|What is my nationaly:||I'm american|
|My hair:||Silky fair hair|
|What is my favourite music:||I prefer to listen latin|
|What is my hobbies:||Yoga|
As I walked into her office, she rose elegantly from behind her desk. In heels, she was nearly six feet tall, her body slender but curvy.
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Her reddish hair with blond highlights was perfectly tousled, and her lean face contained both well-defined cheekbones and soft, full lips. She was wearing a silky beige top that was cut just low enough for me to catch a tantalizing glimpse of a bra strap, and her spectacularly long legs were covered in form-fitting linen slacks that accentuated her pert posterior.
For a moment, she stared back at me, her brown eyes unblinking, and I could not help but wonder if she too felt something stirring deep inside. Was she, perhaps, already fantasizing about me pushing my way hungrily toward her and pinning her to the desk with my bulging biceps? I blinked a few times, trying to snap out of my reverie.
She shook her head. She always does.
Its leading man is the muscle-rippling Griff Burkett, a former Dallas Cowboys quarterback who has just spent five years in federal prison for throwing a game. When Griff returns to Dallas, he is offered a small fortune by the wheelchair-bound owner of Dallas-based SunSouth Airlines to impregnate his new wife, Laura, a stewardess-turned-SunSouth-Airlines-executive.
Initially, Griff and Laura have little chemistry. Needless to say, critics have always been unimpressed by Brown for an example of how unimpressed, go to texasmonthly. Though she currently writes one novel per year they come out in late summer, in time for beach vacation seasondemand is great enough that publishers have started to re-release the bodice rippers she penned often under a pseudonym during her early years as a romance novelist.
Brown is now one of a handful of authors who are regarded as masters of escapist American pop fiction. As Play Dirty is released in hardcover, Ricochether best-seller about a murder investigation involving the glamorous wife of a famous Georgia judge, is coming out in paperback with an initial printing of 1. Meanwhile, her one best-seller, fromChill Factor, about a woman trapped in a mountain cabin with a dashing man who could be a serial killer, has, like many of her novels, been translated into at least thirty languages and shipped to bookstores around the world.
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With more than 70 million copies of her books in print, Brown is quite possibly the most successful writer in Texas history. Recently, she was on a cruise ship—the Queen Mary 2, of course—and a man from Romania called out her name and fell to his knees before her. Believe me, she still has bigger books to come. She cranks out her books in an upstairs room filled with potted plants, family photos, and mementos of her career, among them a photo of Ken Jennings, the all-time Jeopardy!
She has three employees: a personal assistant, a computer technician, and a controller who takes care of all her money. Like her leading ladies, Brown is a striking woman; she looks at least a decade younger than her age my reverie in her office had not been entirely the product of having read too many of her books. On the morning I went to see her, she was dressed to the nines, though she assured me that the outfit was just for my benefit.
She gets to the office by nine-thirty, meets with her staff, and then he upstairs to write on her computer. At two-thirty, when she stops writing to read her mail, she might have a cup of tea and an apple or perhaps a handful of walnuts.
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Every year, by the middle of June, she tries to finish a ten- to fifteen- outline laying out her next book. She finishes a first draft of the book by the middle of September and a second draft by the end of January. She does some polishing on the book through the rest of that spring. Come May, when the book is finished, ready to be released by August, she starts working on the outline for the next one.
If they were easy to do, a lot of authors would be doing them, because they pay so well. But only a handful are able to produce the way Sandra can, knocking out one after another, year after year after year. Think about it: Every single one of her books becomes a Times best-seller. Every single one. There are no meaningful, well-crafted sentences; there is just pure, unimpeded action. But what really kept me going were the constant plot twists, even if many of them were completely unrealistic.
Two characters I was certain were good guys turned out to be villains, and on at least three occasions, when I thought I knew exactly where Play Dirty was going to go, Brown sent it in a direction unimaginably different from what I had expected. Only one, French Silk, has been adapted into a screenplay becoming the television movie of the same name.
She went to Texas Christian University in the late sixties, figuring she would major in English and become a schoolteacher. She was a conservative student and a devout Christian. As a scholarship recipient who had to keep her grades up, she opted not to a sorority so she could devote more attention to her studies.
