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Overview
The New York Times bestselling author of Sugar Daddy is back with her most breathtaking, hot-and-bothered novel yet!
MEET THE BLUE-EYED DEVIL
His name is Hardy Cates. He's a self-made millionaire who comes from the wrong side of the tracks. He's made enemies in the rough-and-tumble ride to the top of Houston's oil industry. He's got hot blood in his veins. And vengeance on his mind.
MEET THE HEIRESS
She's Haven Travis. Despite her family's money, she refuses to set out on the path they've chosen for her. But when Haven marries a man her family disapproves of, her life is set on a new and dangerous course. Two years later, Haven comes home, determined to guard her heart. And Hardy Cates, a family enemy, is the last person she needs darkening her door or setting her soul on fire.
WATCH THE SPARKS FLY. . . .
Filled with Lisa Kleypas's trademark sensuality, filled with characters you love to hate and men you love to love, Blue-Eyed Devil will hold you captive in its storytelling power as the destiny of two people unfolds with every magical word.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429951838 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 03/25/2008 |
| Series: | Travis Family Series , #2 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Sales rank: | 91,743 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Lisa Kleypas is the RITA Award-winning author of many contemporary and historical romance novels, including A Wallflower Christmas, Christmas Eve at Friday Harbor, and Love in the Afternoon. Her books are published in fourteen languages and are bestsellers all over the world. Kleypas graduated from Wellesley College and published her first novel at the age of 21. In 1985, she was named Miss Massachusetts in the Miss America competition. She lives in Washington with her husband and two children.
Read an Excerpt
Blue-Eyed Devil
By Lisa Kleypas
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2008 Lisa KleypasAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-5183-8
CHAPTER 1
I first saw him at my brother's wedding, at the back of the reception tent. He stood with the insolent, loose-jointed slouch of someone who'd rather spend his time in a pool hall. Although he was well dressed, it was obvious he didn't make his living sitting behind a desk. No amount of Armani tailoring could soften that build — big framed and rugged — like a roughneck or a bull rider. His long fingers, clasped gently around a champagne flute, could have snapped the crystal stem with ease.
I knew from a glance that he was a good ol' boy, able to hunt, play football and poker, and hold his liquor. Not my type. I was interested in something more.
Even so, he was a compelling figure. He was good-looking, handsome if you overlooked the crook in a nose that had once been broken. His dark brown hair, as thick and lustrous as mink fur, was cut in short layers. But it was the eyes that seized my attention, blue even at a distance, a volatile color you could never forget once you'd seen it. It gave me a little shock when his head turned and he stared right at me.
I turned away immediately, embarrassed to have been caught staring. But awareness continued to spread over my skin, a heat so insistent that I knew he was still looking. I drank my champagne in fast swallows, letting the arid fizz soothe my nerves. Only then did I risk another glance.
Those blue eyes glinted with an uncivilized suggestion. A faint smile was tucked in one corner of his wide mouth. Definitely wouldn't want to be alone in a room with that guy, I thought. His gaze moved downward in a lazy inspection, returned to my face, and he gave me one of those respectful nods that Texan men had raised to an art form.
I deliberately turned away, giving full attention to my boyfriend, Nick. We watched the newlyweds dance, their faces close. I stood on my toes to whisper in Nick's ear. "Our turn next."
His arm slid around me. "We'll see what your father has to say about it."
Nick was going to ask Dad for permission to marry me, a tradition I thought was old-fashioned and unnecessary. But my boyfriend was being stubborn.
"What if he doesn't approve?" I asked. Given our family history, of me rarely doing anything that warranted parental approval, it was a distinct possibility.
"We'll get married anyway." Drawing back a little, Nick grinned down at me. "Still, I'd like to convince him I'm not such a bad deal."
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." I snuggled into the familiar crook of Nick's arm. I thought it was a miracle that someone could love me the way he did. No other man, no matter how good-looking, could ever interest me.
Smiling, I looked to the side one more time, wondering if the blue-eyed guy was still there. I wasn't sure why I was so relieved that he was gone.
My brother gage had insisted on a small wedding ceremony. Only a handful of people had been allowed inside the tiny Houston chapel, which had once been used by Spanish settlers in the seventeen hundreds. The service had been short and beautiful, the air suffused with a hushed tenderness you could feel down to the soles of your feet.
The reception, by contrast, was a circus.
