Monday, March 31, 2008

This Writer's Life


The gift of journaling was something I learned from Julia Cameron in both The Artist's Way and The Right To Write, two books that I recommend to anyone with the desire to connect with their inner creative force.

Journaling allows me to quiet the negative voice I hear in my head. I think we each have a version of this voice the negative one that tells you that: you're not smart enough, talented enough, thin enough, curvy enough, pretty enough, strong enough, wealthy enough, or any other enough of which you are fearful you are lacking.

In my journal pages I allow that over-critical negative voice to 'run free' to whine, kvetch, moan, hiss, yell, and say anything that pops into my mind. Censor off. My journal pages are the open range. Three pages that usually takes a half hour. Three pages of pen to page free form writing...little of it making much sense but somehow clearing my mind of the negative voice so I can write my stories. There are absolutely no rules within the pages of my journal. Nothing is off limits, every thought that enters my mind hits the page.

Once I've completed this exercise, for me, my demons for the day, my fears and frustrations are vanquished...or at least feel heard, so that now I can focus on the important part of my day. My writing.
xo Maggie

Friday, March 28, 2008

Melissa Walker

Today please join me in welcoming Melissa Walker author of the Violet Series to the blog.

Hollywood Candids

While I don’t envy celebrities their lack of privacy or their must-stay-thin-and-beautiful mentality, there are a few things about their lives that I could get into. You know, the money, the fashion, the great last-minute restaurant reservations…

And at the risk of sounding narcissistic, I wish I had an authentic photo of myself. I’m so doofy in pictures (see faux quirky one here) that sometimes I wish for an ultra-flattering, unposed shot. The kind the paparazzi get when they use those huge telefoto lenses from 1000 feet while a star is joyfully living life, unaware, as gorgeous pictures get snapped. Wouldn’t a series of those be fun to have in an album?

I recently learned about Methodlzaz, a style of photography by Brooklyn-based Izaz Rony, and I may just get my wish. Basically, Izaz takes down your weekly schedule and then you go about your day – working, running errands, dining out, shopping. A photographer assigned to you takes undercover photos on the sly. You won’t even realize s/he’s there.

Okay, some of you are thinking that’s slightly creepy, right? But how cool are some of his gallery photos? (See some samples here: You can even request the emotion or mood you want the photographer to capture.

I fantasize that with Izaz I’ll find my authentic, smiling, breezy self, at least photographically. The photos are like works of art -- moments in time of your real life. And I’ll feel like a celebrity for a day (as long as he edits out the double chin shots).

Anyone with me?

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Lisa Daily and Fifteen Minutes of Shame

Maggie and I met last year, just after the debut of her deliciously gossipy novel, Hollywood Girls Club, so I was honored when she asked me to do a guest blog for the debut of my novel, Fifteen Minutes of Shame – a story about what happens when America’s favorite TV relationships guru finds out her husband is cheating – live on national television.

Maggie is a former Hollywood agent writing about Hollywood and agents. I am a current TV dating expert, writing about, well the not-so-picture-perfect lives of TV love experts.

Most of it is fiction. We’re just not going to tell you which parts.

Here’s an excerpt from my new book, Fifteen Minutes of Shame

Hope you enjoy!



