Get Piqued! Congratulations, Tracie Banister, on Your New Release!

This week, a spotlight on a new chick lit release: Tracie Banister's Twin Piques!

Forensic accountant Sloane Tobin and kooky pet psychic Willa may have the same face, but that’s the only thing these identical twins have in common.

How she can read the hearts and minds of animals has always been a mystery to Willa, and her rotten luck with men is equally baffling. Although she’s been looking for “The One” for what feels like forever (A teenage marriage to a French mime and dating a guy named Spider seemed like good ideas at the time!), optimistic Willa refuses to give up on love. When she meets Brody, the handsome rose expert hired to save her grandmother’s garden, she’s instantly smitten, but why does he keep sending her mixed signals? Does he return her feelings, or is their attraction all in her fanciful head?

Unlike her twin, Sloane has zero interest in romance. Her passion is her job, where she uses her gift for numbers to take down slimy embezzlers and asset-hiding spouses. When she’s assigned two high profile cases, Sloane feels confident the promotion she’s been angling for is within her grasp. But will her plan to climb the corporate ladder be thwarted by difficult clients, her co-worker-with-benefits, or – most surprisingly of all – her own sister? And how’s she supposed to stay focused on the drama at work when her childhood friend, Gav, moves in next door and the spark between them becomes impossible to ignore?

To get what they both want, can Willa and Sloane band together and rely on each other’s strengths? Or will their differences drive them apart once and for all?


Author Bio

An avid reader and writer, Tracie Banister has been scribbling stories since she was a child, most of them featuring feisty heroines with complicated love lives like her favorite fictional protagonist Scarlett O'Hara. Her work was first seen on the stage of her elementary school, where her 4th grade class performed an original holiday play that she penned. (Like all good divas-in-the-making, she also starred in and tried to direct the production.)

Tracie’s dreams of authorial success were put on the backburner when she reached adulthood and discovered that she needed a "real" job in order to pay her bills. Her career as personal assistant to a local entrepreneur lasted for 12 years. When it ended, she decided to follow her bliss and dedicate herself to writing full-time. Twin Piques is her third Chick Lit release. The pet psychic character in this novel was inspired by Tracie’s rascally rescue dogs. She’d love to know what goes on in their heads!



Buy Twin Piques:
Amazon US:
Amazon Global:
Twin Piques on Goodreads:




Keep in touch with Tracie!

Blog:
Facebook:
Twitter:
Pinterest:
Goodreads:

Best Books of the Year! (not)

It’s that time of year again …. The time where every newspaper and magazine that covers pop culture comes out with their best books of the year. I’ve seen lists in magazines like Salon, Atlantic, Entertainment Weekly … and even in these diverse periodicals, the books are pretty much the same. And I’ve read half of one of them.


What does it take for a book to be named one of the best of the year, or to get a glowing review from a major publication? From my admittedly jaded viewpoint, these books are either poetic-sounding historical literary fiction with titles like “Breath Forms Clouds of Sunlight,” or a non-fiction tome that could double as a dictionary, usually a biography about some nineteenth century general or cabinet member.


These books may be heavy and important, but they’re usually not fun. And I like fun. I read for fun.


It makes me wonder whether these lists are helpful in getting more people to read, or if the majority react the way I do – that reading these books is a task, something you have to do, like exercise or flossing or getting a colonoscopy.


I fell in love with reading at a very early age. Some of my earliest memories are of my favorite picture books, like “Harold and the Purple Crayon.” In early elementary school, I was addicted to the “Little House” books. A year or so later, my mother introduced me to some of Beverly Cleary’s books about teenagers. Even when I went away to sleep away camp in the mountains, I could usually be found in the library.


In middle school and high school, though, reading became a chore. It’s almost as if reading and English teachers deliberately assign the most obtuse, plodding work available. Rather than getting lost in intriguing stories and characters I could identify with, I was totally lost looking for symbolism and foreshadowing and trying to decipher strange vocabulary.


This is also the period where I got hooked on certain serial TV shows. Coincidence? I think not. It wasn’t until I’d graduated college, got my first fulltime job and needed something to do during those metro commutes that I discovered reading for pleasure again.


My son underwent a similar journey. I read to him from the time he could understand words, and together we went from Curious George to Harry Potter, with Animorphs and private investigators in between. And then the public school system struck. When he brought “Sarah Plain and Tall” home from the first grade, I knew it was all over. And while as a college student he’s become a voracious reader, unfortunately it’s all non-fiction. (although with some of those political books he likes, calling them non-fiction could be a stretch.)


I love women’s fiction. Early Stephen King-style horror. Mysteries with female protagonists, especially if they’re PIs. In other words, nothing you’d see reviewed on the front page of the New York Times book section.


Jennifer Weiner is well-known for speaking out about how female authors who write in her genre aren’t reviewed the way male authors are. Recently Jodi Picoult gave an interview with a similar complaint. Sadly, Jennifer is viewed as “Jennifer Whiner,” as some – including other authors – see her complaints as personally motivated. I don’t doubt her personal situation figures into her feelings somewhat, but the issue is bigger than that, and bigger than one or two authors. When Liane Moriarty can take over the New York Times bestseller list but be ignored for reviews in that same newspaper, it isn’t just about her, or Jennifer, or Jodi. It’s about you and me and every reader (and all these authors have owned the Times’ lists) who enjoys books in this genre. (And don’t get me started on the romance genre. I’m not a reader, but it’s the most popular genre in publishing.) These publications are saying our tastes don’t matter. We don’t matter. If we’re not reading “Blue Butterfly, Black Clouds” then we don’t deserve to have books in our genre evaluated. If it’s good, bad, whatever … we’re on our own.


