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Just as long as they never forget mine. Charlie Shivers is synonymous with fun reads.

Cover design is something new to me. I used to hire it out on a freelance site, but Nick gave me a copy of Photoshop for Christmas, because bros are the best, and I’ve had time to tinker with it. After I quit my job to write full-time, I figured I should learn as much as possible to keep it all in-house and preserve costs. I have beer to drink, after all. When I started, my budget often came down to alcohol vs. marketing, and alcohol always won.

That’s actually why I’m totally psyched for the Romancing the World writers’ conference tomorrow. They’re letting me be on panels and shit. Sure, I’m not a traditional romance author, but the information we all have to share about branding and marketing is priceless. Plus, I get to write that puppy off on my taxes. Along with all my Buddy Lunch expenses, because it’s totally research for my next big hit.

Pro-tip: Accountants make the goddamn world go ‘round. Maggie gets a giant bottle of Grey Goose every Christmas in thanks for keeping my shit together. I’ll learn to make my own covers of half-naked men fucking zombie robots and keep up a street team, but dammit, I’ll pay for someone to keep my taxes in order. I’m an adult, after all. While I like
writing
about things going up the ass, I don’t need the IRS up mine.

New title: Donged by the Delinquent Tax Bill.

I drink another beer and log on to my favorite stock image website. Before I got into writing, I was a romance cover model, thanks to an old college buddy. He got into it through his ex-girlfriend, who was some sort of hotshot photographer, and introduced us to the world of stock image modeling. Of course, I spent more time in the gym those days, but I graced my fair share of covers. Every once in a while, I catch myself on a cover on the Amazon Top 100 and it’s a pretty kickass feeling.

Also, I find myself on this website a lot. Sometimes I didn’t even search for myself when I find me. That’s the most exciting.

I haven’t yet used myself on the cover, but after another Tank 7, I decide this is the perfect book to start. I did a photo shoot as a cop a few years back, and you can’t beat that shit. I’m one of the top hits for “sexy cop,” which makes me feel pretty awesome, and I get to work on the cover. It’s one of my favorites, full of robots and explosions and my sexy abs dead center. Just as I finish it up, Ted sends me back the edited copy of the new book. It didn’t take him long, which is another reason why I love him.

He probably interrupted some butt-banging time himself to edit, which means he’s one of the best bros you can get. Did I mention I effing love the Man Circle? Good dudes, good dudes.

Next up comes the marketing. I’m exhausted and half-drunk, ready for bed and needing to get ready for the conference tomorrow, but work first. I throw together some ads and target them using data mined from previous campaigns. It’s a lot of work, but I’m getting better at it. Hopefully, after tomorrow, I’ll be a champ at it. If I can cut my marketing time in half, I’ll be a happy, happy camper. Happiest of them all.

I finish the last dregs of beer in my bottle and log back on to Amazon to see how
Gay Velociraptor
is faring. Another jump, this time to number 32! And 4.2 stars average rating—wowzers. I scroll down to read the love letters from my fans. This is my favorite part. I know a ton of authors don’t read reviews, but they are like crack to me.

My fans, lovingly dubbed the Creatures, are totally in on the joke that is my books, and they love them. Their reviews are all fairly hilarious. It’s my favorite way to end the night.

People who
get it
write me reviews just as good as the books I write. And they are some loyal motherfuckers. I really have the best fans ever. Bethany Bonafont and her crew—they have some name—I don’t care—can keep their middle-aged horny housewife readers. I’ll take my fucked up and hilarious crew any day of the week. Love the shit out of them.

I finish reading a review that says the book gave them gay Velociraptor babies and move on to the next. One star? I deserve at least two for being so ridiculous. What gives? I glance at the author and my teeth grind. Randi fucking Rose. Again. What, does she stalk me just to leave shitty reviews?

Maybe she wants to do me. Maybe these reviews are a cry for attention, in hopes I’ll go fuck her for more stars. Ha! She fucking wishes. This is exactly why I voted against her in the RTW Awards. God, that girl is worse than a trapped fart.

I pause for a moment and then grab my idea notebook.
Seduced by the Trapped Fart
. Next book! Maybe I’ll even dedicate it to her for shits and giggles. Oh, I bet she’ll
hate
that. Probably lose her shit. Done. Done! I consider starting it tonight, but sleep is calling. There’s the conference in the morning. I can sketch it out tomorrow during the boring panels.