Chapter 1
“I’m utterly humiliated.”
I hiss this to my best friend Jules, as I squat behind the smelly dumpster of a Gas-N-Go, trying to sneak a glimpse of my husband without getting caught.
He glances in the general direction of the dumpster and I panic. I nearly fall over backwards and accidentally drop my cell phone into a murky puddle. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and I fear toxic waste, or worse, old convenience store hot-dog water as I fish out my phone and wipe it off on my sweatpants. It leaves a sort of greenish smear, and I don’t even want to imagine what it could be.
Last week I was on national television, wearing a cute little non-mommy outfit and my favorite pair of Christian Louboutins, talking about how every woman deserves a fabulous life, and how they too can snag the man of their dreams. This week I’m crouching in filth, looking a lot like a homeless person because I forgot it was my turn to drive carpool this morning and I rushed out of the house wearing dirty sweatpants, the “Who’s Your Daddy?” t-shirt I slept in and a pair of sparkly pink flip-flops. I can’t remember brushing my hair. Or my teeth.
“Are you there?” I whisper to Jules, “sorry, I dropped the phone.”
“What on this earth are you doin’?” she asks, in that honey-dipped drawl all men melt for. Jules is a flesh and blood, eighth-generation Southern belle. She hasn’t left the house without earrings since puberty. Any two-hour car ride with her includes a picnic basket fully stocked with ham biscuits. She’s always polite, and she’s always enviable. Jules would never be caught squatting behind a dumpster spying on her husband in her pajamas.
The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing.
“He’s supposed to be in Atlanta.” I can feel myself rambling, “I packed his suitcase myself.”
“Are you absolutely sure it’s him?” Jules responds gently, “maybe it’s just someone who looks a lot like him.”
“You mean like an evil twin?” I crack, “no, I saw him straight on. It’s Will.”
Something is definitely up. Will exits the store carrying a small paper bag. He looks both ways before stepping off the curb and then opens the door of his silver SUV and slides into the driver’s seat. What’s in the bag? I wonder. Condoms? A microwave burrito?
“Maybe he’s taking a later flight,” Jules offered.
“Maybe.” I don’t think so. We live in Sarasota, a small city with a small airport. Usually the first flight is the last flight. Plus, Will does this Atlanta trip at least once a week for a liquor client based in Georgia. His flight leaves at eight-thirty-seven in the morning and he usually makes it home the next morning around the same time.