And it’s also frustrating to me as a writer, because even though the conventional advice is “write what you know/write what you want to read,” when I do that, I hear back that that’s not what publishers think they can sell. Is this related to the review dilemma? I don’t know. I do know that while a positive New York Times review pretty much guarantees bestseller status, there are plenty of bestsellers that don’t get reviewed by any well-known magazines. I’ve even seen a few self-published books on that list. So I think I’m writing what people (at least women like me) want to read, but unfortunately that opinion is not shared by those in charge.


I’m currently about halfway into one of the books that’s been on many of the end-of-year lists. It’s good, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what makes it so special. If this had come to me as one of the manuscripts in the slush pile for the literary agent I work for, I might have told her to pass on it.


But what do I know, anyway? I’m just another average Weiner/Picoult/Moriarty fan, someone who loves Emily Giffin and Sophie Kinsella and her job reviewing books for Chick Lit Central.


Oh, and I’m someone who bought 83 books for her Kindle last year. Eighty three. And 2014 isn’t over yet.


And not one of them was called “The Peculiar Insurrections.”

The Most Interesting Man in the World

You all know who I’m talking about. Sharks have a week about him. Cuba imports cigars from him. When sailing around the world, he found a shortcut.


And he’s the star of your book.


Okay, the Dos Equis spokesman is not literally the protagonist of your novel. But the point is … your protagonist needs to be the most interesting man in the world. Or at least the most interesting person in your book.


Last week, in talking about back story, I noted that the current action of your novel needs to be about the most important events in your protagonist’s life – which is why some manuscripts that have the most important event occurring in the back story are so problematic. This is a similar rule – your protagonist needs to be the most interesting person in the story.


Many children and YA authors get this instinctively. It’s not “Ron Weasley and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” YA novels are littered with narrators who discover that they are the “chosen ones” for some universe. This can get tiresome if YA is your forte – how many damned chosen ones can there be, anyway – but really, who wants to read about the chosen one’s best friend? “I stared at my phone, willing her to text me back, while I imagined her in the sky, flying around on eagles and trying to kill the last dragon.” Um, no.


And, yes, this is why I don’t write YA.


I’ve read a surprising number of unpublished and self-published manuscripts where the protagonist was not the most interesting person in the room. They stood off to the side, describing their lives in the corner as their sister, or best friend, or ex-lover became a witch, or a movie star, or queen.


The only writer I know who got away with this was F. Scott Fitzgerald, and my English teacher took pains to distinguish Nick Carraway as the narrator but Jay Gatsby was definitely the protagonist. You, dear friend, are not F. Scott Fitzgerald, and you are not writing “The Great Gatsby.” And neither am I. Besides, look how Fitzgerald’s life turned out. Do you want to be him? No.


Movies get this right. Movies always get this right. No one puts Baby in a corner. Luke Skywalker might have been whiny, but he was the chosen one. (Forget what Lucas said about Vader being the protagonist of the series. Lucas lost all credibility with “The Phantom Menace.”) Indiana Jones. Probably the only exception to this rule is the possessed demon child in a horror movie or the serial killer in a slasher flick – they may be the most interesting person in the story, but we are not rooting for them to succeed. Usually. And let’s face it, would “Silence of the Lambs” be as gripping if Clarice hadn’t had those screams in her back story?


If you’re writing a story like this now, please take a deep breath and stop. In some genres – detective fiction, maybe women’s fiction – there are other characters (and sometimes they are real sickos) who will be more complicated and compelling than your protagonist. If you’re working in such a genre, add dramatic back story and character quirks to make your protagonist as complicated as the villain she tracks. But if your protagonist is named Lisa and she’s flirting with a waiter while her sister learns to dance from the camp hunk, think again about who your protagonist should be.

It’s All About the Back Story … Except When it Isn't

One of the first pieces of advice writers are given when they embark on a new story is about the importance of back story. We’re told to write elaborate character bios that spell out the events that shape their current personality and choices. We’re advised to create timelines so we can better picture what happened and when. Detail is important. Things that happened in the past matter.


Or not.


I’ve read several manuscripts and self-published novels lately that went overboard on the back story. With advice such as the above, this is easy to do. But writers need to remember that the novel is about the most important thing that happened in the protagonist’s life. If the most important thing happened in the back story, you’re telling the wrong story.


Back story is usually dealt with in one of three major ways:
 Referred to in dialogue or narrative;
 Through flashbacks
 With non-linear storytelling that features chapters and sections with scene work occurring in the past.


Which option is right for your story?


Many writers make the mistake in thinking that their back story is more important than it actually is. They create elaborate flashbacks that show exactly how a long-married couple first met and the issues they had building their house. It’s become important to the writer because they spent so much time writing those character bios and timelines. But it’s probably not important to the present storyline. Unless the husband has died and left the wife a cryptic clue about something buried in the walls of that first house, it’s perfectly fine to deal with this back story in conversation.


Most writers dealing in women’s fiction, romantic comedy, and other stories with straightforward narratives don’t really need much backstory beyond what can easily be explained. I recently reviewed Ann Lewis Hamilton’s novel Expecting for Chick Lit Central. The novel has a subplot about a man reconnecting with a college girlfriend on Facebook. In the hands of a less experienced writer, readers might have been forced to wade through long, elaborate flashbacks of their romance, or, God forbid, whole chapters devoted to their past relationship. Luckily Hamilton recognized that the details of the relationship were unimportant and gave the reader only what she needed to know.


