It's true that a person's name is, to them, the sweetest of sounds.
Need more friends in your life? Just remember names. Seriously. Works like a charm.
I lean back into the
tall, wing-backed chair of the Marriott Hotel lounge, and look out the window, across Los Angeles, and see Staples Center in the distance. I take a sip of the wine, and allow myself to drift into the deep oak and berry flavors that wash over me. I then chase it down with a bite of creamy Brie.
Perfection.
Just as I'm about to take another bite, Logan comes up from behind me, and sits down in the adjacent chair.
"What a day," Logan says. "I think I'll join you for a drink."
"Taking a break from all of your adoring fans?"
"As much as I love this industry, it isn't easy being a romance book cover model," Logan says, shaking his head.
"It's all part of the game," I say, giving him a shrug. "You gotta take the good with the bad."
"Is that the wine talking?" Logan laughs. "You make it sounds so easy. Hell, you make it look easy."
I take another sip of my wine. "No, it's not easy, it's work."
Logan begins to laugh.
"What's so funny?" I ask.
"I'm just remembering that time you had to wear that khaki jumpsuit with Aviator glasses and the photographer kept telling you to 'look more serious' and thrust your pelvis forward."
I chuckle. "I remember that. After about 20 takes, I was ready to walk out of that fucking studio."
"It's tough when photographers say things like, 'look dangerous but not threatening,' or 'you look too remote, reel the reader in,' or even my personal favorite, 'convey hiding and anticipation,'" Logan says, and we both laugh. "But I always hit the gym before a cover shoot, or do some pushups, or even bicep curls to pump my muscles up. It works, and helps a lot."
"It's definitely not the Fabio era anymore—no one is hand painting these covers," I say.
"No kidding. The tool of the trade today is Photoshop. This game—this romance cover model industry—is fucking ruthless."
"Sometimes images are Frankensteined together—the head of one guy, the body of another. And of course, one minute, you're a star. The next, you're kicked to the curb."
I nod my head in agreement. "It's all about your face, man. With thousands of covers each year, publishers and authors want unique faces—something fresh and new and different. All hail individualism!"
"I guess after a while, 6-packs … or 8-packs … all start looking the same, you know? A bicep is just another bicep," Logan says. "When a cover is about the size of a postage stamp on a screen, you've gotta make an impression—and fast."
"It takes models … and authors, and spits them out," I say, gulping down the last few drops of my wine. I didn't mean to sound so jaded, but it definitely came out that way.
I signal the hostess over and order another round, this time for both Logan and I.
"You know something? You're so free."
"What do you mean?" Logan asks, cocking one brow in a confused expression.
"A small part of me wishes that I could go back to those days."
"The days where we're all young, dumb, and struggling?" Logan laughs. "You have it pretty good."
"No, the days of innocence. When the industry hasn't jaded you, and the horizon is sunny and clear and full of possibility," I say. "Those days. Just wait till you've been in the game as long as I have."
"Look man," Logan says, "and I'm saying this with honesty … you're a fucking legend. You're fucking amazing. Your gravitas and grace, and you've always had your shit together."