Stephanie Haefner dishes about her Karma Kameleon series.
A Bitch Named Karma
wasn’t the first book I wrote, but it certainly holds a dear spot in my heart.
It was the first book published. The first book that grabbed someone’s
attention. The first book that made me think, “Yeah….maybe I am good at this
writing thing after all.”
My third attempt at novel writing, A Bitch Named Karma was my second novel completed. I loooooved that
book when I finished it. The main character, Lexi, was so….not me. She said
what was on her mind and wasn’t afraid to throw a few curse words. She didn’t
let people walk on her. She owned her sexuality. She was strong and
independent. But not without her flaws and insecurities. Her life falls apart
more than once and she has to pick up the pieces and figure out what will make
her happiest. And she does. She wants it all, and gets it.
But the road to publication was very long. It was my second
completed book, but I went on to write two more before I found a home for Lexi
and her story. So many times I wondered if I should just give up. Maybe no one
else would see what I did. Finally it found a home and it was the perfect fit.
My editor at Lyrical Press helped me turn that book into something amazing,
something I could be so ridiculously proud of. And I couldn’t wait for the
world to meet Lexi.
Since then, Lexi has returned for a sequel, Karma Kameleon, giving readers even more
of Lexi’s life and a slip back into her old ways. But readers also saw her grow
and mature and become a person she never knew she could be, or even wanted to
be.
A Bitch Name Karma Excerpt
I stomped down the hall, ready to raise some hell. A
hand-written sign had been plastered to the door: Sheila Brown— Editor. The
scent of a black Sharpie wafted into my nostrils as I pounded on the door. I
heard a screechy “Come in” and found a middle-aged woman sitting behind the
desk.
She flipped through a manuscript and didn’t look up when I
strode through the door.
“I’ve read all your books, Ms. Marshall, including the latest.”
“Oh, I see.”
She was well prepared for only being on the job one day.
“Marisol Takes Manhattan, your newest and first in a series.”
She paused to push her glasses up on her nose, and I awaited her praise. “It
absolutely sucks.”
Feeling like a vacuum had sucked all the air out of my lungs, I
struggled for oxygen.
Everything around me went gray and the words “absolutely sucks”
echoed in my brain over and over. I’d slaved over this book for the better part
of six months, making every sentence perfect.
A shrill laugh blared into my ears. It sounded familiar. I
couldn’t place it, but knew it didn’t come from Sheila. She sat emotionless.
“What do you mean? Are you sure you read the whole thing?”
“Yes, every boring, plotless, cliché-filled word.”
The room started to spin and a tingle radiated throughout my
legs. Fearful that I might black out, I moved a box of office supplies from a
chair and sat down. I breathed slowly and deeply, staring at her, wondering if
I’d heard her right. How could she possibly say that? I was Lexi Marshall—a
multi-published author. Women adored my books. They devoured them. This
malicious statement insulted every fiber of my being.
My temperature began to rise as bewilderment changed to anger.
Ms. Editor handed me my disc, then ripped some sheets from a legal pad and
shoved those at me, too. They were filled top to bottom with chicken scratch.
“I made notes for you. Revise and have it back to me in two
weeks.”
Finally finding the confidence and attitude I’d possessed before
entering her office, I asked, “And what if I refuse?”
“Then you can try and sell your garbage to another publisher.”
* * * *
I left the office, stomping down the street with my jaw clenched
tight like a pit bull’s. I expected the pressure to crumble my teeth, but
instead it gave me a massive atom-bomb-like headache.
How could this happen? Women everywhere loved my books. This
Sheila had no friggin’ clue. Who the hell was she to tell me how to write my
novel? An archaic, styleless shrew couldn’t possibly know what today’s fashion
forward woman wanted to read.
I seethed and walked on, remembering my massage appointment. The
thought of hot rocks being rubbed on my skin sounded excruciatingly painful. I
just wanted to go home and drown myself in a bottle of my favorite cabernet.
The fact that it was only ten o’clock in the morning meant zero to me.
I keyed into my apartment and Cha Cha ran up to me, jumping
around, her tiny painted nails scratching at my leg. A hyper dog was the last
thing I needed to deal with. Pushing her away, I grabbed the wine from the
kitchen and walked toward the bedroom. My body yearned for the high-powered
jets of the whirlpool tub.
As I approached the door, high and low pitched moans sounded
from behind it like a porno flick on full volume. Were Betty and Floyd screwing
again? My eighty-year-old neighbor’s bedroom butted up against mine. It
wouldn’t be the first time I’d heard them getting it on mid-day, but they’d
never been this loud before. I walked into my bedroom and found two naked
bodies on top of my velvet duvet, the woman wearing my black hooker boots.
Zak’s hairless, perfectly tanned ass pumped up and down and neither of them
even noticed me there. I threw the bottle of wine on the floor, shattering it
on the hardwood.
“Oh my God!” the woman exclaimed, pulling a purple beaded
bolster pillow in front of her. My boyfriend lay naked between her thighs and
her first thought was to cover her flabby boobs?
Zak jumped off the bed. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, so you weren’t screwing this slut just now? I didn’t hear
her screaming your name?”
He stood there, a bright pink condom still standing erect. He
looked to the floor and I took this simple action as an admission of guilt.
“How could you?” I managed to ask, looking from Zak to the
woman. “And in my boots!”
I turned and ran from the apartment, flew down three flights of
stairs to the street and kept on running. I didn’t know where to go, but I had
to get away.
As my feet pounded on the pavement, I heard the laughing again,
this time even louder. Could everyone on the street hear it, or just me?
Surely I looked like a crazy woman as I ran down the sidewalk
dodging in and around pedestrians, nearly taking a header into a produce stand.
I slowed down after that—last thing I needed was a concussion. Couples walked
past, holding hands, cuddling. Yeah, they looked all mushy and lovey-dovey on
the outside but I bet those women didn’t know. The guys were probably getting
some on the side, too. I scowled at a passing male and when I wasn’t paying
attention, the heel of my favorite pair of Manolos caught in a sidewalk vent
and snapped off.
Thank you so much for having me!!!!
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