Of course there are stories that call for a more detailed treatment of back story. Writers such as Jojo Meyers and Sarah Jio are well known for weaving together past and present almost seamlessly. Their stories tend to have mysteries at their core, and giving the reader that up close look at what actually happened plays an important role in the enjoyment of the story, and allowing the reader to try to solve the mystery along with the protagonist.


Some writers of literary fiction prefer non-linear narratives, oftentimes creating the feeling that past and present are closely linked. In these types of stories, character motivation is paramount, and chapters that detail the past let readers get to know the characters in ways that a few flashbacks or lines of narrative cannot deliver. Literary fiction tends to be more character-driven than plot-driven, so readers tend to fully immerse themselves in the reading experience without asking how certain scenes relate to the plot.


Every story is different, and back story will always play some role. In a blog post, it’s difficult to advise beyond generalities. But generally speaking, it’s usually not as important as most newbie writers think it is. Most histories can be dealt with in narrative description or in a conversation between characters. It’s something writers should ask their beta readers about: How much is too much? Back story is one area that is rife with babies to kill.

Hope Over Experience: Getting on the Querying Merry-Go-Round One More Time

A marriage after divorce is said to be a triumph of hope over experience. So is querying agents with a new novel after previous works have been rejected. Here I go!


I sent out my first query letter in 1992. That was before the internet, so everything was snail mail and enclosed SASEs for a response. This was a murder mystery in which a college student was the main suspect. I got a few requests for the first ten pages and some nice feedback after entering a contest. I heard a lot of, “No one reads about college students so there’s no market for this.” It was twenty years before the New Adult category was formed. I think I still have that manuscript somewhere … I should pull it out and take a look … (luckily I printed the whole thing out because I’m pretty sure it ended up being saved to a floppy disk somewhere. Remember floppy disks? Remember disks?)

A few years later, I started writing screenplays, so those queries went more to production companies and managers. Got a lot of really nice rejections. I wrote scripts for about ten years; long enough to meet some other terrific writers and watch as they planned to make their own movies. At the same time, self-publishing began to get hot. I thought if I wrote a novel and couldn’t get an agent, self-publishing would be much easier than making my own movie. Perhaps this was a self-fulfilling prophecy, for after sending out about 70 queries to agents, I did end up self-publishing KEEPING SCORE. And the publishing part was easy. It’s the marketing that makes me want to tear my hair out ….


I may end up self-publishing my vampire novel THE TIES THAT BLEED. This novel was based on a screenplay I wrote back in 2002, and won a few awards with. I got a few requests for fulls, and again these rejections were really nice – the book was good, but since it was in a cold genre, it had to be amazing, and it wasn’t quite there. I’ve got it out to a few small publishers, but in the back of my mind I’m picturing cover art and wondering how to market this one.


And now THE SEESAW EFFECT. I’ve posted a few excerpts from this one -- it’s about a Democrat married to a Republican who becomes the next Rush Limbaugh. Since tone-wise, it’s similar to KEEPING SCORE, I contacted all the agents who’d requested to read KEEPING SCORE. And I got a few requests … one of which already warned me, “This is going to be a tough sell.”


And I know that. It’s got politics, and apparently no one wants touch politics. But I wrote the story I wanted to write, and if I end up self-publishing this one too, so be it. But I’d really like to get an agent out of this. I’ve been dreaming about being published since I was a child, and despite the explosion in self-publishing, it isn’t the same as being traditionally published.


I’ve learned a lot since I sent out that first query in 1992 – mainly because I’ve been working for a literary agent for the past year and a half, so I read several queries sent to her a week. (But only the ones that result in manuscript requests.) One detail I try to keep in mind is that a well-written query can feature a good story and still get rejected because it’s not something the agent is interested in, or it’s a genre that doesn’t sell, or it’s a genre that’s completely flooded. Rejections at this stage in the game are the easiest for me to handle, because I know they aren’t based on my project. The ones that come after the request for a full …. Those are tough.


Hope springs eternal, but I’m bracing myself for rejection. If I don’t get an agent for this project, I’ll look for small independent publishers before taking the self-published route again. And I’ve started my next book – a murder mystery that I’m hoping is more marketable than a book about politics. So please wish me luck!


In case you’re interested, my query letter is below:


Dear Ms. XXXX,


A lot of Democrats lost their jobs this Election Day … but not many are married to the next Rush Limbaugh! That’s the dilemma facing Erin Murphy, heroine of my light women’s fiction novel, THE SEESAW EFFECT.


When it comes to the work/life seesaw, Erin is a balancing-act expert. True, she works for Democrats while her husband Jack is a spokesman for Republicans, but at home they’re in sync. Their jobs stay at the office. Their children -- 13-year-old animal-nut Jessica and 8-year-old Batman-obsessed Michael – come first. And her career is just as important as his.


But on Election Day, everything changes. Suddenly, Erin is out of a job … and Jack is the new star of The Right Choice TV network! As Erin searches frantically for her next position, Jack begins to practice what he preaches. Their house turns into a battlefield: What’s wrong with saying “Merry Christmas” to their Jewish neighbors? How can there be global warming when it’s cold outside? Jessica takes her mother’s side (her father is a “disgusting planet murderer”), while Michael just thinks it’s cool that Dad’s on TV and he’s making a million dollars.


