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Last Edit January 31, 1999 Note: I am still writing this piece. I have been asked, "How did you first get hooked on Fabio?"It was easy. I am, first and foremost, a frustrated novelist. I have wanted to write novels since I was about 15 years old. That was in 1957. But writing was not considered a reliable way to earn a living. I was put in math and science classes. Sputnik hovered over our heads. If only I had had support, who knows what I could have done? But then, I would not have life stripes, as Joan Rivers calls them, to enrich my work. I like that concept, especially with the new life stripe wending its merry way down the center of my abdomen. Quick! I need a QVC fix! And I did. Call QVC. Joan was on this week-end. Right after the pitch to "Take control of your finances". Right. Uh huh! That works for me! Well, in 1993, I thought could see the light at the end of the boy-tunnel and thought it was time for Mother to begin working on her real fantasy - becoming a writer. At any rate, being at that this point, 17 years into single parenthood with two active boys, one of which required my attention 24 hours a day and 7 days a week (the elder of the two), I had come to the decision that escaping for a few hours to a writing class or a short Saturday at the local San Diego Writer's Conference at the Local California State campus, was just not enough. I needed something more. Made sense to me. Really did. This was 1993. I had, when my first-born was in a cradle, written a Star-Trek novel, Jettison, that had been in and out of agent's hands and kept getting misplaced by Pocket books. They now have four copies. Still have them. After eleven years of this, an editor there decided to buy it. But I needed to do a rewrite. I said, gullible dreamer that I am, "Sure." My agent, more fool he, did nothing to close the deal. Within four weeks, the editor, who had also promised to "but any thing I wrote", was replaced by a man who promptly dropped the project. My cars now had license plates, Kashin for the warrior women of my world, and Tzara for the Vulcan priestess of that world. My cars still have these plates. I have three cars. I recently found a printout of that book, and started reading it. It's 400 pages. I was into page 30 when I realized I had been hooked by my own book! It is done! I will not change it again! I will self-publish it one of these days! It is a GOOD book! So I am happy. By now I had two children to raise, single again, and had stopped running Star Trek conventions. Seemed I couldn't go to one unless I made at least three costumes. That last Captain Kirk suit from Wrath of Kahn with its intricate white facing and edging and snaps took 40 hours and won first prize at the Boston Bash one year. My brother was hinting I should make one for him. I had dressed an ex-husband. I had been in full make-up, professionally done, dressed as T'zara, a female Spock and my heroine. I had even begun Hellsfire, the sequel. One of these days I will locate it (it is not on disk) and will finish it. It was a very complex story. Still resides in my head. My Star Trek collection ($$$$$) resides in my garage. Restless, having read hundreds of science fiction novels and attended several science fiction conventions, I moved on to mysteries, and then period works. I am a fan of PBS. A BIG fan. And I "discovered" romance novels. Growing up, romance novels were considered trashy and not worth buying. "Lower class." "Smut." Etc. One of many prejudices that I was raised with that have been slowly gotten rid of as I progress through life. Picking up my stripes. True, some romance novels are hard porn in a pink wrapper or damn close to it. But the bulk are not. At least not the ones I was reading. I discovered that my heart was in the regency period. Gentle love stories. An outgrowth of the battered wife syndrome I suppose. Before this, I had dabbled with a contemporary novel, Crossed Sabers - one an agent asked me to rewrite (80,000 words and I have not had the time). Reviewers of both of these first two books told me I could write. I could create good stories. They could "hear" the characters. It was enough encouragement. I then began to put together a regency. Or two. Or three. Earl for Ellie, 60,000 words, under edit; Requiem for Amelia, begun as a script in a screenwriting class, becoming a novel, Amelia nags me now and then. You might say she haunts me. Ellie just reminds me now and then that she is unpolished. "Lacks Tonne," is the correct expression. There is Lord for Lucinda, in which I've forgotten the plot (it is on disk). And the new one battering me about the head and shoulders, Three of a Kind. And notes on a dozen others. They have joined my 17 drafted science fiction short stories and other gems. I had discovered Romantic Times Magazine along the way. I was still getting Writer's Digest, and Analog. I read Omni, Azimov, and several authors I know - like Greg Bear (we did a Start Trek convention commercial together).I was trying, amid the Boy Scout activities, work , house, and daily living, to keep the flame alive. Persistent. Yes. Determined. Well, maybe. Hopeful, Yes. There was this convention coming up. Right down the street. I would not have to leave home. It was the 1993 Romantic Times Romance Writer's Convention. I waffled. I wavered. I signed up. I got a room at a motel on the beach - not the main event one since I was a late registrant. I would be 20 minutes from home. Time to test the boys. "You deserve it, Mom." This from my eldest, who had just begun to realize what a handful he had been. And was being. He has his moments. I would call home. I was close. I would escape. Three days. I decided to do it. Nike influences me. I hauled my trusty MacIIci (the one I am still using) and its monitor and keyboard with me. I went. There was also this little blurb about the fan club. And some guy called Fabio. Whom I had never heard of. Whom I had never seen. Remember I was reading Regencies. And Agatha Christie. P. D. James. Anne Perry. Tony Hillerman. Colin Dexter. Margary Allingham. Martha Grimes. Marion Zimmer Bradley. Andre Norton. "The Cat Who...." series. Nagio Marsh. Not to mention rereading Jane Austin at