Several years ago, I wrote the first sentences of what would become PILLOW STALK, the first of the Mad for Mod Mysteries:
“What about Doris Day?” I asked.
Six sets of eyes stared me down like it was the worst suggestion they’d ever heard.
I admit that I was a bit in love with the whole project—interior decorator who models her style and her business after a Doris Day movie and ends up involved in a homicide investigation when women dressed like the actress start turning up dead—and when the book was finished and polished, I sent it out and sat back, waiting for the offers of representation to pour in. I had some nibbles, too, requests to see the first 100 pages, requests to see the entire manuscript, but none of the nibbles resulted in what I wanted: a gushing endorsement that what I’d written was unturndownable, leading to an offer of representation.