And Michael’s not the only one impressed with the family’s new money: Who are all these new people floating around Jack, and what do they want? As Erin’s friends take sides about what she should do with Jack 2.0, the only person who understands is a fellow stay-at-home parent: Scott. Scott is easy to look at, and just as frustrated with his marriage as Erin is…


But the biggest battle is Erin’s alone: Should she keep pounding the pavement? Or become a perfect trophy wife and mother that Jack now wants her to be? Without a title and a salary, how can Erin figure out who she really is?


THE SEESAW EFFECT is complete at 87,000 words. It will appeal to readers of Jane Porter (ODD MOM OUT), Jennifer Weiner (ALL FALL DOWN), Helen Fielding (BRIDGET JONES: MAD ABOUT THE BOY), and anyone who enjoys stories about life, love and parenting in the upscale suburbs. While many “momlit” books focus on mothers with babies, THE SEESAW EFFECT stands out by featuring a protagonist with teen and pre-teen children who have strong, vocal opinions about their parents.


Last year, I self-published a women’s fiction novel with a similar tone, KEEPING SCORE. KEEPING SCORE appeared on e-book bestseller lists several times, and has a 5-star average rating with 55 reviews on Amazon. Last fall, it reached number six on Amazon’s women’s fiction humor list, and number three on Barnes & Noble’s chick lit list. Before I started writing novels, I wrote screenplays for ten years (winning awards for some of them), and worked in marketing and public relations in Washington, D.C.


Along with my own writing, I’m also an editorial consultant and reader for the XXXX Agency in New York City, and an associate reviewer for the popular book web site, Chick Lit Central (www.chicklitcentral.com). My own opinions are found at www.jamideise.blogspot.com and @JamiDeise.


Per the guidelines on your website, I’ve pasted below my sig line my synopsis and first two chapters.


All the best,


Jami Deise

Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby – Stupid Movie, Serious Messages

This post is part of Deb Nam-Krane’s blog hop on stupid movies we love…


If there were a lifetime achievement award given to the movie actor who has made the most stupid movies, Will Ferrell would be a shoe-in. Everyone has their favorite: My son loves “Stepbrothers;” “Elf” has become a holiday classic. My favorite is “Talladega Nights” – not because it’s funnier than the others, (and despite all the annoying product placement) but because it relies on the standard sports movie tropes, emphasizing their truths in the process.

As a sports mom, I am particularly interested in these kinds of messages, messages that emphasize the lessons my husband and I tried to impart to our son when he struggled. Many sports movies, however, hit viewers over the head with those messages, becoming preachy and less entertaining.


It is very entertaining watching a man try to drive a car with a cougar in the back seat.


Talladega Nights’ hero, Ricky Bobby, was introduced to speed when his father hit dizzying heights driving his laboring mother to the hospital. Unfortunately, his father, Reese, left a few years later, but not before giving his son these words of wisdom: If you ain’t first, you’re last. The memory of those words and Ricky Bobby’s love for speed drove his racing career. He was at the top until an accident at the track left him with psychosomatic paralysis. In short order, his wife left him for his best friend Cal, his racing company fired him, and even after a knife to the leg proved he wasn’t “so paralyzed,” he was forced to move back in with his mother and two feral sons, and take a job delivering pizza. Eventually, though, thanks to the cougar, help from his mom, and a pep talk from his former assistant Susan, Ricky put together his own driving team for Talladega. He doesn’t win – he gets into an accident with his French rival, and they cross the finish line on foot, while gives Cal first place – but he learns all those important lessons that sports movies teach:


Winning isn’t everything.
 Losing isn’t everything.
 Don’t let success go to your head.
 Don’t listen to people who tell you you’re not good enough.
 Get back on the horse.
 Learn who you can trust, and who has their own agenda.
 Be open-minded toward those who are different.
 The brainy girl who gets you is a better bet that the self-centered hottie.



Did you miss the fact that universal lessons were being taught as you laughed at Ricky Bobby’s ridiculous dialogue and crazy situations? Probably. The jokes are hysterical. I could watch on a continuous loop Ricky Bobby running from the invisible fire while praying to every god known to modern man. (Okay, Tom Cruise is no longer a god.) And the list of funny quotes on IMDB is probably ten pages long.


But the reason why this movie resonates with audiences beyond teenage boys and men who love fart jokes is because Americans grow up on sports movies, and the lessons they teach are ones that we use in our daily lives, even if the only sports we’re involved in are the ones that entail sitting on the couch and watching other people play.


Next up: My very good friend Melissa Amster. I’m dying to see what movie she picked!

THE SEESAW EFFECT -- Election Day excerpt

Another excerpt from my almost done work-in-progress, THE SEESAW EFFECT, about what happens when a Democrat married to a Republican has to watch him become the next Rush Limbaugh. Progress on this work has taken a while... I started it during NaNoWriMo two years ago. As in, right when Obama got re-elected.

This morning sucks for Democrats, but it's no different than 2006. I saw this coming two years ago -- everyone should have. Things will get better. Remember what Martin Luther King Jr. said: The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

* * *

Jessica opened her mouth to protest, but then the camera closed in on Jack, and we were on our way.

“Good evening, America,” he said. “Tonight’s the night we’ve been waiting for for the past two years. Tonight’s the night we take back our country.”

I felt dread in my stomach as I looked at my husband’s eyes. He seemed to believe what he was saying.