I strip down to my boxers and whistle for Gus, who’s been snoring on my armchair in my office. He shakes off a line of drool and pads after me into the bedroom. I’ve had Gus for eight years now, adopted him from some shitty little pound on the outskirts of town, and he’s the best dog anyone could ask for. Chicks love him. I should bring him with me tomorrow!

We snuggle up, like buddies do, and drift off to sleep. My dreams are full of robots and bestseller awards in the shape of an Oscar. Take that, Leo.

I
wake
up to my alarm and practically jump out of bed. It’s Monday! It’s Monday! Monday means the Romancing the World Conference, and there is literally nothing better than going to romance conferences. Writers’ conferences in general are some of my favorite places. There is something magical about being surrounded by other authors who have the same love of craft that you do. But
romance
conferences?

Hel-
lo
cover models. No matter that they’ve normally been long-dibsed by either another model or the author who “discovered” them. Hope springs eternal, and it’s entirely possible that this year will be the year I get some book-worthy action.

Also, hel-
lo
Bethany Bonafont. We will be friends this year, dammit. I’ve been working this angle for ages. I promote her books all over the place. I leave 5-star reviews, even on the dumb ones. I nominate her books for RTW Awards. Even the ones with secret babies. She has to love me, right?

If I can get in with her, Randi Rose will shoot up the Amazon ranks and leave assholes like freaking Charlie Shivers in the dust. Let him write his awful “books” with terrible premises and half-assed effort. Only a few tweets from Queen B, and I’ll be soaring with the big shots.

It’s my year. I just know it.

The best part of the conference this year is the location: Kansas City! Usually, I have to scrimp and save all year just to attend, and it’s always worth it. I’ve seen some amazing places. The conference in New Orleans was a booze-soaked week of bliss and oysters and books. All of my favorite things! L.A. was also a lot of fun, but my bank account was thirsty for months afterwards.

Not this year! This year it’s on my home turf, which also means I can offer to show around agents and other big authors (
cough
Bethany Bonafont
cough
) to the best places our city has to offer. Barbeque, beer, and chocolate—we make the best of all of those things. Really. There’s something for everyone.

I start making a mental list of places to recommend so I’ll be the first to suggest.

That’s right. This is the year Miranda makes some goddamn contacts from heaven. Brought to you by Kansas City Joe’s, Christopher Elbow Chocolatier, and a Boulevard Brewery tour complete with some Tank 7 tastings. No one can say no to that. And if they do, I’ll know they are broken, dead people inside.

The other amazing part of a local conference is all the money I’ll save. No hotel costs, no eating out for every freaking meal. Although let’s be honest, I probably will eat out for most of them. Either way, more wine money means more wine means more words means more money. See my cycle of validation?

Priorities, I have them.

No more credit card debt for attending a conference, just a week of amazing friends, great panels, and hot models as far as the eye can see.

“Knock knock!” Jane pokes her head in the front door. “You up?”

I come around the corner with two steaming mugs of coffee and hand the slightly smaller one over. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re a goddess? I don’t know what I’d do without you.” A barest twinge of guilt surfaces that I just gave her the small cup, but I squelch it. After all, it’s
her
day off, not mine. I sip with renewed vigor.

Jane hauls her makeup bag to the counter (it’s seriously huge) and savors the coffee. Only the best organic beans for author minds and any friends who happen to show up before noon. Or one in the afternoon. Maybe two.

“Are you kidding me? I love playing with makeup! I don’t get to wear it enough in the ER, so whenever I get an excuse, it’s a total joy. What else am I gonna do with this stash? Let’s make you hot.” She must notice my eyes narrow slightly. “Hot
ter
. My goal is to hook you up with one of those sexy models I keep hearing about.”

#goals. My girl has them.

“I would totally take you with me if I could. I know Bobby is great and all, but
hot damn
, Jane. These guys are like modern-day Grecian gods carved from marble and pure sex and trendy hair. It must be seen to be believed.”

“Mmm.” Jane waggles her brows and unloads her tools and makeup. She’ll never even joke about looking at other guys. Bobby the investment banker has her so dazzled by his khakis. “I knew working at Sephora through college would be worth it one day. How sexpot are we making you?”

“Not sexpot. Natural but hot. Is there such a thing as a hot natural look?”

“Girl, natural
is
the hottest. Sit and let me work my magic.”

