Saturday, 4 January 2014

PROMOTION - WOMBAT SUSHI BY RHONDA LOUISE

Title:  Wombat Sushi
Author: Rhonda Louise
ISBN:  978-1466397316
ASIN:  B009R8ADUS
Publisher: Self/Indie
Pages/File Size: 270pages/615KB
Formats Available: Paperback, E-Books

BLURB from Goodreads
How to make Wombat Sushi: 
1. Take six Australian dancers and one singer who can’t seem to get along. 
2. Add a pinch of stupidity, a dash of naïvety and loads and loads of alcohol. 
3. Make sure the mixture contains absolutely no self-restraint. 
4. Pour into a Japanese club and simmer for three months. 
Caution: Definitely contains nuts!



PURCHASE LINKS



ABOUT THE AUTHOR


I am a mummy, 
a Lawyer,
a Buddhist, 
an Australian,
a wife, 
a vegetarian, 
a coffee-snob,
a procrastinator,
 a self-doubter, 
a Writer.

AUTHOR LINKS

EXCERPT

1. The Audition

It is 10.59am on a sunny morning in October 1990. I am standing outside the Bondi Pavilion Hall in Sydney with my dance bag in my hand, my heart in my boots and my knickers up my anxiously clenched bottom.

“Auditions 11am, 15 Oct - Dancers for high class dance show in exotic location,” the advertisement declared. I remember the wording exactly because I read the ad about five hundred times to get some idea of what to do, wear, bring and say to avoid looking like a complete plonker.

What am I doing outside this audition? I’ll never get picked for such a glamorous job. I know what will happen if I go inside – the routines will be too hard, I’ll fumble all the steps, the choreographer will pick on me, the other dancers will laugh at me, I will burst into tears and be humiliated in front of everyone, and it will all be a COMPLETE and TOTAL DISASTER.

As usual my imagination is running away with itself, and my courage is close behind whining “Wait for me, wait for me!”

Paranoia grips me and holds my arms back while Self-doubt slaps me around the face a few times.

“You’re out of your league kiddo,” sneers Paranoia out of the side of his mouth.

“Yeah, you’ve had a bit of dance training, won a few competitions, even done some paid stuff. But a professional dancer? In an international show? Who are you kidding?” Self-doubt scoffs.

“It’ll never happen,” snorts Paranoia.

“Never.” Self-doubt spits in my face.

 
I wipe the mental spittle of worthlessness off my face and assess my prospects. On the plus side I am a good dancer but on the minus side I am not a great one. I get points because I am reasonably intelligent, but I lose them because the smartest thing about me is my mouth. Add ten points for being kind to strangers, lose ten points for being kind of strange.

So if you do the math it all adds up to about umm, lets see, give me a moment.

Yeah. Exactly zero.

Which makes me your completely ordinary everyday average run-of-the-mill twenty something.

But I do know that every now and then your average ordinary run-of-the-mill twenty something can do something extraordinary, can transcend her limitations, can become everything her average ordinary run-of-the-mill twenty something mind has ever dreamt of. It happens all the time on TV, so it must be true.

And I know it’s a million to one shot the choreographer will pick me. But who knows, today just might be my day to fly, to float, to flout those million-to-one odds.

I pace back and forth in front of the entrance to the hall while I weigh up my options. As I see it I have two alternatives: I can either a) face my demons or b) face McDonalds.

My decision is made.

This is not cowardice but a sensible decision based on a logical assessment of the pros and cons of the situation. Not weakness but a justifiable and reasonable response to the likely outcome of the circumstances. Not spinelessness but stoicism I tell myself.

I turn on my little chicken legs to go.

And as I do I bump into two girls.

“Oops sorry,” says one. “Are you going in?”

Although they certainly are attractive they are not the six-foot stunners with CV’s the length of their perfectly toned legs I anticipated would be at this audition. They in fact look remarkably like me.

And they are waiting for me to answer. “Oh,” I reply while I make up my mind.

I have two choices here: I can be adult about this and use whatever happens at the audition as a learning exercise, a positive encounter, an opportunity to grow through adversity. Or I can pretend to be a lost Portuguese tourist.

“Qué?” is my courageous response. However, the Gods are not letting me off that easily. What I have said sounded exactly like ‘okay’. Consequently the two girls are staring at me and waiting for me to enter the hall.

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