“Damn.” I can’t decide if I should hop back in my car and follow him to see where he’s going, or throw myself in front of his car so he knows he’s been busted. I panic and the moment passes. He drives off, and I stand, frozen in my puddle of muck until his car passes the intersection. My big opportunity to catch him the act of whatever’s keeping him from Atlanta has vanished. I feel like a jerk, but I don’t know if I could stomach whatever I might learn.
Normally, Will is not the kind of husband you worry about. He’s a blue-suit-wearing/sex-on-Friday/baseball-on-Saturday kind of guy. But my imagination starts churning and I envision all sorts of sinister possibilities: He’s having an affair. He’s an undercover agent for the CIA. He’s lost his biggest client and he’s too chicken-shit to tell me. I feel the early tinglings of panic.
“Or,” says Jules, “maybe his trip just got cancelled.” Leave it to Jules to be rational. “Why don’t you call him?”
Why don’t I call him? Genius! Jules is a genius! I’ll just call him and he’ll explain everything and we’ll laugh about the whole thing. I hang up with Jules and speed-dial Will. No answer. Crap.
His phone clicks over to voicemail immediately, which means the damned thing isn’t even turned on.
I get back into my car, which is parked high-speed-chase-style behind the dumpster. (Okay, so I wasn’t exactly focused on my parallel parking skills this morning when I swerved into the Gas-N-Go.) I was driving home after dropping off our carpool kids at school and almost drove over the median when I saw Will’s car pull into the parking lot.
As I head home, I try to clear my mind and think rationally. I take a deep breath and try to figure out how I’ve gone from “happily ever after” to panicking that my husband is an international terrorist/philanderer/pathological liar within the space of a few minutes.
It’s probably nothing. Crap, it’s definitely something.
I pull into our gated community, slowing down so that the scanner can read the barcode on the side of my gas-guzzling mommymobile. I inch forward until the nose of my car is just inches from the flimsy stick otherwise known as the “gate” designed to keep all manner of undesirables out of my neighborhood. What’s funny is that where I live in Florida, nearly all of the communities are gated communities. I’m not sure that we even have “undesirables.” If we do, knowing my neighbors, they’re special ordered from Barney’s. If you travel down any semi-main road here you’ll see guard shacks and electric gates every few miles. The parking lots at Whole Foods, Nuovo, and Siesta Beach are all populated with cars bearing the telltale barcode sticker on the rear window.
Sometimes, I can hardly believe I live here. Overnight, I went from a single-girl shoebox of an apartment, (apropos, I think, since my most prized possessions were primarily shoes) where I felt like I’d hit the jackpot if I was lucky enough to get an up-close parking space, or an open lounge chair at the pool, straight to suburbia (Do Not Pass Go) where my wedding ring and barcode sticker grant me an all-access pass to the gated kingdom of Botox moms.
And although I never had trouble fitting in, even after three years, I still kind of feel like I really don’t really belong here.
I hit redial on my phone. Will’s voicemail clicks on. Again. The gate is stuck. Again. The guard is busy with the line of cars in the visitor’s lane and doesn’t look up from his clipboard. He waves three cars through, barely glancing up. Apparently, all you need is a pizza or a lawnmower to gain entrance to this gated haven in suburbia. The front of my car is now practically touching the gate. It’s not moving. I roll down the window and wait patiently because I don’t want to be one of “those” women – who wave their manicured nails out the window for the backhanded salute, while they lean on the horn with their elbows, demanding priority service.
I try to catch the guard’s eye, hoping a little smile and a wave will do the trick.
“That lane is for residents only”, he shouts to me over the sound of a muffler-deficient station wagon filled with mops and Brazilian housekeepers.
“I am a resident.” I shout back, smiling purposefully. “The gate is not working today.” He rolls his eyes at me. Will and I have lived here for the entire three years we’ve been married. I go through this gate about six times a day. I call the guard shack about twice a day to add our friends, the bug man, the pool guy to “the list.” The man with the clipboard is Frank. He has two kids, and works the day shift at the North gate. He looks at me as though he has never seen me before.
“You need a sticker,” he says authoritatively.
“I have a sticker. Can you please just raise the gate? I’m really in a hurry,” I plead. All of a sudden, I’m flashing back to the scene from that old movie Trading Places where Dan Ackroyd has just gotten out of jail, and when he gets to his house, not only will his key not work in the lock, but his butler pretends he’s never seen him before. OhMyGod, I’m going to have to move in with a hooker.
“You need a sticker,” he says again, pressing the magic button inside the guard shack.
Access at last. I peel through the gate, squealing the tires as I turn onto my street, popping my car into the garage like a pinball going down the chute for the last time. A wave of dread and denial washes over me like sewage.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Get it together. Get it together. Get it together.
Let’s review, okay? What did I really see?
Generally, I try not to be the overreacting type. I am in fact, a quite rational, thirty-one year old author and stepmother of two kids, Lilly and Aidan. Obviously, the Prince Charming I’d envisioned from the time I was eight years old was not exactly a divorced guy with two kids. But the kids I once thought would be a burden have turned out to be the center of my life.
Will is thirty-six, was formerly married to a formerly sane beauty queen (Miss Arkansas, if you must know) and we, the two of us, have custody of his kids, children I consider to be the most amazing six and eight-year-old on the planet. (Of course, I’m crazy about them, so I may be a little biased.)
Will and I have been married three years. We met when I was on tour for my first book, Secrets to Make the Guys Go Gaga and he was the PR guy who landed me a spot on Soap Talk. (Don’t laugh, it’s a real show.) After years of writing toothpaste jingles, and doling out dating advice to my girlfriends over margaritas, I figured a dating book was a good start to the dream I’d always had about becoming a “real” writer, not just someone who made a living spinning canned meat and golf spikes to the American public.
So, by sole virtue of my ability to turn a phrase and peg a loser at 500 feet, I’ve now become a dating guru.
To be honest, I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sense of men. Both my parents died in an accident when I was just a baby, and I was raised by my Grandma Vernie and her four sisters in an estrogen bubble. They were a wild, strong, loving, tight knot of Southern women; all of them had been married at one time to men they adored. Unfortunately, they were all widowed long before I hit kindergarten -–husbands had a habit of croaking at a very early age in our family. Great Uncle Joe was a legend, he’d lived to the ripe old age of 43. Until junior high, my only personal experience with how the male sex was supposed to operate came from secondhand stories the Aunties told me under the influence of bundt cake during our seven-hour Yahtzee marathons, late night reruns of Gene Kelly movies, and old clippings they’d saved from 1950s issues of Good Housekeeping on how to keep your husband happy. The first of my beloved Aunties, Ila Mae, passed away when I entered high school. My grandmother died the next year. By the time I was 19, they were all gone. And I found myself orphaned for the second time.
I thought that once I wrote the book, Oprah would call, and I’d be instantly catapulted to fame and riches. (Which, I’ve since learned, is a common fantasy among clueless first-time authors.) Instead, it brought me to Will, who told me, “Unless you’re a celebrity or a celebrity’s personal trainer, nobody cares whether you wrote a book or not.” When he booked me on Soap Talk, he told me, “I had to beg, borrow and steal to get you this one.”
I was grateful and horribly disappointed at the same time. Like finding out you’ve won a 5.7 million dollar lottery, and then learning you’ll be getting a nickel a week for 324 years.
Eventually, after a few years of dismal sales, the book took off and became a bestseller, surprising everyone including me. I was catapulted to the dating expert hall of fame. Producers and agents started calling, and suddenly I had a weekly guest spot on a big national TV show, my own radio call-in program, and even my own perfume. Two years after my book hit the shelves, I was recognizable to every woman in America under the age of sixty. Darby Vaughn: The Dr. Phil of Dating.
I dial Will’s phone again, and this time he picks up on the first ring.
“Hey!” I say quickly, attempting to sound like my perky, usual self, rather than the dumpster-diving maniac I’ve become in the last 17 minutes or so.
“Hi sweetheart,” he answers offhandedly, “I can only talk for a second, my flight was delayed and I’m already late for the meeting.”
“What do you mean? You’re still here?” God, I’m an idiot. Talk about freaking out over nothing. A sensation of reprieve rushes over me, and I feel the sickly-sweet relief of someone who’s just stepped off the human centrifuge ride at the carnival.
“Did you miss your Starbucks this morning or something?” he teases, “I’m in Atlanta, remember?”
My heart drops. “Wait, you mean right now?”
“Jesus, Darby. I’ve only been making this same exact trip for two years. What’s up with you today?”
“N-nothing,” I choke out, and my brain starts spinning again. My mind goes from zero to divorce court in 3.6 seconds.
“Um, when will you be back in town?” I ask cautiously.
“Tomorrow morning, same as always,” he snaps, and then softens. “Sorry, Darby, I don’t mean to be so cranky. I had a bad flight and it’s just sort of put a damper on my morning.”
“It’s okay…” I say numbly, unable to think of anything else at the moment.
“Hey babe, I’ve gotta run. Love you, love the kids.” His phone snaps off before I have a chance to respond. Instead, I throw up.
I scramble to aim for my open car window. Bad aim or bad luck, I miss the mark and vomit oozes down the inside of my door, and down the window crack.
I am not going to have a breakdown in my three-car garage.
FIFTEEN MINUTES OF SHAME is in bookstores March 25, 2008. For more info visit