I oblige, sipping my coffee while she gets to work on foundation and powder and blush with tools I’ll never own in my life. I wish I could be good at makeup, but I’m not. I can barely decorate my house without a million pages on Pinterest. Okay, okay. I decorated it and then I met Jane and she was like, “Girl, I know I don’t know you very well, but let me fix this hot mess,” and then she did.

Visual art is
not
my forte. Words? Words and I are the best of friends, but I can’t even make one of the painting-for-dummies-while-you-drink sets look decent.

Jane works her magic, transforming me from Late Night Date with My Keyboard to Sassy Vixen Who Doesn’t Try Too Hard. I’m astounded at how much work goes into looking “natural.” What is this contouring thing? I mean, it takes a full hour. We have to have another coffee break. This, this is why I’m terrible at makeup. I’d probably make myself look like an actual clown. I’d fit in at a magic conference, but I have an image to uphold at this one.

Randi Rose is a classy girl. It’s on my business cards. “Classy romance for sassy girls.” Cute, right? I have no idea why I find so many of my cards left behind after I hand them out.

“Done!” Jane looks triumphant and holds up a mirror. “What do you think?”

“Perfect!” I clap excitedly. “Just perfect.” I look like the most glorious version of myself that Instagram could ever fake. It’s like I’m walking around with a “pretty” filter on. I briefly wonder how many books I would have to sell to put Jane on staff.

“Great.” Jane air-kisses me. “Go knock them dead! Sell a million books! Make Bethany Bonafont your best friend! And then come tell me all the gossip, because I bet she’s secretly awful!”

“Game on.” I grab my purse, a fake Louis that looks so, so real, and walk Jane out. “I owe you a night out when this is all over.”

“Deal. I’ll see you same time tomorrow morning?” Maybe I’ll give her the bigger coffee then.

“You’re a goddess, I tell you.” I wave goodbye and happily make my way to the Marriott, not even minding the traffic. Even rain couldn’t ruin my parade today. Although it could ruin my makeup. Luckily, the sun is out, because on Miranda’s Magical Conference Day, everything goes right.

The day is an absolute blur. I meet up with tons of online friends and sit through as many panels and workshops I can get into. It’s maybe not all the most exciting topics, audio rights and the like, but the marketing workshops are invaluable. I make about eighty-seven notes to start up a street team for real this week.

And a newsletter.

And find an agent.

And get foreign translators.

And eight bazillion other things.

I need a nap.

This is the most social I’ve been in weeks, and it’s starting to take a toll. My hand aches from all the note-taking (note to self: start bringing the iPad) and it’s time to take a break at the end of the day.

“What a freaking
day
.” Evelyn Heart packs up her things next to me and shoulders her bag. Evelyn was my first writer friend, found through blogs, back when blogs were still king. Now she is one of the kings of paranormal, while I toil along in the midlists. “YouTube. They want us on YouTube. I don’t think I can do that. I don’t want people to see my fat face. I just want them to read my words.”

“I feel ya,” I sigh. “It’s just one more thing to do. Blogs are easy, you know? I can write like a crazy person. But all those scene cuts and witty phrases? I am too damn awkward. Aren’t writers introverts by definition? Why in the world do people expect us to do things like…talk?”

“You’d do awesome because you’re gorgeous.” Evelyn sighs harder and I detect a hint of jealousy. Well, good. I’d trade Jane’s handiwork for her sales numbers any day, but I guess she doesn’t need to know that. “But, like I said: fat face. Kill me now, Miranda.”

“Fat face?” I scoff at her and give her a hug. “You’re fucking beautiful. Let me give you the name of my makeup artist.” Note to self: tell Jane to
pretend
she’s on staff. “Besides, I don’t think our readers would be picking up our books based on how hot we are. Think about our demographic: women who want hot fantasies. As long as we keep abs on our covers and epic love in our stories, they’ll keep reading.”

“Ooh!” Evelyn claps her hands excitedly. She’s always sort of reminded me of a kitten with how excited she gets. Another reason why I love her, because cats are clearly superior to dogs. And men. Well, that’s not a feat, I guess. Most cabernets are superior to men as well. “We should go in together! Let’s start a channel that interviews cover models!”

“That,” I say, tapping my nose and pointing at her, “is freaking brilliant. But how many cover models do we know?”

“Hello, we’re surrounded down here. We should start interviewing them this weekend! Make some contacts, see who lives near us. These guys thrive off public attention, it’s how they make their money. I can’t imagine any of them turning us down. Exposure benefits everyone.”

