Author Interview & Book Giveaway: Laini Giles on THE FORGOTTEN FLAPPER, A Novel of Olive Thomas

This week, we're pleased to welcome author LAINI GILES with her latest release, THE FORGOTTEN FLAPPER, A Novel of Olive Thomas (book one of the Forgotten Actresses series). One lucky visitor will get a free copy in epub, mobi, or paperback of The Forgotten Flapper - this giveaway is open internationally. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's author interview for a chance to win. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb.

A presence lurks in New York City’s New Amsterdam Theatre when the lights go down and the audience goes home. They say she’s the ghost of OLIVE THOMAS, one of the loveliest girls who ever lit up the Ziegfeld Follies and the silent screen. From her longtime home at the theater, Ollie’s ghost tells her story from her early life in Pittsburgh to her tragic death at twenty-five.

After winning a contest for “The Most Beautiful Girl in New York,” shopgirl Ollie modeled for the most famous artists in New York, and then went on to become the toast of Broadway. When Hollywood beckoned, Ollie signed first with Triangle Pictures, and then with MYRON SELZNICK’s new production company, becoming most well known for her work as a “baby vamp,” the precursor to the flappers of the 1920s.

After a stormy courtship, she married playboy JACK PICKFORD, MARY PICKFORD’s wastrel brother. Together they developed a reputation for drinking, club-going, wrecking cars, and fighting, along with giving each other expensive make-up gifts. Ollie's mysterious death in Paris’ Ritz Hotel in 1920 was one of Hollywood’s first scandals, ensuring that her legend lived on.

Q&A with Laini Giles

So, from Texas, how did you end up in Alberta, Canada of all places?

I married an Alberta boy from Wabamun, west of Edmonton. We were an internet relationship in the early days of that, and have been happily married for fifteen years. I wasn’t sure what to think of Edmonton at first, but I’ve come to love it in the last six years. I’m a native now.

Does it feel strange being far away from Hollywood—the source of many of your books? Or even Toronto—the source of most publishing in Canada?

Sometimes, but in either place, the traffic would make me crazy. That’s what research trips and conferences are for—to get me to other places for vacations. I once heard a lecturer at a conference say “Never set a book someplace you don’t want to visit.” That’s very true in my case. Edmonton’s the perfect size. I almost always run into someone I know when I’m out now. That reminds me of Austin, when I grew up there. Homey and full of friends. But I’ve been making semi-regular visits to Los Angeles now too for researching, taking tours, getting a feel for where everything is (and used to be). And I’ve made lots of friends there too. So I’m bi-coastal. Or something.

What made you decide to write about Olive?

I read Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon when I was about 12, and although most of the content has now been proved to be outright lies, I think it’s what got a lot of us classic film fans interested in silents and that early era (and the scandals that went along with it). I also read Nancy Horan’s Loving Frank not long after it came out, and it made a HUGE impression on me. A brilliantly-written book that wove a real historical tale through her imagining of how the story played out, and I began searching around for subjects to whom I could give that treatment. Olive was the first who came to mind.

How did the idea of the ghost occur to you?

Oh, she really exists. Ask anyone at the New Amsterdam Theatre. I’d started the book in 3^rd person and gotten quite a ways in, but it was just laying there, and I couldn’t figure out how to liven it up. Then, I started playing around with perspective and voice, and realized that Ollie wanted to tell her own story. Once I let her loose, she pretty much took over. And from there, the ghost’s perspective seemed a natural projection—looking back with the knowledge that comes from experience and all that.

Do you have anything in common with Ollie?

Well, we both lost our fathers pretty young. I was 13 to her 8. And I did some pretty stupid stuff in my 20s, but I was lucky that none of it was TOO stupid. Sadly, Ollie never got a chance to make it past her 20s. I’m baffled by her dislike of libraries and bookstores though. She really has no idea what she’s missing.

Can we expect more novels from you in the future?