Newsletter Day!

Happy Newsletter Day!

As you know from the newsletter it is T minus 21 days until the release of Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club. I got my first copy of Secrets on Friday sent to me by Lindsey the magnificent aka my editor. I do love love love the green color of the book. And now I have a set! A set of Hollywood Girls Club books. I hope that you too will have a set soon.

So Secrets, secrets everywhere! Wow this Secrets contest is Spectacular! I love them. So many great secrets. And yes, it is confidential. Each entry will be deleted at the end of the contest. But Wow! Are we some good friends or what? Some people have kept their best friends' secrets for 20 or more years.

Tomorrow we have our first guest blogger. Lisa Daily is stopping by to blog about life and her new book Fifteen Minutes of Shame which releases TODAY! So get yourself a copy.

Friday's guest blogger is Melissa Walker author of the Violet Series. Both of Melissa's books are available now!


Monday, March 24, 2008

This Writer's Life

To be a writer, you need only do one thing; write.

Sounds so very simple doesn't it? But it took me a very long time to accept this sentence as the truth. When I was a prosecutor in Denver, before becoming a motion picture agent in Hollywood, I attempted to write a book. Many days I did anything to avoid sitting down with my spiral tablet and writing. I would actually choose to mop floors, organize closets or wash dishes and I loathe housework. At the time, I was unsure as to why I wouldn't sit and write. But I convinced myself that to call myself a writer, a true writer, a real writer I needed only one thing....I needed stationary.