It was held at the Travis family mansion in River Oaks, an exclusive Houston community where people told a lot more to their accountants than their ministers. Since Gage was the first of the Travis offspring to get married, my father was going to use the occasion to impress the world. Or at least Texas, which in Dad's view was the part of the world most worth impressing. Like many Texans, my father firmly believed if our state hadn't been annexed back in 1845, we probably would have ended up in charge of North America.
So in light of the family reputation and the fact that the eyes of Texas would be upon us, Dad had hired a renowned wedding planner and given her a four-word instruction: "The checkbook is open."
As all creation knew, it was a big checkbook.
My father, Churchill Travis, was a famous "market wizard," having created an international energy index fund that had nearly doubled in its first decade. The index included oil and gas producers, pipelines, alternative energy sources, and coal, represented by fifteen countries. While I was growing up, I never saw much of Dad — he was always in some far-off place like Singapore, New Zealand, or Japan. Often he went to D.C. to have lunch with the Federal Reserve chairman, or to New York to be a roundtable commentator on some financial show. Having breakfast with my father had meant turning on CNN and watching him analyze the market while we ate our toaster waffles.
With his full-bodied voice and outsized personality, Dad had always seemed big to me. It was only in my teens that I came to realize he was a physically small man, a bantam who ruled the yard. He had contempt for softness, and he worried that his four children — Gage, Jack, Joe, and me — were being spoiled. So when he was around, he took it upon himself to give us doses of reality, like spoonfuls of bitter medicine.
When my mother, Ava, was still alive, she was an annual cochair of the Texas Book Festival and went for smoke breaks with Kinky Friedman. She was glamorous and had the best legs of any woman in River Oaks, and gave the best dinner parties. As they said in those days, she was as fine as Dr Pepper on tap. After meeting her, men would tell Dad what a lucky bastard he was, and that pleased him to no end. She was more than he deserved, he announced on more than one occasion. And then he would give a sneaky laugh, because he always thought he deserved more than he deserved.
Seven hundred guests had been invited to the reception, but at least a thousand had shown up. People milled inside the mansion and out to the enormous white tent, which was webbed with millions of tiny white fairy lights and blanketed with white and pink orchids. The humid warmth of the spring evening brought out the pillowy-sweet fragrance of the flowers.
Inside the air-conditioned house, a main buffet room was divided by a thirty-two-foot-long ice bar laden with all kinds of shellfish. There were twelve ice sculptures, one of them formed around a champagne fountain, another featuring a vodka fountain studded with pockets of caviar. White-gloved waiters filled frosted crystal cylinders with biting-cold vodka, and ladled caviar onto tiny sour cream blinis and pickled quail eggs.
The hot buffet tables featured tureens of lobster bisque, chafing dishes filled with slices of pecan-smoked tenderloin, grilled ahi tuna, and at least thirty other entrées. I'd been to many parties and events in Houston, but I had never seen so much food in one place in my life.
Reporters from the Houston Chronicle and Texas Monthly were there to cover the reception, which included guests like the former governor and mayor, a famous TV chef, Hollywood people, and oil people. Everyone was waiting for Gage and Liberty, who had stayed behind at the chapel with the photographer.
Nick was a little dazed. Coming from a respectable middle-class background, this was a shock to his system. I and my fledgling social conscience were embarrassed by the excess. I had changed since going to Wellesley, a women's college with the motto non ministrari sed ministrare. Not to be served, but to serve. I thought it was a good motto for someone like me to learn.
My family had gently mocked that I was going through a phase. They — especially my father — thought I was a living cliché, a rich girl dabbling in liberal guilt. I dragged my attention back to the long tables of food. I had made arrangements for the leftovers to be taken to a number of Houston shelters, which my family had thought was a fine idea. I still felt guilty. A faux liberal, waiting in line for caviar.
"Did you know," I asked Nick as we went to the vodka fountain, "that you have to sift through the equivalent of a ton of dirt to find a one-carat diamond? So to produce all the diamonds in this room, you'd have to excavate most of Australia."
Nick pretended to look puzzled. "Last time I checked, it was still there." He ran his fingertips over my bare shoulder. "Take it easy, Haven. You don't have to prove anything. I know who you are."
Although we were both native Texans, we'd found each other in Massachusetts. I had gone to Wellesley and Nick went to Tufts. I'd met him at an around-the-world party that was held in a big rambling house in Cambridge. Each room was designated a different country, featuring a national drink. Vodka in Russia, whiskey in Scotland, and so forth.