Yes. In fact, there’s an excerpt to the next book in the back of this one. Clara Bow is my next subject, as seen through the eyes of her secretary, Daisy DeVoe, who eventually went on trial for theft in 1931. And there are quite a few other ladies I have planned, all in various states of completion or planning. I’m unofficially calling myself “The Philippa Gregory of Forgotten Actresses” to give everyone a vision of what I’m trying to accomplish. Fortunately, there are plenty of hard luck cases to turn my attention to.

Sounds exciting! When can we expect the next one?

I’m editing furiously right now to have Clara ready by a late 2017 date. I’m hoping to keep with that. I’d rather it not slip, but I also want to deliver the best book that I can.

Anything else you’d like to share?

Yes. If you read the book and like it (mine or anyone else’s), reviews are like gold. They really are. Word of mouth is the best way for authors to sell books, and if you liked it, tell people. Once an author has twenty reviews in places like Amazon, that book will begin spontaneously popping up as a suggested read in peoples’ feeds. So share your thoughts. You have no idea how far they go, and how grateful authors are for those words. 

Learn more about author Laini Giles

Blog/website: www.lainigiles.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/4gottenflapper
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LainiGiles
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7034038.Laini_Giles 
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Laini-Giles/e/B00D9STF4W/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1

Excerpt Thursday: THE FORGOTTEN FLAPPER, A Novel of Olive Thomas

This week, we're pleased to welcome author LAINI GILES with her latest release, THE FORGOTTEN FLAPPER, A Novel of Olive Thomas (book one of the Forgotten Actresses series). Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the story. One lucky visitor will get a free copy in epub, mobi, or paperback of The Forgotten Flapper - this giveaway is open internationally. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's post or Sunday's author interview for a chance to win. Winner(s) are contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb.

A presence lurks in New York City’s New Amsterdam Theatre when the lights go down and the audience goes home. They say she’s the ghost of OLIVE THOMAS, one of the loveliest girls who ever lit up the Ziegfeld Follies and the silent screen. From her longtime home at the theater, Ollie’s ghost tells her story from her early life in Pittsburgh to her tragic death at twenty-five.

After winning a contest for “The Most Beautiful Girl in New York,” shopgirl Ollie modeled for the most famous artists in New York, and then went on to become the toast of Broadway. When Hollywood beckoned, Ollie signed first with Triangle Pictures, and then with MYRON SELZNICK’s new production company, becoming most well known for her work as a “baby vamp,” the precursor to the flappers of the 1920s.

After a stormy courtship, she married playboy JACK PICKFORD, MARY PICKFORD’s wastrel brother. Together they developed a reputation for drinking, club-going, wrecking cars, and fighting, along with giving each other expensive make-up gifts. Ollie's mysterious death in Paris’ Ritz Hotel in 1920 was one of Hollywood’s first scandals, ensuring that her legend lived on.

**An Excerpt from The Forgotten Flapper**

As I approached the New Amsterdam, I glanced up. The tall narrow building with the fancy front gloated above me, and the excitement pulsed in my ears. A curved arch flanked by columns greeted visitors, and an elaborate arcade below displayed the theater name surrounded by lights. A sign pro­claimed that the new Follies was opening in a week.

I pulled the door open and gasped at the lobby, all sculp­tures and murals and thick pile carpeting. A hulking man in a double-breasted suit and a homburg with a flashy red feather approached me.

“Can I help you, miss? The stage door’s on 41st Street.”

“I’m not a dancer. I’m here for Mr. Ziegfeld,” I said.

“Everyone’s here for him. What do you want with him, doll?” His toothpick wiggled as he spoke.

“A job. Help me out?”

“He don’t see nobody on Tuesdays.”

“Please? I made a special trip across town. I’ve got a letter from Mr. Harrison Fisher, recommending me.”

I reached in my bag for it, then waved it so he could see for himself.

“Harrison Fisher the artist? Ya don’t say.” He glanced at me like he might recognize me from one of my covers, scratched his head, and grabbed the letter. “Gimme a minute.”