While working one summer at Six Flags Over Texas in Arlington as a singer and dancer in one of those squeaky-clean variety shows, she met Michael Brown, who was performing in the show as a stand-up comic.
They were married within a year, and a few years later she was pregnant with the first of their two children. He became an anchorman and a producer for two local television stations in Texas. She did part-time work at both of those stations, reading the weather at the station in Tyler and then becoming an on-air contributor for the Dallas edition of PM Magazine. But when she lost her job as part of a mass firing, Michael suggested she write. She set up a wobbly card table in their small house and tapped out short stories on a typewriter while the children took naps.
She read a dozen of the novels and decided to write one herself. Fingers crossed, she sent it to an editor for the Candlelight Ecstasy Romance novel line at Dell Publishing.
Although Brown was hardly a polished writer, she had a knack for the genre. Brown also had a skill for churning out copy. Injust one year into her career, she published five romance novels under three pseudo-nyms: Rachel Ryan, Erin St. Claire, and Laura Jordan.
The following year, she published ten more. This continues to amaze me: Even in the most productive of my 27 years as a professional writer, I could manage only ten magazine stories. In Demon Rummher heroine falls in love with an actor who has been hired to star in a biographical movie based on her dead husband, an aeronautical daredevil.
Laugh if you want, but romance readers ate it up, as did publishing houses, which began to offer her six-figure contracts. She had women meeting men at high school reunions, in stuck elevators, and in war-torn jungles. The conventions of the romance genre forbid certain language—such as the words used to describe the male appendage or the particular biological reaction that occurs within that appendage at the climax of the sex act—so she became adept at describing lovemaking with various euphemisms.
He uttered her name in an exultant cry when his passion was made manifest. While she is recuperating in the hospital, her face wrapped in bandages, a mysterious man mistakes her for another woman who was on the plane, the corrupt wife of a famous Texas politician.
The mysterious man whispers into her ear that the plan is still on to assassinate her husband. Byshe was releasing her novels in hardcover, the first one being French Silk, about a beautiful owner of a lingerie mail-order business in New Orleans who is suspected of having murdered a television evangelist. Complications ensue when the district attorney who is supposed to bring her down falls in love with her. Even though her settings and stories are very different, she makes sure that every one of her novels contains particular conflicts.
In Chill Factor, for instance, the drop-dead-beautiful woman who finds herself trapped in the mountain cabin with the man who could be an infamous serial killer spends much of the book haunted by a truly thorny question: Should she or should she not take him to bed?
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You not only face physical danger, but you must face a major psychological, moral dilemma within yourself that will change your life forever. Finally, Brown never permits the really mind-blowing sex to occur until the latter part of the book.
One of the reasons I raced through Play Dirty was because I wanted to get to the juicy bedroom scene between Griff and Laura for those of you who like to skip ahead, it comes toward the end of chapter seventeen. Lucky, about a rough but noble young heir to a faltering East Texas oil company.
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I see this ugly company town where everyone works for one rotten person. I basically start with just a small scene or a snatch of dialogue and force myself to write and to keep writing. Sometimes it becomes a book. As Brown grew more famous, various publishers who owned the rights to her earlier romance novels rereleased them, and they too made their way up the best-seller lists.
In the process, the Browns became very rich. For many years, they had lived on a acre ranchette in Fort Worth, where they raised three Longhorns named Boudreaux, Bubba, and Bowie. They later sold the property the reported buyer was the evangelist T. Jakes and bought their Arlington mansion. But the trappings of wealth have done little to dampen the tenacity with which Brown goes after each new idea. The day I visited her at her office, I asked if she ever thought about retiring, never again having to worry about what the next book would be.
Brown just looked at me. Yes, I love my homes, I love to travel, I love my family, and I love doting on my new grandchildren.
But you can only do so much of that. I work. I come up with stories. She glanced down at her legal pad, where so far she only had her heroine waking up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
According to her schedule, she had just three more weeks to come up with a story line in which her career-minded heroine gets into some very hot water, faces impossible odds, and shares space with a codependent hero for whom her desires are forbidden, a dark and handsome man who will rip off her clothes, throw her onto a bed, and cause her to make some serious moaning sounds.
I try to entertain others by sending them into another world for a few hours.