Thanks, Lily, for hosting me on your blog and letting me ramble a bit
about my classical music series, Blue Notes. It's a pleasure to be here!
For those of you who may not be familiar with the Blue Notes Series, these are
interrelated, standalone gay romance novels, each with a classical music
theme. Secondary characters in one book become the main characters in
another, and the books can be read in any order.
The fourth book in the
Blue Notes Series, Prelude, was released on May
6th, and is now available for purchase in ebook or paperback format on the
Dreamspinner Press
website, Amazon, and other
booksellers.
With each Blue Notes book, I've tried to create romances with real
characters and real situations, many of those situations taken from my own
experiences as a violinist and later, as an opera singer. Of all of the
books in the series so far, Prelude is the one that is perhaps the most
driven by music and the emotion behind the music.
So what is it about
music that connects with people? What is it in my books readers tell me
they connect with? I think Prelude answers both questions. But
I hadn’t thought about it really, not at that level, when I was writing the
book. Let me explain.
I’m a former
professional musician (violinist and opera singer). Music is in my blood,
in my bones, and my gut. I hear music and I get an ear worm. You
know, like when you hear “It’s a Small World” at Disney and the stupid (yes
stupid!) song repeats over and over ad infinitum in your mind? Yep.
That’s me. The protagonist in Prelude is me times a
thousand. David Somers, the fictional conductor of the Chicago Symphony,
hears music in every person he meets and in every deep emotional reaction he
has. And that’s the key. Music=emotion.
That’s what makes you
get excited when your favorite song plays on the radio. It’s what gives
you goose bumps when you sing in a choir, perform in an orchestra, or just
crank the volume up on your stereo and listen to the latest release from your
favorite indie band. It’s what chokes you up when you hear the national
anthem played. Emotion. And that’s the connection I’m trying to
share in the Blue Notes books.
You may not be able to
read a note of music. You may be tone deaf (my dad is tone deaf, but he
still loves to listen to music). You may love rock, classical, hip-hop,
or rap. Doesn’t matter. The way humans connect to music is through
their hearts and souls. That’s what Prelude is all about.
David looks at Alex Bishop for the first time and sees only his tats and his
rough exterior. But when Alex plays his violin, David hears the music of
Alex’s soul, and it forges a connection between them that’s strong enough to
give David the courage to take a chance on getting hurt again.
The Blue Notes books
aren’t just about music. Not really. They’re about human emotion
and the connections humans form. Music as sex (yes, explicit sex, by the
way). Music as pain. Music as joy. Music as promise.
Music, as the bridge between human beings.
If you haven’t read any of the Blue Notes Series, you can dive in with
any story and in any order. I hope
you’ll enjoy reading them as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them.
Want to read an excerpt from Prelude? Click on this link (my website) and
scroll down to the excerpt tab, or you can read a second excerpt on the Dreamspinner Press
book page (same deal – scroll down and click the excerpt link). -Shira
PS: Want to win some Blue Notes
swag? I’ll be giving away winner’s
choice of a paperback or ebook of one of the Blue Notes novels as well as a
Blue Notes Series t-shirt (winner’s choice of cover) at the end of the Blue
Notes blog tour. To enter, comment on
this post and the other blog posts to win!
I’ll be drawing winners at the end of the blog tour.
****************************Summary: World-renowned conductor David Somers never wanted the investment firm he inherited from his domineering grandfather. He only wanted to be a composer. But no matter how he struggles, David can’t translate the music in his head into notes on paper.
When a guest violinist at the Chicago Symphony falls ill, David meets Alex Bishop, a last-minute substitute. Alex’s fame and outrageous tattoos fail to move David. Then Alex puts bow to string, and David hears the brilliance of Alex’s soul.
David has sworn off relationships, believing he will eventually drive away those he loves, or that he'll lose them as he lost his wife and parents. But Alex is outgoing, relaxed, and congenial—everything David is not—and soon makes dents in the armor around David's heart. David begins to dream of Alex, wonderful dreams full of music. Becoming a composer suddenly feels attainable.