Somewhere between South America and Japan, I'd staggered into a dark-haired boy with clear hazel eyes and a self-confident grin. He had a long, sinewy runner's body and an intellectual look.
To my delight, he spoke with a Texas accent. "Maybe you should take a break from your world tour. At least until you're steady on your feet."
"You're from Houston," I'd said.
His smile had widened as he heard my accent. "No, ma'am."
"San Antonio?"
"No."
"Austin? Amarillo? El Paso?"
"No, no, and thank God, no."
"Dallas, then," I said regretfully. "Too bad. You're practically a Yankee."
Nick had led me outside, where we'd sat on the doorstep and talked in the freezing cold for two hours.
We had fallen in love very fast. I would do anything for Nick, go anywhere with him. I was going to marry him. I would be Mrs. Nicholas Tanner. Haven Travis Tanner. No one was going to stop me.
When I finally had my turn to dance with my father, Al Jarreau was singing "Accentuate the Positive" with silky cheerfulness. Nick had gone to the bar with my brothers Jack and Joe, and he would meet me in the house later.
Nick was the first man I'd ever brought home, the first man I'd ever been in love with. Also the only one I'd ever slept with. I had never dated much. My mother had died of cancer when I was fifteen, and for a couple of years after that I'd been too depressed and guilty even to think about having a love life. And then I'd gone to a women's college, which was great for my education but not so great for my love life.
It wasn't just the all-female environment that kept me from having relationships, however. Lots of women went to parties off campus, or met guys while taking extra courses at Harvard or MIT. The problem was me. I lacked some essential skill for attracting people, for giving and receiving love easily. It meant too much to me. I seemed to be driving away the people I most wanted. Finally I had realized that getting someone to love you was like trying to coax a bird to perch on your finger ... it wouldn't happen unless you stopped trying so hard.
So I'd given up, and as the cliché went, that was when it happened. I met Nick, and we fell in love. He was the one I wanted. That should have been enough for my family. But they hadn't accepted him. Instead I found myself answering questions they hadn't even asked, saying things like "I'm really happy," or "Nick's majoring in economics," or "We met at a college party." Their lack of interest in him, in the history or future of our relationship, aggravated me beyond bearing. It was a judgment in itself, this ominous silence.
"I know, sweetie," my best friend, Todd, had said when I called to complain. We had known each other since the age of twelve, when his family had moved to River Oaks. Todd's father, Tim Phelan, was an artist who'd been featured at all the big museums, including MoMA in New York and the Kimbell in Fort Worth.
The Phelans had always mystified the residents of River Oaks. They were vegetarians, the first ones I had ever met. They wore wrinkly hemp garments and Birkenstocks. In a neighborhood where two decorating styles predominated — English Country and Tex-Mediterranean — the Phelans had painted each room of their house a different color, with exotic stripes and swirling designs on the walls.
Most fascinating of all, the Phelans were Buddhist, a word I'd heard even less often than "vegetarian." When I asked Todd what Buddhists did, he said they spent a lot of time contemplating the nature of reality. Todd and his parents had even invited me to go to a Buddhist temple with them, but to my chagrin, my parents said no. I was a Baptist, Mother said, and Baptists didn't spend their time thinking about reality.
Todd and I had always been so close that people assumed we were dating. We hadn't ever been romantically involved, but the feeling between us wasn't strictly platonic either. I'm not sure either of us could have explained what we were to each other.
Todd was probably the most beautiful human being I had ever seen. He was slim and athletic, with refined features and blond hair, and his eyes the opulent blue-green of the ocean in Caribbean travel brochures. And there was a feline quality about him that set him apart from the big-shouldered swagger of other Texan men I knew. I had asked Todd once if he was gay, and he had said he didn't care if someone was a man or a woman, he was more interested in the person's inside.
"So are you bisexual?" I had asked, and he had laughed at my insistence on a label.
"I guess I'm bipossible," he had said, and pressed a warm, careless kiss on my lips.
No one knew me or understood me as well as Todd did. He was my confidant, the person who was always on my side even when he wasn't taking my side.
"This is exactly what you said they would do," Todd said when I told him that my family was ignoring my boyfriend. "So, no surprise."
"Just because it's not a surprise doesn't mean it's not aggravating."
"Just remember, this weekend's not about you and Nick. It's about the bride and groom."
"Weddings are never about the bride and groom," I said. "Weddings are public platforms for dysfunctional families."
