It is a great honor to work with Page Turner Book Tours and 5 Prince Publishing to bring you an interview with Phyllis Humphrey, author of The Italian Job, today. Phyllis
Humphrey’s writing credits include thirteen romance novels, a mainstream novel,
a memoir about her husband’s aunt and a non-fiction book. In addition, she’s
sold several short stories and many articles to national magazines, and her two 30-minute radio plays were produced by American Radio Theatre. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America, where she was a Golden Heart finalist. Another novel won the San Diego Book Award in 2002, and she’s a member of Mensa.
Links to all the purchase sites can be found at www.5princebooks.com/buy.html
My favorite thing about being a writer is that I get a chance to indulge my greatest desire, and people often tell me how much they enjoy what I write.
What genre(s) do you write?
My genre is Romantic suspense, but not the “thriller” type. I add a suspenseful problem to solve in order for the H/H to reach their HEA.
What genres and authors would we find you?
Most of my published books are Romances.
What was the hardest part of writing your book?
The hardest part of writing this book was keeping the glorious Italian scenery from taking too much page space.
Are you a plotter or a pantser?
I’m definitely a Plotter. I need to know where I’m going.
Why do you think people should choose your books over another author?
I think my books reflect my careful attention to detail and the good writing techniques I learned from experts, as well as being able to tell an interesting story.
How to contact
Phyllis:
Twiiter: @
PhumphreyAuthor
EXCERPT of The Italian Job:
I landed the assignment to go to
Rome—not because I was the best writer on the staff of L.A. Life Magazine, nor because I could speak Italian (because I
couldn’t). My incredibly important skill was availability. Time was short.
Jason was on his honeymoon. Pamela was very pregnant. And no less than three
staff members were out with the flu—or so they said. In May, go figure. Or
perhaps it was because no one else was willing to fly 3,000 miles on two days
notice. Shows what a stunningly bad social life can do for you.
Even so, my boss, Mr. Hardcastle,
the first part of whose name should give you an idea of his personality,
hesitated long enough before giving his assent to grow mold on my sweaty palms.
“You aren’t going to mess up
again, are you?”
Like I planned to. Like climbing
into the window of a strange person’s hotel room on my previous assignment for
the magazine had been a well thought out decision. In truth, it was nothing but
a fluke, the unavoidable result of making a serious miscalculation. Which, I
fervently vowed, would never happen again.
“No, of course not.” I
straightened up to my full five feet, six inches and shook my head. Which
unfortunately set my ponytail swinging, not a good thing.
Hardcastle frowned. “So go
already. My secretary will give you the tickets and itinerary. Take your laptop
and be sure it works this time.”
I’d only made that mistake once
so he had no call to remind me. And anyway, even without the laptop, I’d
remembered almost the entire interview from that assignment and my article was
highly praised in some circles.
“And, Sydney, don’t forget this
is your last chance.”
He meant that threat, so I smiled
and hurried from his office before he could change his mind about Rome.
The next day I found my
never-used passport, had my hair trimmed, and packed my itinerary, tickets and
laptop. I planned to record every minute of my first European experience into
my journal and tucked it into my seriously overpriced handbag. I went to bed
before nine in order to catch a very early flight out of Los Angeles the next
morning.
However, as so often happens with
me, I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. My brain wanted to replay the episode of
the window, perhaps to reinforce in my conscious mind that the entire thing had
not been my fault.
I’d been given the assignment to
interview a minor local politician running for office in the next election, and
I sat opposite him in an armless chair in his hotel room. I asked questions and
he answered politely but softly, in what I later realized he considered a sexy voice.
As I leaned forward to hear him, my skirt hiked up over my knees. I attempted
to pull it down, dropped my notebook and bent to pick it up, and suddenly he
was all over me like a case of hives.
I managed to get out of his
clutches and protested in no uncertain terms, but he would have none of it. We
did a little cha-cha around the sofa, and then, after slowing him down by
pushing an end table in front of him, I grabbed my purse, dashed into the
bedroom, and slammed the door.
Yes, that might sound like a
foolish thing to have done, but I knew that old hotel. The windows were
actually French doors and led to outside balconies. My aim was to get out there
and call for help.
Much to my surprise, he didn't
follow me. Maybe he had a phone call, or he fell over the end table, or someone
came to the door, but my problem remained. It was dark—he had set the interview
time for evening—and the balcony was two stories above the street, too far for
jumping even if I were an Olympic athlete instead of someone whose only
exercise is changing the sheets on her bed.
However, the next balcony being
merely a foot away, I decided to swing over to it, enter the next room by way
of those French doors, and return to the hotel hallway. The next room, which I
could only see through a crack in the closed drapes, seemed dark and empty. I
paused but reasoned that even if someone were staying there, chances were slim
it would be another man bent on hanky-panky.
So I hiked up my skirt, swung my
legs over the two balcony railings, and gently tried the handle of the door. It
was jerked open from inside, and suddenly I was face to face with a fledgling
actor who was in town to audition for a part in an upcoming film.
Of course, I didn't know his
occupation at the time. That came in the next day’s newspapers. Even so, it
could all have ended unobtrusively except that someone had apparently called a
paparazzo, who flashed a bright light at me. I froze like a safe-cracker with
his hand on the dial. Mr. Actor pulled me into his room, and I found myself
among a dozen people watching a film clip on the room’s DVD player.
I was labeled a “groupie,” handed
an eight-by-ten glossy signed by the actor, and laughingly sent on my way.
Except
that, while climbing over the balcony, my handbag slipped off my shoulder and
the paparazzo found the magazine's business cards. That wasn't the end, of
course, the photographer had taken pictures and released them to the
newspapers. As a result of the sudden publicity, Mr. Actor got a role in an
action-adventure film. Nevertheless, Mr. Hardcastle was not amused.
I wrote up the interview as if
none of that had occurred because I preferred to think the politician, perhaps,
had never behaved that way before. Also, I learned a long time ago that I have
plenty of faults of my own, so I lean toward forgiving others for theirs.