David’s fragile ego, worn away by years of his grandfather’s disdain, makes losing control difficult. When David’s structured world comes crashing down, his fledgling relationship with Alex is the first casualty. Still, David hears Alex’s music, haunting and beautiful. David wants to love Alex, but first he must find the strength to acknowledge himself.
Excerpt:
Chapter Five
“Maestro Somers,” Paulette Pyée said as she leaned forward to kiss
David on the cheeks in the French custom. “I’m so glad you could make it
tonight.”
“The pleasure is mine, ma chère.” David handed her his coat,
which one of the servers took with a nod. “And I can’t thank you enough for
offering the studio up as a symphony benefit.”
“You know I’d do anything for you, David,” she replied. “Besides, I
have ulterior motives. I thought I might be able to interest you in another
piece for your apartment.”
“Perhaps a small painting for the hallway. It’s been looking a bit
bare.” In truth, he wasn’t particularly interested in purchasing more art for
the penthouse, but Paulette had graciously offered to donate 10 percent of the
profits from the open house to the CSO, and he could well afford to purchase
something himself.
“We have some fabulous artists showcased,” she cooed as she led him
over to the bar. “I’m sure we’ll find something perfect for you.
“Sazerac,” she told the bartender.
“You remembered.” David touched her lightly on the forearm and smiled.
“Of course.” Slipping into French, she continued, “A good host always
remembers a favorite guest’s preferences.”
“You’re too kind.”
“For you,” she said as she took his arm, “I’d do just about anything.
You know how I adored Helena. Now if I could only find you someone who could
take care of you as well as she did—”
“Mademoiselle Pyée,” one of the gallery assistants interrupted, “I need
you to make sure the canapés are all right. They mixed up the order, and it
seems they’re shrimp instead of scallops.”
Paulette shook her head and gave David an apologetic smile. “We’ll
speak later, David,” she told him. “In the meantime, I suggest you start with
the red room. There are a few pieces there that might suit your tastes. I’ll
find you later.”
“Of course,” David said, silently relieved not to be forced to discuss
his personal life. She smiled once more before she left the room.
David sipped his drink. It wasn’t half bad, with just a hint of
licorice from the absinthe. Leave it to Paulette to make sure the caterer had
Sazerac whiskey on hand, with its whisper notes of cinnamon, vanilla, and
honey. No doubt she had ordered it with him in mind. He’d make a point to thank
her again later.
The gallery was beginning to fill with people. Built on the upper floor
of a reclaimed warehouse, it was divided into spacious rooms by walls that
reached only to about two-thirds of the way to the high ceilings. The original
wooden floors had been sanded but retained their mottled, worn quality, and the
outer walls of the freestanding rooms were painted in vibrant hues, in sharp
contrast to the ecru walls where the artwork was hung. Benches of brushed
aluminum covered in sleek leather were scattered in the middle of the rooms,
leaving plenty of space for patrons to mill about.
The red room toward the back of the gallery housed the more unusual
pieces, as well as the most expensive. On the way, David greeted a number of
symphony benefactors, as well as local celebrities and politicians. Paulette’s
openings, especially those held in early winter, were always well attended.
David came here first with his wife long before he moved to the area to take
the job with the CSO. After her death, he’d tried to avoid the gallery, but he
knew he could not: Paulette’s regulars were also symphony patrons.
“You will attend the party,” he could almost hear his
grandfather say when, at fifteen, he’d asked if he could go to the movies with
friends instead of yet another party. He had despised the large gatherings held
at his grandparents' estate—they were more business than social occasions.
Strange, how he still remembered his mother tucking him into bed on the
night of just such a party. He’d been three or four at the time, and he’d
wanted to go downstairs to meet the guests. “You really aren’t missing
anything,” Caroline Hayden Somers had told him as she pulled the covers over
his shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. “Someday, you’ll long for the
days when you could run around the gardens or go swimming in the lake.” He
could still imagine her scent—freesia and lilies—and the softness of her lips
pressed to his forehead.