In the end, it was as bad as I’d feared. Republicans took every close seat, and I spent the evening sending out press releases while watching Jack gloat on TV. Whenever a Democrat went down, he played the chorus from “Another One Bites the Dust.”

“Dad’s acting like an asshole,” Jessica complained.

“That’s what they’re paying him to do.”

Michael thought his dad being on TV was the coolest thing ever. He laughed at everything Jack said, even when he wasn’t trying to make a joke. And he gave me a hard time when I insisted that he go to bed at his normal bed time.

“But Dad –“

“I’m DVRing it,” I assured him. “You’ll be able to watch the whole thing again tomorrow if you want. You can watch it again every day for the rest of your life if you want.”

“What. Ever,” he said. At the next commercial, he trudged off to bed.

“I don’t get it, Mom,” Jessica said. “How could all those Republicans win? I don’t even know any Republicans, except Dad. And most of the time I think he’s faking.”

“Republicans are good at scaring the crap out of people. And scared people are more likely to vote than people who are content.”

“Then why aren’t you scaring the crap out of people?” she demanded. “The entire planet is going to melt because of global warming. You’re supposed to be getting people elected to stop that. But you didn’t!”

There’s nothing like having your teenage daughter blame you for the destruction of the entire planet to really put your failures into perspective.

Right at 11pm, Jack gleefully called the final contested races on the west coast. I sent out the last of my press releases, and Jessica headed off to bed. When TRC replaced “You Vote, We Report” with a repeat of their headline show “Tempest in a Teacup,” I texted Jack: “Great job. When do you think you’ll be coming home?”

I cleaned up the kitchen, brushed my teeth, changed into my pajamas and set the alarm. By the time I fell asleep, I still hadn’t heard back from him.

Chapter Five

When my alarm blared at 6, I rolled over, but Jack still wasn’t there. I grabbed my phone – he had texted me around 2:00am:

“Party still going on. Staying at hotel tonight.”

Fabulous. I guess I should be grateful he had at least bothered to text me.

I dragged the kids out of bed and made sure they were getting ready. Mercedes took over at 7:00am, and I left for work.

The sun was shining and everything seemed normal – the stop lights still worked, although traffic itself was light. Walking down the sidewalk to my office, I noticed a feeling of gloom in the air. Everyone I passed had slumped shoulders and a dazed look on their face. It wasn’t surprising – at its heart, Washington D.C. is a Democratic town. Sure, there are plenty of Republican congressional staffers and lobbyists, but mostly the idealists who move here to change the world tend to vote blue.

At the office, there was a huge spread of donuts, coffee and bagels in the conference room. My colleagues were chowing down, but Ken was nowhere in sight.

“This is a surprise,” I told Robyn as I eyed the donuts. “A celebration after we got the shit kicked out of us last night?”

“The chocolate glazed ones are filled with vanilla cream,” she said. “I think I’m going to eat every single one of them.”

“The powdered white ones have chocolate cream in them,” I said. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

“I’ll just have one of each.” She snatched several onto a plate.

What the hell. I grabbed a glazed one. Didn’t Weight Watchers say donuts had the same amount of points as bagels?

“How’s your resume looking?” Robyn asked.

“I … what… the election was yesterday!”

“You’re right. We should have started looking months ago.”

I crammed the donut into my mouth. And then I grabbed another one.

About ten minutes later, Ken walked in, trying to swallow a smirk. Ordinarily a happy boss would be a good thing, but I didn’t trust Ken. He wasn’t one of us, and every so often he’d let us know it.

“Is everyone here?” he asked, clapping his hands together.

Mike looked around. “Everyone but Randi. She’s on the phones.”

“Have her set it to voice mail and come join us,” Ken instructed.

I felt a pit in my stomach that had nothing to do with those donuts. Mike brought in Randi, who looked as pale as one of the white powdered ones.

Ken motioned for us to sit down. Robyn shoved another donut in her mouth.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Ken said. “I just got off the phone with the chairman of the board. Considering the results of last night’s elections, they feel our organization is, as he put it, ‘a pointless waste of money.’”

There were several indignant gasps around the table.

“As such,” Ken continued, “they’ve pulled all our funding, effective immediately.”

No one said anything for several moments. Then Randi raised her hand and asked, “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means we’re done,” Robyn snapped. “This organization no longer exists.”

“We have until five o’clock today to clean everything out,” Ken said. “Everyone is getting two weeks’ severance pay and one free counseling session with a job counseling service. I am not sure about your health benefits. I don’t believe COBRA is in effect when an organization folds. But thank God for Obamacare, right?

“I am terribly sorry. You are all wonderful workers and I don’t think any of you will have a problem finding another job. Of course I’ll be happy to provide a reference.

“Please, take your time getting everything together. If you have a company laptop, I’ll need you to turn it in before you leave. And, oh -- have as many donuts as you’d like.”

He left, closing the door behind him. Several of my now ex-colleagues burst into tears.

Robyn just looked mad. “So he doesn’t think any of us will have any trouble finding a job? Does he have any idea how many Democrats are losing their jobs today? There aren’t going to be any jobs out there for any of us!” She shoved several donuts into her purse and stormed out.

My entire body went numb. I stood frozen for several minutes as everyone else cried or ate donuts, or both. My heart pounded throughout my entire body, right down to my feet. My chest heaved in and out. When I realized I was hyperventilating, I forced myself to sit down and breathe deeply.

It was only a job.

I’d get another one.

Jack had a good job.