"But they have to pretend it's about the bride and groom. So go with it, celebrate, and don't talk to your dad about Nick until after the wedding."
"Todd," I had asked plaintively, "you've met Nick. You like him, don't you?"
"I can't answer that."
"Why not?"
"Because if you don't already see it, nothing I say could make you see it."
"See what? What do you mean?"
But Todd hadn't answered, and I hung up feeling mystified and annoyed.
Unfortunately, Todd's advice went by the wayside as soon as I started a foxtrot with Dad.
My father was flushed from champagne and triumph. He'd made no secret of wanting this wedding to happen, and the news about my new sister-in-law's pregnancy was even better. Things were going his way. I was pretty sure he had visions of grandchildren dancing in his head, generations of malleable DNA all at his disposal.
Dad was barrel-chested, short-legged, and black-eyed, with hair so thick you could hardly find his scalp beneath. All that and his German chin made him a striking man, if not a handsome one. He had some Comanche blood on his mother's side, and a bunch of German and Scottish ancestors whose futures had been hamstrung back in their native countries. So they had come to Texas looking for cheap, winterless land that only needed their labor to bring forth prosperity. Instead they got droughts, epidemics, Indian raids, scorpions, and boll weevils the size of their thumbnails.
The Travises who had survived were the most purely stubborn people on earth, the kind who relied on their backbones when their wishbones were broken. That accounted for Dad's stubbornness ... and for mine too. We were too much alike, Mama had always said, both of us willing to do anything to get our way, both of us eager to hop over a line the other one had drawn.
"Hey, Dad."
"Punkin." He had a gravelly voice, edged with the perpetual impatience of a man who never had to ingratiate himself with anyone. "You look pretty tonight. You remind me of your mama."
"Thanks." Compliments were rare from Dad. I appreciated it, even though I knew my resemblance to my mother was, at best, slight.
I was wearing a light green satin sheath, the shoulder straps fastened with two crystal buckles. My feet were strapped in delicate silver sandals with three-inch heels. Liberty had insisted on doing my hair. It had taken her about fifteen minutes to twist and pin the long inky locks up into a deceptively simple updo that I could never hope to reproduce. She was only a little older than I, but her manner had been maternal, gentle, in a way my own mother had seldom been.
"There," Liberty had murmured when she was finished, and picked up a powder brush to dust my nose playfully. "Perfect."
It was really hard not to like her.
As Dad and I danced, one of the photographers approached. We leaned close and smiled into the blinding white flash, and then resumed our previous distance.
"Nick and I are going back to Massachusetts tomorrow," I said. We were flying commercial — I had put two first-class tickets on my credit card. Since Dad paid my Visa bill, and went over it personally, I knew he was aware that I'd bought Nick's ticket. He hadn't said anything about it. Yet.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blue-Eyed Devil by Lisa Kleypas. Copyright © 2008 Lisa Kleypas. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
| Acknowledgments | V | |
| Preface | XIII | |
| Chapter 1 | Life Management and the Arts | 1 |
| Understanding Human Behavior Is the Key to Successful Arts Administration | 1 | |
| Communication | 2 | |
| Understanding and Empathy | 3 | |
| Strategic Time and Life Management for Savvy Arts Executives | 4 | |
| Tools for Time Management | 5 | |
| Ten Timely Tips for Savvy Arts Administrators | 6 | |
| Twenty Terrible Distractions that Erode Productivity | 10 | |
| Thirty Wonderful Ways to Seize Control of Your Own Life | 12 | |
| Chapter 2 | Producers, Artistic Directors & Managing Directors: Executive Staff Strategic Planning | 18 |
| The Artistic Vision & Producing in America's Nonprofit Theatres | 18 | |