“But I want to go with you,” he’d protested.
She’d been right. When he finally was old enough to attend the gala
celebrations, he’d quickly realized they were less than satisfying. She, too,
disliked parties and was happier to spend time in the tiny rose garden behind
the guesthouse. Her sanctuary. Sometimes he wished he had a place he could go
where he could just be himself. The closest thing to that garden he’d ever
known was the studio in his apartment. Lately, however, he felt none of the
peace there that his mother had found among the flowers and trees.
A hand brushed his arm and he pushed the memory away, greeting a
symphony patron with his usual polite charm. He stopped several more times to
chat with other guests, finally reaching the red room half an hour later.
The room was crowded. Servers circulated with champagne and hors
d’oeuvres on silver trays, the scent of expensive perfume mingling with the
smell of the food. One of the paintings by the back corner caught his eye, and
he moved through the room, making sure to greet some of the guests on his way
and thank them for coming out to support the symphony. The painting was rectangular,
modern, done in pastels. The description of the piece said it was a depiction
of Lake Michigan, although there was little recognizable other than the
multicolored hues of the Chicago sunrise. It was more a blur of color, a hint
of the original. He stood, staring at it, for several uninterrupted minutes. He
decided he would buy it, but not for the hallway, for his practice studio—the
place in his home in which he spent most of his waking hours. Inspiration,
perhaps, for an as-yet-unwritten composition.
As if. How many times
had he hoped for that elusive inspiration? And yet each piece he’d written had
been as flat and unremarkable as all the rest. No, his grandfather had been
right. Conducting was a far more appropriate career. His overwhelming success
was proof enough and his abysmal failures as a composer more so. Still, he’d
purchase the painting. It would look lovely hanging over the table near the
piano.
Determined to let Paulette know of his interest, he turned to leave the
room and nearly walked headlong into another guest.
“Maestro Somers?”
“Mr. Bishop.” Alex Bishop was the last person he’d expected to see.
He’d spent the better part of three days trying to contact the man’s agent and
had been left utterly frustrated by the effort.
“Please,” Bishop said, offering his hand, “call me Alex.”
“Alex.”
“May I call you David?” Bishop gripped his hand and flashed him a warm
smile.
“Of course.” Alex's comfortable familiarity rattled him. Seeing him
here, in such an intimate venue, caught David off guard. Not that he’d show it.
He was far too well trained in handling just such awkward situations. He’d be
pleasant, polite, and then he’d excuse himself to find Paulette.
Alex gestured to the painting David had been admiring. “It’s
beautiful,” he said, turning to face it. David couldn’t help but notice that
Alex was dressed quite well in a fitted button-down shirt with narrow stripes,
a pair of well-tailored wool trousers, and a slim tie. As before, David could
see a hint of ink at the other man’s throat. For a moment, he found himself
wondering what the tattoos looked like without the shirt.
“I’m considering purchasing it.” David hadn’t intended to admit this.
Alex shifted slightly on his feet and gestured to the small piece of
paper that described the painting. “I’m afraid you’re too late.”
David hadn’t seen the silver mark at the bottom. “It’s sold,” he said,
doing his best to mask a frown.
Alex appeared to have guessed at David’s disappointment. “Selena has
several other pieces in the show. Similar. You should check them out.” When
David said nothing, Alex continued, “She’s a good friend of mine. Just sold
several of her paintings to a collector who’s commissioned three more. She’ll
be having her own show here in a few months. Paulette can’t stop gushing about
her.”