We were going to be fine.

I took a deep breath and got back up.

All the donuts were gone.

I spent the rest of the morning getting files off my laptop, packing up the few personal items I had in the office, and trying to reach Jack. His phone must have died – my calls were
going straight to voice mail and my text messages weren’t being marked as “delivered.”

I was beyond annoyed.

Since it only took two hours to pack up everything I had done in the past three years, I spent some time revising my resume and sending out emails. I had a sinking feeling that a lot of my contacts were in the same position I was. That would make a bad situation even worse – there would be a lot of competition for the few jobs available for professional Democrats.

After exchanging goodbye hugs and contact information with everyone else, I headed to Robyn’s office. She hadn’t packed up anything. Her space always looked like she was auditioning for a business version of the “Hoarders” TV show, and all her little piles were still in place.

“Do you want me to bring you a trash can?” I joked.

She didn’t seem to think it was funny. “All of that stuff’s important. I’m taking it with me.”

“Did you rent a truck? Because you’re not going to be able to get all that stuff on the Metro.”

Robyn sighed. She looked around her office like Sophie regarding her children.

“Bring it,” she mumbled.

I came back with the biggest trash can I could find. Robyn began tossing in her piles of paper without even looking at what she was throwing away.

“What’s the point? This job is over. There’s nothing here I’ll ever need again.”

“If I hear of anything…” I started.

“I’m thinking about going out on my own,” she said.

“Wow.” I couldn’t imagine doing that; being that brave.

“By the way, Jack was really funny last night. He looked pretty good, too. I bet he’s pretty full of himself today.

“But how can you be married to someone who thinks that way?”

“He doesn’t really,” I assured her. “It’s the job. And last night, he was playing a part.”

“Then he should get an Emmy.”

I got home a little after 1:00pm. Mercedes was sprawled out on our white leather couch, watching a soap opera and eating Cheez Doodles.

“Mrs. Murphy!” she cried, dropping the bag and spilling the curls all over the sofa. “I was not expecting you so early! And with so many boxes!”

Thank God I hadn’t caught her with a sex toy.

I helped her clean up the mess, then broke the news: “I lost my job.”

“Oh no,” she gasped, her hand to her mouth. Her orange-dust-covered hand. “But you work so hard. You do such a good job.”

The only thing she knew about my hard work was how often I came home late, but I was desperate for compliments, so I took them.

“It wasn’t just me. It was the whole office. We’re being shut down.”

She pushed the bag of Cheez Doodles at me. Despite all the donuts I’d had this morning, I took a generous handful. Then another. After all, I hadn’t had lunch.

Mercedes helped me carry the boxes upstairs to the office that Jack and I shared. It wasn’t that big to begin with, and by the time we were done, all the boxes on the floor made it look that much smaller.

“You want me to help you unpack?” Mercedes asked.

I shook my head. “I’m not quite ready to deal with any of this now.”

“I’m sure you’ll find another job real soon.”

Then it hit me. What I had to do. I washed the Cheez Doodle dust off my hands and face. When I went back downstairs, Mercedes was in the kitchen, surveying the contents of the refrigerator.

“What you want for dinner?” she asked.

“You know, Mercedes… I think I can handle making dinner on my own now.”

“Oh.”

A long silence, and then she asked, “You probably can handle children on your own now too?”

“I think so, Mercedes. At least until I find another job.”

“I wait for you, then.”

“Mercedes… no. You need to look for another job. If I find one first, I can hire you back. But right now… without my salary, I can’t afford to pay you. You understand, right?”

She nodded, smiling, but her eyes were filled with tears.

I gave her my severance check. After all, she was going to need it more than we would.

After Mercedes left, I went back into the office and unpacked my boxes. Funny how what seemed important at work didn’t seem all that necessary here at home. I looked through my old press clippings, press releases, newsletters. Was any of this stuff going to help me get another job?

Around 3, I heard Jessica bounding up the stairs. “Mom? Are you here?”

“I’m in the office.”

She poked her head in. “What are you doing here? And where’s Mercedes?”

I stood up and brushed the dirt off my skirt. I should have changed when I got home. On the other hand, I probably wouldn’t be wearing business clothes for a while.

“My office closed.”

“For the election? You got a day off?”

“No… I mean, for good. I don’t have a job anymore.”

“What! Why? You were doing something important!”

“Apparently, the board didn’t think so. We lost the election so dramatically, they don’t think the country cares about environmental issues anymore.”

“What does it matter what the country cares about! This country is full of stupid people who watch TV every night and vote for the best singer or the best dancer and think Election Day is the same thing! The planet is going to die! It’s going to die and no one is doing anything to stop it!”

Jessica started crying. I couldn’t believe it. She cared more about my job than I did.

“I did the best I could,” I said. “We all did.”

She dragged her palms down her face to wipe the tears away. “Where’s Mercedes?”

“She went home.”

“Is she coming back tomorrow?”

“No, Jess… she’s going to be looking for a new job, just like I am. And she’ll probably find one a lot quicker than me. Nannies are always in demand.” Maybe I should become a nanny.

“So I’m never going to see her again?”

“I told her if I found a job before she did, I’d hire her back in a heartbeat.”

“That’s not going to happen! You just said, everyone needs babysitters!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d get so upset.”

“Why not? The woman practically raised me, I’ll probably never see her again, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Why on earth would I be upset?”