| An Introduction to America's Nonprofit Theatre Movement | 18 | |
| Artistic Visioning, the Artistic Director & the Artistic Team | 22 | |
| The Managing Director | 24 | |
| The Artistic Director-Managing Director Partnership | 24 | |
| Sample Organizational Chart for Nonprofit Theatres | 25 | |
| A Sampling of Mission Statements from Select American Theatre Institutions | 26 | |
| A Suggested Arts Planning Schedule | 30 | |
| Brainstorming & Strategic Vision | 31 | |
| Twelve Timely Tips for Taking Charge & Endearing Your Theatre to Your Community | 32 | |
| Fifteen Fabulous Ways to Infuriate Your Community | 34 | |
| Season Selection: Savvy Strategies, Sick Tales & Sad Stories | 35 | |
| Introduction | 35 | |
| Advice to Arts Leaders Everywhere: Twenty-one Wonderful Ways to Improve Your Life in the Theatre | 37 | |
| In Our Own Words: Seventeen Notes Actors Would Like to Offer Artistic Directors | 40 | |
| Creating Ownership: Strategic Tricks of the Trade | 42 | |
| Introduction | 42 | |
| Chapter 3 | Board of Trustee Management and the Arts | 46 |
| The Role of the Nonprofit Arts Board of Trustees | 46 | |
| Board of Trustee and Executive Staff Relations | 46 | |
| Introduction | 46 | |
| General Tips on Board of Trustee-Executive Staff Relations | 47 | |
| Board Meeting Planning | 50 | |
| Organization of the Agenda | 50 | |
| Distribution of Board Meeting Minutes | 51 | |
| Season Planning, Budget Preparations & Board Communications | 51 | |
| Introduction | 51 | |
| Season Selection and Budget Planning | 52 | |
| Fundraising Planning & Board Communications | 53 | |
| A Sample "Talking Points" Outline for Recruiting New Board Members | 55 | |
| Soothing Souls, Funding Dreams & Saving Theatres: National Theatre Leaders Speak Out on Building America's Nonprofit Boards | 57 | |
| Who Should Be on a Theatre Board? | 58 | |
| What Is the Right Size for a Nonprofit Theatre Board of Trustees? | 59 | |
| How Do You Keep a Board of Trustees Focused on the Theatre's Needs? | 60 | |
| Sample Board Meeting Agenda | 61 | |
| In Conclusion | 62 | |
| Is It Lonely at the Top? Give Yourself a Grade for Board-Staff Communications | 62 | |
| Board of Trustees: Institutional Audit Questionnaire | 63 | |
| Introduction | 63 | |
| Board-Staff Relations | 64 | |
| Budgeting, Finance & Season Planning | 65 | |
| Fundraising | 66 | |
| Marketing & General | 68 | |
| Volunteers: A Perspective | 70 | |
| Guidelines for the Recruitment and Nurturing of All Volunteers | 71 | |
| Chapter 4 | Strategic Planning for the Arts | 73 |
| Strategic Planning for Successful Theatre Operations | 73 | |
| The ABC's of Strategic Planning | 74 | |
| SWOT Analysis Grid | 79 | |
| Chapter 5 | Personnel Management & Human Resources | 80 |
| Company Management | 80 | |
| Introduction | 80 | |
| Important Advice | 81 | |
| Key Personnel for Most Nonprofit Theatres | 81 | |
| The Company Handbook | 81 | |
| Areas for Company Handbook Consideration | 82 | |
| Managing People: A Day-to-Day Checklist | 85 | |
| Supervisory Skills, Secrets & Debatable Sins | 85 | |
| When Great Minds Gather: Running a Productive Meeting | 86 | |
| Communications Basics: Memos, E-mails & Letters | 87 | |
| Building Character & Careers: Theatre Personnel Development | 88 | |
| Human Resources: The Good, the Bad & the Ugly | 91 | |
| Hiring | 91 | |
| Sample Interview Questions | 92 | |
| Orientation & Training | 93 | |
| Promotion & Retention | 93 | |
| Termination | 95 | |
| Negotiating Tips for Arts Managers | 96 | |
| Motivational Points to Consider | 97 | |
| The Bottom Line & Golden Rules | 98 | |
| The Negotiation Tip Sheet | 99 | |
| Ethics & the Arts: Making a Commitment to Human Dignity | 103 | |
| Introduction | 103 | |
| Too Busy for Ethics | 103 | |
| Taking a Stance: Codes of Ethics, Human Dignity & Sexual Harassment in Arts & Education Associations | 104 | |
| Individual Theatre Policies | 105 | |
| Summary | 108 | |
| Chapter 6 | Fundraising for the Arts: Basic Strategies for the 21st Century | 109 |
| Introduction to Fundraising | 109 | |
| Fundraising Can Be Fun | 109 | |