Yes, stationary.

I remember that I read in one of those writing books (the hundred or so I read) that to query an agent or a publisher you needed to have professional looking stationary...the really good stuff with a letterhead that was either thermograph or engraved. I knew if I got the stationary, then I would truly be a real writer. So I got the stationary, I think close to 200 pages and it was close to a dollar a sheet. A true investment for me. I was fresh out of school with student loans to pay. I remember taking the box of stationary to the car, sitting behind the steering wheel and lifting the lid of the box. My fingers touched the soft parchment, 100% cotton. I rubbed the hard impression of my name and address on the top of the with my fancy stationary I was finally a writer.

Ah. But as I noted earlier in this post, to be a writer one only need write. And that statement is true. The beautiful stationary, that I thought would magically transform my poor habits of sitting down only when the mood struck or willfully not writing when I felt the urge to write, didn't dissipate with the purchase of this lush stationary. No, I broke those bad habits much like I've broken other bad habits in my life, with conscious decision making and dogged perserverance...with the occasional whining and chocolate ice cream eating session thrown in for comfort.

My willful act of not writing, of choosing to do something other than write, I now believe, was like smoking or drinking or overeating...for me, I believe not to write was an attempt at self harm. A form of self hatred. And by making writing a daily habit like brushing my teeth, showering, exercise I nurtured myself. I chose to do the one thing that makes me a better person and a writer, I chose to write.

Friday, March 21, 2008

The Dirt: A Woman In Hollywood

A sex tape of *gasp* Lindsay Lohan! Pu-lease...I'm surprised it took this long for a sex tape of Miss Lohan to surface. I am not implying that Lindsay is in the habit of making sex tapes or that she is even the woman on Calum Best's camera phone. What I am saying is that in a celebrity obsessed society where everyone is bent on getting their fifteen minutes, a filmed peccadillo can bring a lot of notoriety. Take for example the rise of Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton both of which were arguably helped in their rise to fame and reality tv by their sexual escapades on tape.

Now I am all for female sexual empowerment. If a woman wants to tape herself having sex, more power to her. If a woman wants her boyfriend tape her having sex, go for it. But participate in the filmaking and picture taking AT YOUR OWN RISK. Boyfriends who want to tape you performing the most private of acts should carry a warning label that reads BAD GUY. See: Rick Solomon, Tommy Lee, Eric Stapelman Understand that the pictures won't stay private. That's right...let me repeat it...the nudie pics WON'T STAY PRIVATE. They may be used in fact to finance the BAD GUY's new home as in the case of Rick Solomon or update a waning career as in the case of Tommy Lee.

What horrifies me more than the pics themselves is the naivete and gullibility of the women in the photos and tapes. Kristin Davis, Audrina Patridge, and Vanessa Hudgens all learned this lesson the hard way. Nudity and sex tapes are like air bubbles in water they always rise to the surface.

In Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club, actress Cici Solange is faced with the possibility of a sex tape going public. And like most the women in this article, she made the tapes with and for her boyfriend and then husband, Damien Bruckner. But, just as in real life, people fall out of love. Tapes and pictures get used to make money, as leverage, or simply for revenge. Are the sex tape antics in Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club inspired by actual events? Of course. Everything I write about in the Hollywood Girls Club Series is inspired by actual events. People I know? Uhm...yeah. But as always, the names are changed to protect the innocent...or not so innocent. I mean, this is Hollywood.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Guest Blogger Thursdays...and other stuff

So, changes are afoot at This may be one of the last Thursday's you hear from me. There are so many great writers in the world, so many fantastic books, so many interesting topics that from here on out, Thursday's are (hopefully) guest blogger day! The goal is to have a guest at least twice a month in the beginning and eventually have a guest every Thursday. Some guests already scheduled are authors. I'm also going to invite other people to blog as well. What are the requirements to become a guest blogger? Well, basically, are you interesting? Do you have something to say? Something that the readers of this blog ie: the readers of Hollywood Girls Club would be interested in reading. If yes, then I want you as a guest. So this invite goes for not only people I know who I think are interesting, but also for the blog readers. If you would like to be a guest blogger, send me an email or if you have a suggestion for a guest...again send me an email:

Wednesday 3.26 Lisa Daily author of Fifteen Minutes of Shame

Friday 3.28 Melissa Walker author of The Violet Series

Thursday 4.3 Doree Lewak author of The Panic Years

Thursday 4.17 Laura Caldwell author of The Good Liar

I've mentioned before how much I enjoy newsletter day. I love reaching out to everyone who reads the blog and my books. So Newsletter day is no longer going to be some vague random occurrence...oh no no no. The next Maggie Marr newsletter goes out March 25th and then around the 15th of each month ever after. So sign up! The newsletter will announce release dates for new books (April 15th for Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club), guest bloggers, contests (Fresh Fiction and Secrets)and appearances. So sign up for the newsletter here.

I've gotten HUNDREDS of entries for both contests. There is a new contest at Fresh Fiction and then also the Secret contest going on here on the blog. Both continue until March 31. To enter (and you can't win if you don't enter) email me your Secrets at For details on both click here.

Monday, March 17, 2008

This Writer's Life

Good morning and happy Monday. I've been getting a number of emails from unpublished writers asking me about the writer's in response to these inquiries, I've decided that on Mondays I'm going to blog about writing.

Writing for me is like breathing, I have to do it or I wilt. Before I wrote full time, I would write on weekends or late at night when I couldn't sleep, to help me relax. According to my husband, long ago, before becoming a full time writer, the weeks that I didn't write I became cranky and unbearable to live with. This is still true. The cranky part. I never go weeks without writing anymore, but sometimes I may go a couple days, due to illness, parenting responsibilities, meetings, travel, book tours...and by day three of not writing I am definitely impossible to live with.

When I write, I feel like I am most me. I am alone, in a world that I created. I'm not sure what that says about my personality...probably something unpleasant. But often times I prefer the world I'm creating to the world I inhabit in reality. Or perhaps, I prefer to escape to the world I am creating. Either way, it is here at my computer, listening to the characters tell me their story that I feel most comfortable.

So characters. A number of emails ask where do they come from? I don't know. When I finished Hollywood Girls Club one of my producer friends mentioned that he saw a piece of me in each of the characters. And perhaps that's true. Really, for me, I start to hear a voice. A voice that tells me a story. And I take dictation....on a good day. On a not so good writing day, the voice is far off and I have to listen really hard, sometimes I can't make out everything, and I need to fill in the blanks.

Anyway, a little peek into my world and my life. Hope I haven't frightened anyone off. We're a quirky bunch us writers...sitting alone for hours and hours tapping away at our keyboards. But, really, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Friday, March 14, 2008

The Dirt: A Woman In Hollywood Take Two

Yesterday I was a guest blogger on Fresh Fiction, I am reposting for all my readers that didn't make it over to Fresh Fiction yesterday. Enjoy!

Like most women, I need my friends to sustain me but unlike a lot of women outside Hollywood, I also rely on my friends professionally. Making a film or television show is a collaborative process, and in Hollywood, it is often my friends who support my work. We work and play together. Do the lines get blurry? Yes, of course. But entertainment is The Industry where I found both the friendships that nurture me and the dirt that inspires me. Because to write Hollywood Girls Club and Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club, I needed both the friendships and the dirt.

Friendship in Hollywood you say? Why that’s preposterous, unheard of, impossible. Those moviemaking madmen are a cutthroat bunch, an impossible lot. No friendship to be found there. But in Tinseltown, like anywhere, there are friends to be made and this undeniably Midwestern girl, did in fact collect a group of friends. On my first day of trudging through the long agency hallways, pushing my mail cart, dropping off letters (oh so glamorous the agency life in the beginning) I noticed two things. First, most agents were male and second, so were most their assistants. But I needed female friends. Sure guys are great, and don’t get me wrong, there is plenty of good lovin’ in Hollywood Girls Club and Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club but I needed women to gab with, shop with, kvetch with and just be a girl with. So, I searched and I found friends.