Jessica ran into her room, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

Practically raised her? Those words hurt. Sure, Mercedes was there for the day-to-day stuff, but I was there …. At night! Mostly. I was the one who took her to the doctor and the dentist. I was the one she told her problems to.

Maybe she told them to Mercedes, as well.

Maybe the day-to-day stuff was more important than I’d thought.

Luckily, I didn’t get the same kind of freak out from Michael.

“If you lost your job, does that mean you can take me to the soccer try-out tomorrow?”

“Oh my god,” Jessica shrieked from her room. “Why is it always about you?”

“I guess so,” I said. “It doesn’t look like I’ve got anything else planned.”

Michael literally jumped for joy. “This is the best day in my entire life!” He threw his arms around my waist.

At least one child appreciated me.

Jack still wasn’t picking up. I even called the office line a few times, but the receptionist couldn’t find him either, although she assured me he’d made it in that morning. A more concerned wife might have worried that her husband had been in an accident and was bleeding anonymously in a hospital somewhere. I just wondered which blunt instrument I’d use to kill him when he finally got home.

With time on my hands for the first time in years, I thought I’d cook a real meal for dinner. Kids Taxi came to take the kids to their respective practices, so I had the house all to myself again. It echoed, and felt kind of lonely.

I pulled out my favorite chicken recipes and went through the ingredients. Unfortunately, most of the recipes called for fresh herbs or vegetables that I didn’t have. I thought about making a quick run to Giant, but even a quick run would cost me an hour. Instead, I pulled out a few cans of condensed soup and poured it over chicken.

Mommy fail.

The kids reappeared around 6, sticky and sweaty. Jack still wasn’t home, and I was starting to get worried.

“Run upstairs and take showers,” I told them. “Dinner will be on the table when you’re done.”

“Why?” Michael whined. “You never made us take showers before dinner before!”

“I was never home before you before,” I said. “Now get hopping.”

“I hope you find a job fast,” Jessica said.

“That makes two of us.”

The kids were still upstairs when Jack finally rolled through the door. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes, but the suit didn’t look nearly as good as it did when he’d first put it on. He looked like he’d spent the entire day celebrating.

“Your team won,” I said. “I get it. Time to get back to earth. You could have charged your phone. Or checked your messages.”

“Oh, you’re not cooking, are you? I wanted to take everyone out to celebrate.”

“The celebration’s over. Of the four people in this family, two are very upset about the election, one doesn’t care, and then there’s you. Who’s obviously done enough celebrating.”

“I’m not talking about the election. And how did you get home early?”

I took a deep breath. “The board closed us down. I lost my job.”

I’d been expecting a lot of different reactions, but not this. Jack burst into laughter. Crazy, maniacal laughter.

“What the hell is so funny about unemployment? I thought things were supposed to get better with Republicans in control.”

Tears streamed down Jack’s face. He ran into the bathroom – presumably to keep from peeing in his pants. He came back just as I pulled the chicken out.

“That’s what we’re having tonight? Ugh. Hey, why don’t I take us all out to Ruth Chris.”

Jessica and Michael padded in time to hear the offer.

“I don’t want to go to some fancy restaurant,” Michael said.

“I don’t eat red meat,” Jessica added.

“Then maybe you two bozos can stay here and your mom and I can go out.”

“She’s not watching me!” Michael shrieked.

“Sure I will. For twenty bucks an hour.”

“I just want to stay home tonight,” I said. “It’s already past six, and I’m hungry, and everyone else is ready to eat. Jessica, can you set the table?”

“Whatever.” She opened the cabinet and pulled out plates.

“So Jack,” I said, “maybe you can tell me why you thought it was so funny that I lost my job today.”
“It’s just one of those bizarre coincidences. I lost my job too.”

My stomach dropped to the floor. This wasn’t possible. Jack’s party had won. Why would they fire him? Because of something he said on TV? How would we survive? We had savings but it wouldn’t last us two months.

Then I realized Jack was grinning. And he had said he wanted to celebrate.

“How did you lose your job?” I asked.

Jack pulled a folded set of papers out of his suit jacket. “The American Business Association refused to match the offer that TRC made me.”

“What offer was that?”

The grin ate his face. “A million dollars to host my own TV show.”

“A million dollars!” Michael screamed. “We’re going to be millionaires!”

“You wouldn’t believe the calls they got last night,” Jack bragged. “America wants me. America loves me.”

“Well, the white, angry disgruntled America that watches TRC,” I said.

“Thanks, Erin. I really appreciate the support.”

“And I appreciate being the last person you told about this. Thanks a lot, Jack. Were you worried I might try to talk you out of it?”

“No, babe. I wanted to tell you in person. I wanted to see the look on your face when I said, ‘a million dollars.’ Guess I should have just called.”

I was too ashamed and hurt to say anything else. The kids stared at us, waiting to see who would hurl the next verbal lightning bolt.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Jack finally said. “Get started on dinner without me.”

So we did.

While we ate, I could hear Jack’s cell phone go off repeatedly, and the sound of his voice. He was happy, taking congratulations.

“We really should move to L.A.,” Jessica said. “That would be best for Daddy’s career.”

“I’m pretty sure Daddy’s show tapes right here in D.C.”

“Maybe they’d change it. If we asked really nicely. And then maybe one of those Disney shows would be looking for girls like me…”

“No one wants to see you on TV,” Michael grumbled. “You’re not cute enough. You have to be little and cute. Or hot.”

“Hey,” I snapped, “Don’t talk to your sister like that.”