| Fundraising Can Be Poignant | 109 | |
| Fundraising Keeps Institutions Alive | 110 | |
| Fundraising by Any Other Name | 110 | |
| Marketing-based Fundraising Is Here to Stay | 110 | |
| Start in Your Own Backyard | 111 | |
| How to Recruit a Board of Trustees That Understands Fundraising Responsibilities | 111 | |
| Introduction | 109 | |
| Key Concepts Related to Fundraising Leadership | 112 | |
| Creating Enthusiasm | 112 | |
| Establishing a Sense of Urgency | 113 | |
| Define Your Mission | 113 | |
| Establishing a Case Statement | 113 | |
| Determining Feasibility | 113 | |
| Clear Public Communications | 113 | |
| Setting Goals | 113 | |
| Timing | 114 | |
| Staff Support | 114 | |
| Budget | 114 | |
| Orienting Fundraisers | 114 | |
| Developing Prospects and Suspects | 114 | |
| Solidifying the Prospective Donor List | 115 | |
| Matching Fundraisers to Prospective Donors | 115 | |
| Cultivating Prospective Donors | 115 | |
| The Ask and Follow-Up | 115 | |
| Ongoing Cultivation | 116 | |
| Renewing Contributions | 116 | |
| Basic Fundraising Vehicles | 117 | |
| Annual Campaign | 117 | |
| Planned Giving | 117 | |
| Capital Campaigns | 117 | |
| Endowment Campaigns | 117 | |
| Fundraisers | 118 | |
| Fundraising Theories | 118 | |
| Introduction | 118 | |
| Fundraising Myths | 119 | |
| Common Fundraising Mistakes | 119 | |
| A Sample Executive Outline of a Strategic Fundraising Plan | 120 | |
| Fundraising Objectives, Targets & Goals | 123 | |
| Chapter 7 | Marketing the Arts in the 21st Century | 126 |
| Introduction | 126 | |
| Overview | 127 | |
| Basic Arts Marketing Terms | 127 | |
| Press & Media | 129 | |
| Helpful Media Hints | 130 | |
| Job Descriptions | 131 | |
| Director of Marketing | 131 | |
| Director of Audience Development | 131 | |
| Director of Publications | 131 | |
| Director of Press and Public Relations | 131 | |
| Sales Manager | 131 | |
| Group Sales Manager | 131 | |
| Telemarketing Manager | 132 | |
| Box Office Manager | 132 | |
| Director of Education | 131 | |
| Image-building and Strategic-planning Notes | 132 | |
| Nuts-and-bolts Staff Communications & Relations Tips | 133 | |
| Income & Image Strategy Basics | 135 | |
| Marketing on a Limited Budget | 136 | |
| Two Audience Development Tools for Strategic Planning and Goal Setting | 137 | |
| Outline for Strategic Planning and Nuts-and-Bolts Marketing | 137 | |
| Chapter 8 | Budgeting & Financial Management | 142 |
| Budget Basics: A to Z | 142 | |
| Summary of Standard Theatre Financial Terminology & Processes | 145 | |
| Introduction | 145 | |
| Terminology: A to Z | 145 | |
| Sample Business Office Procedures | 147 | |
| Purchase Orders | 147 | |
| Cash Receipts | 147 | |
| Cash Disbursements | 147 | |
| Bookkeeping | 148 | |
| Annual Audit | 148 | |
| Business Office Flow Chart | 148 | |
| Financial Worksheet for Theatre Budget Planning | 149 | |
| Sample Comparative Budget Analysis of Expenses | 158 | |
| Chapter 9 | Surviving in a Competitive Field | 159 |
| Trippingly on the Tongue: A Guide to Speaking the Speech (or Public Speaking) | 159 | |
| If You Are in the Theatre You Are Expected to Know How to Speak | 159 | |
| Content and Form | 159 | |
| Speaking the Speech Tips | 160 | |
| Tips for Stress Reduction: Staying Fit for Life | 161 | |
| Introduction | 161 | |
| Stress Reduction Tip Sheet | 162 | |
| Five Tips for Starting a New Job | 165 | |
| Fourteen Artistic Networking Survival Skills for Theatre Professionals Young and Old | 165 | |
| Introduction | 165 | |
| An Abbreviated Directory of Related Labor Unions, Guilds, Theatre Contracts & Associations | 167 | |
| America's Nonprofit Professional Theatres: An Overview of Four Nationwide Organizations | 170 | |
| Theatre Communications Group (TCG) | 170 | |
| League of Resident Theatres (LORT) | 171 | |
| Institute of Outdoor Drama (IOD) | 174 | |
| Shakespeare Theatre Association of America (STAA) | 178 | |
| A Final Note | 181 | |
| Bibliography | 182 | |
| Index | 184 | |
| About the Author | 190 |
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