regular intervals. The last two actors playing Darcy, Colin Firth being the last, have entertained me many an evening. So I had no clue. I thought it would be a lark. The day of the fan club meeting, I arrived in the mist to get on a boat (real steam-wheeler) and stood in line near the shore. We waited. I was early - so I was in the front. I had never witnessed this phenomena before. The level of excitement was intriguing. But I was just curious. I had been writing and enjoying myself between sessions. Mostly I was delighted to be out of the house! But I had received my official fan club membership card (I still carry it). Hot! OK. I can handle this. "He" finally strolled by on the way to the boat, hair flowing back. Smiling. I got a shot of him with my Polaroid.. OK. I can handle this. I watched as they had him lift someone over on the boat for the cameras. I heard women complain he was going to hurt his back doing that all the time. My first indication that these women could switch back and forth from care-giver to rabid romantic in a heartbeat. OK. I can handle this. We were finally led in and I grabbed a pink gilt chair near the front and sat down with a bunch of strangers. I am armed at this point, with three cameras. Now, normally, I am actually a little shy. Even though I have taught classes for over 20 years in companies and on campus. It takes about 20 minutes for me to catch my breath and breath normally at the beginning of every class. So I am proud of myself for arriving in the first place and being comfortable with strangers in the second. . I don't have long to feel smug. The man strolls in, right by me, close enough to touch. I see his hands, his walk, the way he moves. He blew me away. I haven't dated in a long time. I know a 6'3" blond gentleman - he is no longer blond I fear - and he never dated me - and he married someone else. But we had worked together, had lunch, regaled each other with stories of our respective children, flirted harmlessly and were never uninvolved at the same time. It's a love story that didn't have a chance. I carried that torch for 13 years. No man had ever measured up so I didn't mind that with my boys and my schedule, dating was not an option. I thought I was old enough to be over all that. I was dead wrong! I was just dormant! Fabio had that same "I know who I am and am comfortable with it" walk. The one that signals that this man is safe to be around. Broad shoulders. Trim. Clean. Well-dressed. Brilliant smile. Deep voice. Lovely accent. He says a few words - and is promptly mobbed. There is no way to get a photo. And I want some. I , the consummate professional, the woman with the Ph.D. in Computer Science, ended up standing on a fragile pink cushioned gilt spindly chair so I could get photos. Put that in the "I went suddenly insane" category. And women suddenly lined up to hand me their cameras. There was a sea of arms with cameras in them. I took tuns, one for them, one for me. Every time I raised a camera to shoot, after figuring out how - he dropped into a pose facing my camera. It was magic. He has an inner instinct. He is a pro. No question. This went on for the prescribed interval of an hour. (At least I think it was an hour. It went fast.) Most women filed out on their way to other events. I screwed up my reticent nerves, having managed to not fall ungracefully off the chair, and clutching my Polaroids to my chest, dared to wait for those few who were getting autographs and talking with him. I was near the end., if not the end of the line. I asked for an autograph. He said, "Sure." He looked over the pictures, puzzled, and said, "When did you take these?" I was happy to mumble that I had taken them as he walked in. He picked out and signed two Polaroids for me and was just such a polite gentle soul. I floated back to my room. I write great love sceanes when inspired. And this week, I discovered that, whenever I see Fabio, I write 25,000 words minimum! Don't know why! Some kind of writer's aphrodisiac. There was also a bachelor parade - the first cover model contest - being held at this convention. Of course I was going. I went in costume. All those years of sewing Star Fleet uniforms and other variations on that theme. As I have said before, I have photos that those guys will regret some day if they ever get out of my hands! I laughed myself silly. Until Fabio strode out on the stage in the intermission to speak and pick up an award. And another woman. Then I went to the stage, camera in hand, plowed my way as close as possible, got some shots. Smitten again! The women I was hanging out with and I went to get the dinner - in San Diego we eat out of doors a lot - nice weather - and noticed a slight commotion. FABIO was loose. In that close fitting black cowboy outfit of his. We stalked him. I have the pictures to prove it. My first encounter with those arms. That chest. He grabs me under his right arm. It's my favorite place in the world. He had them take two photos. Good thing. I had my eyes closed for one. I had it blown up and framed anyway. In real life, he is VERY alpha (which explains why women fall for him at a glance), strong minded, and still polite and courteous. Quite a gentleman! Quite a combination! Except when he went after my coffee. (I really am trying to give it up. I am. I am.) I've seen him several times since that time in 1993 in San Diego - and written a lot of stories and pieces of novels. All the books I am/was working on have heroes that are 6'3" of course. One hero even has an accent. They are awaiting my relocation closer to work. I have a 3-hour commute (total daily driving). Hampers major work like novels. The web stories are my link to sanity. Creativity will out. Fabio does remember people. He was getting to recognize me - he even flirted a bit from the stage at the Nashville meeting. I totally lost my brains there. Sat on his knee! So on our "date", since it had been 3.5 years since all this, I brought photos from all previous encounters. That's when I asked him if I was a stalker or a fan. And he softly said, in that low deep voice of his, "A fan." I've written well over 45 short stories since August. OK. I can handle this. |
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