“No, he’s right,” Jessica said. “I’m too old to be cute. So I have to work on being hot.”

When Jack finally came down, his chicken was cold. He poured himself a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

“What did your friends think about me being on TV last night?” Jack asked the kids.

“My friends don’t watch TRC,” Jessica said.

“My friends weren’t watching the election,” Michael added.

“I think my friends might have been impressed,” I said, “But they were too upset about losing their jobs.”

“When does your show start, Daddy?” Jessica asked.

“December first,” Jack said as he shoveled cereal in his mouth. “It’s called ‘The Business of America.’ It’s all about where business and politics intersect. I’m going to be talking with business leaders and politicians with a business background.”

“Oh my god, that sounds so boring,” Jessica complained. “No one’s going to watch it.”

“You’re not exactly my target audience.”

“Why can’t you interview superheroes or athletes or movie stars?” Michael asked.

“Maybe I will,” Jack said. “If they’re Republicans.”

“They’re not,” I said. “What time does the show air?”

“Six o’clock, five nights a week. Not prime time, but not two a.m. either.”

“So you’re never going to be here for dinner ever again?” Michael asked.

“The show tapes at three. But apparently taping can take up to three hours. So, yeah, looks like you’re going to be on your own for dinner for a while.”

“Did you think about that,” Jessica asked quietly, “before you took the job?”

“Hey, your father’s going to be on TV,” Jack snapped. “That’s pretty cool. Why don’t you think about that. And here’s another thing you can think about – a million dollars. That’s pretty cool, too.”

Jessica’s eyes filled with tears. I grabbed her hand under the kitchen table and squeezed it.

“And another thing,” Jack added. “A million dollars means your mom doesn’t have to work. So she’ll be here for every dinner, every basketball game, every school play. How does that sound?”

“Terrific!” Michael shouted.

“Horrible,” Jessica screamed. She dropped my hand and ran out, tears streaming down her face. “We don’t even do plays!”

After he wolfed down his cereal, Jack retreated into the living room, where he proceeded to make and return more congratulatory calls. It was like one big happy circle jerk Republican love fest. Michael went into the family room to do his homework, and I stayed in the kitchen and cleaned up. Ordinarily on the rare nights when I cook, Jack does the dishes without being prodded, but there was nothing ordinary about tonight.
His happy voice was booming and loud and giving me a headache. I wanted to be a good, helpful, supportive spouse. But I couldn’t help the jealousy that was coursing through my body. Jack got the job of a lifetime, and the paycheck to boot. And I got canned. It sucked.

When I finished cleaning up the kitchen, I went upstairs to check on Jessica. She was lying on her bed, cell phone in hand. The tears were gone, but her face was still streaked.

“Why does he have to be so mean?” she asked.

I sat down next to her and stroked her back. “He is very excited about his new job. He wanted us to be just as excited.”

“It is exciting. But he didn’t seem to care that you lost your job, or that he wouldn’t see us at nights anymore.”

“He will. Once things calm down. He’ll go back to normal.”

She put down her cell phone and looked at me.

“Are you really going to be a stay-at-home mom?”

“Well, I won’t be going back to work tomorrow!”

“Really, Mom. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, Jess. But I am going to get another job. I can tell you that much.”
Jessica smiled. “That’s good. You’re too important to stay at home.”

I shut her bedroom door and headed into the office. The boxes were where I’d left them – the detritus of my career.

I had always worked. From my first internship at Ketchum Public Relations while I was at Georgetown, a few years as a press secretary on the Hill, back to another public relations firm, then to the world of non-profits and associations, I’d always had a job. I’d never been laid off; I’d only quit when I had a better opportunity. I took a week off for my honeymoon (Jack and I met in a bar on Capitol Hill; how appropriate) and six weeks with each baby. And that maternity leave was in name only; I was on the phone and sending out emails within hours of being sewn up.

I went from being a striving young Hill staffer with a boyfriend and plenty of friends, to a married woman who double-dated with other married co-workers, to a working mom who spent coffee hours commiserating with other women in the same situation. One by one -- usually after the birth of the second child -- these women would drop out of the labor force. Their stories were all quite similar. Their bosses were understanding about the constant doctors’ appointments, late nannies, and snow days, but not that understanding. And their husbands’ jobs had exploded, with travel every week, promotions and huge paychecks. And then there was a nanny crisis or a sick baby and it just made sense that Lisa, or Kristine, or Vicki be the one to quit her job so their children would have a parent they could rely on.

It hadn’t happened to me. Jack had always been supportive at home and flexible at work. He married me for my brain, and he loved our pillow talk, sharing the gossip we’d heard that day. Who was running. Who was sleeping with whom. Who was about to get fired.

Without a job, I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who my marriage was.

I had to find something, and fast.

Jack crawled into bed hours after me, but I was still awake, staring at the ceiling. He kissed my shoulder, and put his head on my chest.

“Do both my girls hate me?”

“Hate is a very strong word. One is upset that she won’t see as much of you, and the other is jealous as hell.”

“Maybe I can get The Right Choice to hire you, too,” Jack suggested. “Kind of a point/counter point thing. Like that old SNL skit with Jane Curtain.”

“They’d make me look like an idiot. They made Alan Dershowitz look like an idiot. The magic of editing and cut-aways.”

“Alan Dershowitz is –“

“Don’t go there!”

“Okay.” He kissed the back of my hand. “This is going to be good for us, Erin. For all of us. You’ll see.”

I didn’t know about all of us. But it would certainly be good for him.