“Don’t lose my letter!” I called after him. He retreated fur­ther into the building and I paced, waiting for him. The lav­ish lobby, filled with ornate moldings and curlicue sconces, surrounded me with warm light and the smells of freshly cut wood, paint, and canvas. Farther inside, a piano tinkled. Pret­ty girls in street clothes or lavish costumes stood and chatted; others hurried to and fro.

The big man ambled over to me again and gestured for me to follow him. He escorted me into an office, and behind a desk covered with papers sat Mr. Ziegfeld. He yelled into a gold-plated telephone he held in one hand. In the other, he clutched a stubby cigar. Another gold phone sat at the ready on his desk, and on a table in the center of the room sat a bronze bust of Ziegfeld himself.

His lush graying hair sprouted from a widow’s peak, and a large hawk-like nose perched over a neat mustache. His dark eyes were intimidating, and he stared at me like a wolf sizing up dinner, not missing a thing. He wore a deep violet jacket with a diamond stickpin in the lapel, and his cologne was as bold as he was.

“Gotta go, Eddie. I’ll call ya back,” he said, still watching me intently. His voice was deep and nasal. I thought at first he had a cold.

“Here’s the girl I told you about, Mr. Z,” the big man said. “What’d you say your name was, honey?”

“It’s Olive. Olive Thomas.”

“Thanks, Otto,” Mr. Ziegfeld said. Then to me he said, “Have a seat.” He stubbed the cigar out in an ashtray.

I eased down into the wooden chair before the desk, and Otto retreated after tipping his hat at me.

“So I see Harrison took a shine to you. We’ve already had auditions for the season, but I had a girl drop out, and I like the way you look. So this could be your lucky day. Where you from?”

“Charleroi, Pennsylvania, originally,” I said.

“That anywhere near Philly?”

“No, sir. Pittsburgh.”

“How tall are you?”

“I think about five foot three, five foot four inches.”

“Can you sing? Dance? Anything?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t had any training, if that’s what you mean.”

He rolled his eyes and turned back to his phone.

“But I love to dance, Mr. Ziegfeld. I dance every chance I get. I’ll do anything for this job. Anything!”

He narrowed his eyes and looked more closely at me for a moment. “Pull your skirt up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said pull your skirt up. I need to see your legs. You don’t expect me to hire you without seeing the entire bill of goods, do you?” For a minute I’d thought he wanted something else, if you know what I mean. But at that moment, I frightened myself a little; I would have given it to him.

“Oh.” I raised my skirt a bit so he could see my calves.

“Higher. And stand up.”

“Mr. Ziegfeld, I. . . ”

“Do you want the job or not, Miss Thomas?”

I rose and planted myself next to the chair, then hiked the skirt the extra few inches.

“Now stand up straighter. And smile.”

I flashed my teeth for him and turned my head a bit, like I did for my artists.

“Very nice. I’m sure we can find a spot for you in the back,” he said, gesturing for me to sit down again, which I did. “You can be an extra, at least until I figure out what to do with you. We might be able to move you up, depending on how you work out. We’ll start you off at fifty dollars a week. How does that sound?”

I’d been leaning forward, and I almost fell off the chair. It sounded pretty good, if you want to know the truth. I needed a cigarette.

“What would I have to do?”

“Stand there and look pretty. You seem to be quite good at that already. I don’t think you need too many extra skills at this point. We’ll let you come in, study the routines, meet the cast, give you a shot, and if you’ve got potential, we’ll go from there.”

The smile on my face had to be as wide as the Dakotas.

“Show up here tomorrow afternoon about 1:00 p.m. for a costume fitting. Rehearsals are Monday morning at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Black stockings for practice. Got that?”

I nodded with enthusiasm, my throat tight.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then. We’ll get you set with a cos­tume or two.”

“Yes sir.”

He turned his attention back to the phone, letting me know I was being dismissed, so I hurried down the hallway and out to the street. My hands shook so hard I could barely light my Chesterfield.

