(Originally published Dec. 5, 2007).
I am sitting at my desk, staring at the collage I made at my last ORWA workshop — a collage for Fur Ball Fever — hoping for inspiration.
On a sheet of deep blue Bristol board, I glued photographs of women resembling my heroine (all my heroines have curly hair — something I always wanted) and hero (hot, hunky, think a slightly older David Beckham without the tattoos), a couple of Internet photographs from fetish club parties (lots of leather-encased flesh), a line-up of Miss Gay America finalists (gorgeous and glamorous), some scenes of the Jersey Shore depicting ocean, beaches, outdoor restaurants on stilts, and typical Victorian homes, and, last but far from least, dogs. Lots of dogs. Dogs in party hats, dogs in feather boas, even a Daschund sandwiched between two bun-shaped pillows and disguised as a hot dog. In the middle of the poster, resplendent in silver, red, and gold glitter pen, are the written the words “Fur Ball Fever.” The red glitter ink of the last letter dribbled down over a photograph of a yacht, resembling a trickle of blood.
To clarify the contents of my poster, the last paragraph of my pitch reads:
“Locked in an uneasy alliance, their joint investigation leads the reluctant couple into unexpected romance against a wacky backdrop of animal politics, drag queens, a dominatrix or two, the swinging scene, and a fascinating underworld of fetishism and bondage. The two cases converge in a zany roller-coaster ride of murder and mayhem, culminating in a Fur Ball extravaganza the locals will never forget.”
If I stare long enough, I’m sure I will determine the method of the murder attempt on my heroine. Suffocation by lycra, perhaps? Erotic asphyxiation? A ‘special’ examination by Dr. Leather?