a fan of medals with no purpose.

I'm a fan of yoga and accidental Buddhism.

I'm a fan of mothers and sisters and wives. Brothers, sons, and fathers ain't too shabby, neither.

I'm a fan of novels with dangerous curves.

I'm a fan of memoirs that make me homesick for someone I never was.

I'm a fan of yellow.

I'm a fan of kissing, even though I sometimes forget to practice enough.

I'm a fan of fans (electric, in particular).

I'm a fan of ukuleles.

I'm a fan of sweetened condensed milk, eaten with a spoon.

I'm a fan of tomorrow.

And I'm liking today, too.