Fifty bucks a week! I couldn’t imagine that much money! I was only making three dollars a week at Klein’s, with a lit­tle extra from my modeling. I took the streetcar to the store and crossed the main lobby, where the other girls were busy selling cheap brooches and long ropes of fake pearls to bored customers. Then I made a beeline to the stockroom, breezing past The Archbishop, who gave me hell for missing work. I’d called in sick last week to do a Cosmopolitan cover for Mr. Fisher and a Saturday Evening Post for Mr. Stanlaws.

“Miss Thomas, your absences have become unacceptable. One illness I understand, but this has become a constant problem. We at Klein’s pride ourselves on our professional­ism, and I simply must insist that you . . .”

Grabbing a piece of paper and a fountain pen from the stockroom table, I wrote out a quick resignation and handed it to her. I hadn’t worked a single day for Mr. Ziegfeld, but af­ter my recent experiences posing and my triumph at the New Amsterdam, I could never return to that dreary basement. Her threats bounced off me as I turned and strutted out of the store, grinning like a fool all the way.  

Learn more about author Laini Giles

Blog/website: www.lainigiles.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/4gottenflapper
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LainiGiles
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7034038.Laini_Giles 
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Laini-Giles/e/B00D9STF4W/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1

Myths and Misconceptions about the Roaring Twenties: It Wasn’t All One Big Party

By Stephanie Draven

Chances are that when you think of the 1920’s you think of wild liquor-soaked parties in speakeasies, incendiary Jazz music, and flappers wearing feather headbands dancing the Charleston. Consumers embraced new gadgets and inventions, the stock market was soaring and a Renaissance broke out in Harlem.

All of these things are a true reflection of the time, but they’re only part of the picture. Underneath the glitz and glam, a turbulent culture war took place in the country--one we’re still fighting, in many ways, today.

The Roaring Twenties were a time of sexual liberation, experimentation and exploration. Having just won the vote, women were at the forefront of social causes and societal change. In spite of—or perhaps because of—Prohibition, the Twenties were boom times. Young women attended college, flocked to major cities to find work and lived on their own in numbers never before seen in the history of the nation. Homosexuality was more public and more tolerated. Rules for dating changed. Non-marital sex became common and women began to demand and use birth control.

Flappers changed the world of business, fashion, politics and popular entertainment. The Hays Code wouldn’t be adopted and enforced until 1930, which meant major Hollywood films pushed the boundaries of propriety and gave the country some of its sexiest stars, including Clara Bow.

In short, the Twenties were a period of social transition—one of those pivotal times in history when women took one step forward, before being shoved two steps back. People from all walks of life came together to agitate for progressive change in the Twenties and, in many instances, African Americans led the way.

At the same time, the era was marked by the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan, inspired by D. W. Griffith’s race-baiting incendiary film of 1915, The Birth of a Nation. Immigration was suppressed and racial tensions rose. Even the nascent birth control movement was caught up in it, with Margaret Sanger arguing on behalf of eugenics. The suspicion of foreigners helped lead to the execution of two Italian immigrants, Sacco and Vanzetti, under suspicious circumstances. And the general fervor led to a red scare against suspected communists.

Much of the liberation of women in the twenties came about as a rebellion and reaction against the mores of previous generations. Whereas the women of the 1910's fought for the right to vote, the women in the 1920's had it--and didn’t do terribly much with it. The Equal Rights Amendment was introduced in 1923, but was never passed. And while women entered the workforce in great numbers, most of them left it upon marriage.

Another thing that harshed the buzz of the 1920's was the mob. Mob violence rose dramatically with Prohibition and organized crime used the ban on liquor sales to create criminal empires.

Of course, all this social turmoil makes the era not entirely unlike our own--and a perfect backdrop for fiction!

STEPHANIE DRAVEN is a bestselling, award-winning and RITA-nominated author of historical, paranormal, and contemporary romance. Her new 1920's historical erotic romances celebrate sex, women, and the Jazz Age. Stephanie is currently a denizen of Baltimore, that city of ravens and purple night skies. She lives there with her favorite nocturnal creatures–three scheming cats and a deliciously wicked husband. And when she is not busy with dark domestic rituals, she writes her books. StephanieDraven.com