Showing posts with label Godiva. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Godiva. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Where's My Rose?




“A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still

wet -

One perfect rose.

. . .

Why is it no one ever sent me yet

One perfect limousine, do you suppose?

Ah no, it's always just my luck to get

One perfect rose.”

I know just how Dorothy Parker felt. It’s not that I’m greedy or expect unearned riches to shower down on my head, but over the years, I’ve heard stories. A writer mentions Godiva chocolates in his book and the company sends him a big box of assorted bonbons. Another states that her character wears a certain perfume and a FedEx truck rolls up with a quart of it. The character of yet another is a huge fan of a certain rock group and the group’s manager sends tickets to the next show that plays in her city.

Are the stories true? Who knows? But I can’t help wondering if this is why so many writers fill their books with brand names—Manolo Blanik, Calvin Klein, Louis Vuitton, Birkin, etc.

I have mentioned Jaguars, Cadillacs, and T-Birds in my books. Has anyone ever sent me one? Ha!

The only time my books have ever triggered a freebie is when I mentioned that Colleton County barbecue enthusiasts lace their barbecue with Texas Pete. About six months after that book was was published, a member of the Texas Pete family sent me a dozen bottles.

My next book mentioned diamonds. Could a Tiffany bracelet be far behind?

Yes. (Way behind!)

Oh, but wait! I’m forgetting. I did get a car from one of my readers.

The Christmas after High Country Fall came out, a black sports car arrived, a replacement for the one Deborah wrecked up in the mountains. It was a present from my mountain guide and ur-mystery enthusiast Kaye Barley.

Okay, it’s only three inches long, but it looks perfectly adorable on our Christmas tree and it means more to me than any full-size car could.

But if Godiva wants me to keep plugging their chocolates . . . just sayin’.

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