And these friends, the women I collected on my way up the agency ladder, now as I write my books and produce my films are still my friends. Some, as is the way in Los Angeles, left ‘the biz.’ We are a transitory bunch us moviemakers. But my close friends that remain in The Industry are no longer assistants, they are now producers, studio executives, agents, managers, directors, actresses, and writers. Having completed our time in the trenches as assistants, we now enjoy the fun of Hollywood together. The glamour, the red carpet, the premieres, the film festivals, the parties and the swag. Oh yeah, great swag.

And the dirt? The Secrets? Well like any good friend, I can never, ever name names…buuut, I can tell my insider tales, and keep my friends, as long as I change the names to protect the innocent…or not so innocent…I mean, this is Hollywood.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Dirt: A Woman In Hollywood

Yesterday I received a request, Fresh Fiction asked me to guest blog for them. Now this is my first guest blog, and of course, like any good guest, I wondered what FF wanted me to bring to this party.
"What would you like me to blog about?" I inquired via email. My mind trying desperately to weave a fascinating tale.
"Your books," the lovely Faye replied.
Well that made perfect sense. Especially since Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club hits book shelves April 15 and Hollywood Girls Club is available in paperback now.
But what could I actually say about the books, that reviewers haven't already told readers?
That the books are fun, fast-paced, like having several issues of People to flip through?
Well of course all that...but what about a little peek into Hollywood and how I got the inspiration to write HGC and Secrets? And where all those torrid little tales came from. So yes, I wrote about those two things, and the title: The Dirt: A Woman in Hollywood. So jump on over to Fresh Fiction and check it out.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Great Review from Romance Reader At Heart

So as a, love, LOVE, a good review (think I've mentioned that before) so the ladies at Romance Reader at Heart gave Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club a very lovely review:


Maggie Marr is addictive! I just powered through HOLLYWOOD GIRLS CLUB and its sequel, SECRETS OF THE HOLLYWOODS GIRLS CLUB, and I couldn’t get enough. These books are the perfect fun, trashy Hollywood novels, where nothing is sacred except friendship and occasionally love.

I’d recommend reading them in order, because you’ll miss some of the detail that enriches the story if you don’t read the first book. Celeste, Jessica, Lydia and Mary Anne, Hollywood players extraordinaire, have continued their friendship for years now. Mary Anne joined the quartet in the first book, which was about four years ago. She’s the wholesome midwestern gal, but now the hot screenwriter is becoming as big a star as the others.

Kiki, a minor character in the first book, comes to the forefront here. She’s an aging publicist with all the secrets. It’s hard to believe there are any in this version of Hollywood, with cameras and recorders apparently picking up every move. But all these details aren’t meant to be concealed from insiders, just the kind of people who read Vanity Fair and go to the movies.

Drugs, plastic surgery, sexual orientation —all these things need to be a secret from the rest of the world. Snippets may sneak out, but proof can’t ever. In a town where you don’t even trust the people you supply paychecks to, how can you ever stay on top? Everyone is a barracuda. But with friends and lovers on your side, it seems you can succeed on your own terms, even in Hollywood.

Heather Hiestand

Wow, wow, WOW! Gotta' love a review like that. So here's the dealio...Secrets comes out April 26 but is available now for pre-order AND, Hollywood Girls Club JUST came out in my suggestion? Get the paperback of Hollywood Girls Club NOW, read it and grab Secrets when it debuts in as Heather did you can 'power through' both books.

PS Looking forward to seeing Romance writers and readers at RWA!

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Crack for Bookworms

So I've conquered my Facebook addiction but now I've found what I can only describe as Crack for Bookworms aka Goodreads. A social networking site for booklovers. And I do mean book LOVERS. This site has every kind of reader you can imagine from all over the world. Get this, you put yourself on the site and then you list the books you've read...ALL the books you've read. And there are some BIG readers out there. I thought I read a ton...but we are talking thousands upon thousands of books some people have read. And as you meet people on the site you troll through there shelves and inevitably you find another book that you've forgotten that you've read. It's like going to someone's home for the first time and looking at their you do that? I am the worst...I am highly suspicious of people without books in their home..I mean what do they DO with all their time? And I love that you can rate the books...because isn't it always interesting to see how much someone did or did not like your favorite books? Off to feed the beast, my new addiction...Goodreads.