It's time to showcase another book from my slightly narcissistic collection of books with my name (or its variation, Joanna) in the title. Joanne by Scott Stone was published in 1955 by The Vixen Press (what a name for a publishing house, you gotta love it). Here's the summary:
Her velvet tones caressed the microphone and the audience stirred in restless delight.
This was Joanne...
She had that power--the power that only a vibrant, lovely woman can have--the power to move people.
There was the rub. She moved them, all right, but she couldn't quite control the direction they took.
It wasn't her fault. She wanted no part of the whole mess. But want it or not, she was stuck with it. Love, desire, lust, blackmail, murder!--they all swooped down to plague and torture her like vultures over a cadaver.
But she took them in stride--she had to--and played it cool in the warm spotlight, knowing all the while that she was singing to a maelstrom of human emotion, a veritible vortex of vice. And she knew well--all too well--who was playing the center of this strange pinwheel of passion.
Seriously, how over the top is that?