Alex knew Paulette? And he knew the artist? “I’ll take a look.” Then,
deciding he was already irritated and had nothing to lose, David added, “And
perhaps when you have a chance, you can speak to your”—he tried not to grit his
teeth—“agent. Mr. Sykes doesn’t appear to be interested in giving me the
courtesy of returning my calls.” If it had been up to him, David
wouldn’t have called after the first fiasco, but several other association
members had called to ask about Alex making a return appearance, and he’d
finally given in.
Alex looked genuinely mortified. “I… I’m really sorry about that. Ken
is—well, I’m not sure how to put it—a handful? I’ll make sure he calls you.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem.” Alex snagged a champagne flute from a passing server and
took a hasty drink. “And if there’s anything I can do to accommodate the CSO’s
schedule, I’d be happy to. I really enjoyed the other night.”
David looked down at his drink, then swallowed the remainder faster
than he’d meant to. The tension in his neck abated with the alcohol. He
couldn’t help but think he should leave, maybe find Paulette—anything but stand
here trying to converse with Alex.
Instead, he did something he hadn’t
intended. “How was your get-together after the concert?”
Alex appeared buoyed by David’s question. “It was great. Low-key. Just
a few friends. I’m sure your donors’ party was far more interesting. Someone
from the symphony association—Doris Pinkley-something, was it?—called my agent
to invite me. I didn’t get the message until the next day. I’m sorry I missed
it.”
“Doris Pinchley-Bates. And don’t think twice about it. I’m sure if you
do perform with the symphony again, she’ll make sure you know about her shindig
well in advance.” Why was he trying to assuage Alex’s guilt? Surely he didn’t
really care that he’d missed the party. And yet there was something about Alex
Bishop that made David wonder if he’d underestimated the man yet again.
“Thanks. I try to go to those things.” Alex ran a hand through his hair
and the corners of his mouth edged upward. “Not that I like them all that
much,” he added. “But I understand how important they are. I promise I’ll make
it up to you.”
David felt his cheeks warm, but passed it off as just the alcohol and
the crowded room. For the first time, he realized Alex was wearing his hair
down. Long enough that it skirted his upper back, it fell over his shoulders in
a cascade, layers curling just slightly at the ends. A hint of a melody
flickered through David’s mind, then fled. “I really should be going,” he said,
deciding it was time to move on, perhaps get another drink.
“I’m sorry.” Alex offered him a charming smile. “I’ve been monopolizing
you. This is your fundraiser, after all.”
“I don’t mind.” It was the truth. In fact, he realized he minded Alex’s
company far less than any of the other guests’. He had almost enjoyed it.
He’s right,
though. You need to be circulating. He nodded at Alex, who smiled again and
turned to leave.
“Mr. Bishop… Alex?”
“Yes?”
David reached into his pocket and handed Alex a business card. “If you
don’t mind, would you ask Mr. Sykes to call me? It’d go a long way to placating
the symphony association if we could schedule you for next season. This is my
home number.”
Alex took the card and their fingers brushed. “I’ll make sure he calls
you. And I apologize again for any inconvenience.”
“It’s not a problem,” David heard himself say. What was it about this
man that had him forgetting the wasted time spent on the phone? “Enjoy your
evening, Alex.”
“You too.”
NOTE: Each Blue Notes novel is a standalone story and books in the series can be read in any order.
Want to buy the Blue Notes Series books? You can find them all here: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=54_673
**************************
In her last incarnation, Shira Anthony was a professional opera singer, performing roles in such operas as Tosca, Pagliacci, and La Traviata, among others. She’s given up TV for evenings spent with her laptop, and she never goes anywhere without a pile of unread M/M romance on her Kindle.
Shira is married with two children and two insane dogs, and when she’s not writing, she is usually in a courtroom trying to make the world safer for children. When she’s not working, she can be found aboard a 35’ catamaran at the Carolina coast with her favorite sexy captain at the wheel.
Shira can be found on:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/shira.anthony
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4641776.Shira_Anthony
Twitter: @WriterShira
Website: http://www.shiraanthony.com
E-mail: shiraanthony@hotmail.com