I’m ramping up again, because I can’t believe she just came up with an idea this golden and will actually let me be part of it for no other reason than I’m standing next to her right now.

We fist bump. “You have all the good ideas. I’m so jealous of your brain. I want to eat it and absorb all of your creativity.” Oops. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Ah, zombie time.” Vanessa Love joins us. She’s another e-friend that I’ve come to adore. Love, Heart, and Rose. We sound like a super romantic British pub. “Why are we eating Evelyn’s brain? Because she’s brilliant?”

“Why else?” I say with a smile. Obviously she saw
Warm Bodies
too. I relax for the first time today, remembering that the real best thing about conferences is the camaraderie. Being surrounded by your closest friends you never get to see is amazing. Writing can be incredibly solitary, so conference weeks are the best chance for us to let our hair down and get a little wild.

Anyone that says internet friends aren’t real friends is dumb. This is a new age. And the easiest way to find people with common interests is online. #bookfriendsarethebestfriends and all that.

“We were bemoaning the YouTube trend,” I tell her, petting her pretty long hair at the same time like a total creep.

“Have you heard of Periscope?” Vanessa pulls out her phone and opens an app. “It’s like YouTube, but way less daunting. I’ve started using it to give teasers about my latest books, and I’ve seen some really good results. I think the YouTube thing is just a hassle and a half, but Periscope is a great way to connect.”

I perk up at the idea of something that isn’t a hassle.

“We can do everything through our phones?” Evelyn asks, looking over Vanessa’s shoulders. “No fancy cameras or anything needed?”

“Nope! It’s all here. Twitter runs it, so the integration is pretty seamless. Live streaming is becoming hugely popular, so it’s the perfect time to jump in. All you do is set up an account and boom, live streaming.”

“Perfect!” I am already digging through the App Store for Periscope. “We are going to interview some hot cover models. I can attach it to my Twitter account?”

“Certainly can.”

“Oh my god, this is my favorite.” Evelyn smiles at me and I smile back, and suddenly things don’t seem as scary. “I have my Twitter account linked to my Facebook author page, so I can get that out fast and easy. Let’s just hashtag everything #RoseHeartModels,” she says, and I can practically see my name in lights already. So! Brilliant!

“This just made my day. Evelyn. Vanessa. You win.” I hug them both, but a little halfheartedly because I am running low on the form of Vitamin C that is specifically found in fermented grapes. One cannot properly celebrate unless one has a glass of fruit salad before her.

“Are you going to Entwined’s party tonight?” Vanessa asks as we file out of the last classroom of the day. “They’re having a big to-do in Ballroom C!”

“I saw.” I would
die
to get picked up by Entwined. They’re one of my top five publishers. But I’m also exhausted and in dire need of said red. How am I expected to dazzle a publisher when I’m practically a zombie myself? “Piiiiiinoooooottttttt” is not what they want to hear when they ask for a pitch.

“I absolutely plan to, but I think I’m going to hit the hotel bar for a bit and soak up everything I learned today first. If I don’t process some of it, my head may actually explode. Want to join me for a drink?”

“I’m going to try to get into the party early to start glad-handing some editors.” It’s sweet of her to pretend she hasn’t made the right connections to get picked up by a publisher. She’s
phenomenal
. And so is the money she pulls in. No one can afford her is why she hasn’t gotten picked up. I’d hate her if I didn’t love her so much. Just a shame that the super-dark thriller boning isn’t my game, I’d love to write with her. “I’ll see you there?”

“Yerp!” As if I’d totally pass over an opportunity to talk to Entwined. But first, The Quiet. The Liquid Courage.

“I’m going to go to my room, actually.” Evelyn looks apologetic. “My editor is meeting me later, and I am dying for a nap.”

“Nap away! I’ll see you girls later!”

We part ways and I make a dash for wine. A wine dash. A Wash? No. A Wish. The bar is pretty empty. Everyone must still be milling around the conference center. Works for me, because I get prime seating at the bar with the sexy bartender and an endless supply of mid-level cabernet. I love cabernet. I love anything red and grapey that my ticket to the conference gives me a discount on, let’s be honest.

I take a long sip and sigh happily. Then again for good measure. A good sigh expresses it all. Writers’ conference, wine, hot bartender. And my makeup still looks flawless, so he’s been giving me a wink or two while organizing glasses. Jane’s gonna get a bonus. Bailey’s in that coffee tomorrow, girl!