Monday Funday Announcement

So, this girl *points at self* is doing an interview.  Tomorrow night, October 1st (first day of hockey season #GoWings).  8pm EST with the lovely Liz Vallish (and quite possibly her kitty, too).

So come over and join us!

ARC Review: DARK LIGHT OF DAY

The Book: THE DARK LIGHT OF DAY
The Author: TM Frazier
The Publisher: Booktrope Editions
Expected Release Date: September 21, 2013

SUMMARY (As appears on Amazon):

Warning: This is not your typical romance. The story of Abby & Jake contains disturbing situations, graphic violence, sex, strong language, drug use, and all types of abuse.

Abby has been through hell and has survived one of the most brutal childhoods imaginable…barely.

To the outside world she is just a loner with an attitude.

When her grandmother dies in a tragic explosion, Abby is left with questions-and nothing else.

Homeless, sleeping in a junkyard, and on the run from a system that has failed her over and over again, she meets Jake, a tattooed blue-eyed biker with secrets that will rival her own.

Two broken souls that can't be healed. They can't be saved.

Abby & Jake must reveal to one another their most guarded secrets and discover if they can embrace the darkness those secrets hold-and the darkness within themselves.

If they can accept one another for who they really are, they might be able to learn that love isn’t always found in the light.

MY THOUGHTS:

I like to read books that make me think, that make me feel, that make me squirm in my seat (and not in the, this is a hot sex scene kind of way, but in the I can’t f---ing believe this s--- is happening right now kind of way). 

THE DARK LIGHT OF DAY does all this and more.

Abby is not your typical heroine.  She’s not sweet and plucky.  She’s hardened and untrusting, broken and bruised.  She’s a survivor.

Jake is the kind of sexy bad boy a girl like me would like to reform.  The problem with that? Jake has no intentions of reforming anything about himself.  He is what he is, and he never makes any excuses for it.

With two characters like this, you’d think this girl *points at self* would’ve been ready for the harsh reality to be found within these pages.  Apparently, this girl *points at self* was not prepared for the grit, the grime, the harsh and dirty s**tstorm she found herself immersed in after reading only a few pages.

Prepare yourselves, friends.  This story is not for the faint of heart.  There were some scenes where I did, in fact, squirm in my seat, as mentioned at the beginning of this review.  There were moments in which I gripped my e-reader with white-knuckled intensity.  And then, of course, I began dropping the F-bomb in nearly every sentence because I’d become so immersed in story, I started talking like the characters.

Rating: 4.5 F***ing Stars

Favorite Line(s): We were just us.  Broken and bruised. Fucked up and messy. And together, we were everything we never thought we could be.

Conversations With THE MOTHER...and THE FATHER

Since I live in one state, my parents and younger brother in another, and my older brother in yet another, it's not often that all of us are in the same place at the same time. So, while most of my conversations with THE MOTHER take place via phone or Skype, THIS one, in which THE FATHER happens to have a starring role, happened during a recent sojourn up to the Mitten.

Here we go. Buckle up, bitches (don't say I didn't warn ya!)

ME: Where are you two going? *looks at THE MOTHER and THE FATHER curiously*

THE MOTHER: We're going with your cousin. She should be here in a little bit. *cell phone buzzes and she reads text* She says she'll be here in twelve minutes.

ME: Twelve?  Tell her we're locking the door in eleven.

THE FATHER: It'll take your mother longer than that to text the message. If you want to f*** with her, you do it.

The MOTHER hands me the phone, shaking her head. I quickly tap out a text and hand the phone off to my dad. The phone buzzes almost immediately in response.

THE FATHER: *frowns at display* Lame-O?  She just called me a lame-o!

THE MOTHER: What?  Let me see that. *takes phone from THE FATHER*  Lame-O?  LMAO?  Huh, well, we can all tell she went to a public school.  She spelled Lame-O wrong.

ME: *laughs*

THE FATHER:  Now, who's the lame-o? Even I know how to spell lame-o.  What a lame-o she is.

ME: *still laughing; can't catch my breath*

THE FATHER: What a Lame-O

THE MOTHER: Yeah, Lame-O.  Wait till she gets here.

ME:  *am about to fall off the couch, laughing so hard*

THE MOTHER: What is so funny about her calling us a Lame-O?

ME: That doesn't mean Lame-O. *still laughing* L *snort* M *gasp* A *laugh-snort* O *laugh* ... Laughing. My. Ass. Off.

THE MOTHER and THE FATHER, in unison: Oh.

THE MOTHER: Well, I think Lame-O was funnier.

Thursday Throwdown v. 3

Remember the old Spy vs. Spy comics (and later, the cartoons)?

This is how I feel at the moment with my WiPs.  I have two epic ideas battling away in my head.  One is my epic alien rebellion saga (the white spy) and the other is the mystery involving a hate crime (the black spy).  Both are uber-bright and shiny.  I just don't know which will come out the victor at the moment.

Oh, and did I mention the fun writing project I have going on with one of my critique partners? Yeah, that's just even more chaos in a mind already thrown into anarchy.

So, I'm beginning to look like this when I sit down at my computer to work...

Didn't know I had a beard, did ya?

Who do you think will come out the winner in this war of the WiPs? Only time will tell, I suppose..

My Name is Tuesday, and I'm a TEASE

A little snip from my current WiP.  Enjoy :)

I arrive at the library just as they’re opening.  After returning Mark’s books, I plant myself at one of the open computers—Bravo and his students shouldn’t arrive for another hour, so they’re free for the minute—and begin my search.  It takes a whole lot longer than I’d imagined, but I find the specs I’m looking for and print out what I need.

While the printer hums away, I return to the search engine and type in the three words that have been haunting me for weeks.

Cole Michael Grant.

Pages upon pages of hits pop up and hope soars within me.  First, I’ll get a clear picture of what he looks like.  Then, I’ll find his address.  And, then…

The victorious smile I’d been wearing only moments ago, fails.  Other than the very first hit—the original article I’d found in the newspaper—nothing else is about him.  Not even a FaceBook page or a Twitter account. 

It’s like this kid doesn’t even exist.

Everything else that’s popped up is about coal mining, the fifty dollar bill and some TV show about two brothers who hunt demons, because apparently, they also have some kind of love-hate war thing going on with the Archangel Michael.

Dead end.

“Don’t tell me they’re regurgitating the angel storyline?  Again?” Bravo mutters in disgust from beside me.  “I liked that show better when no one believed in angels, and all anyone worried about was hunting demons.  Demons are badass.”

I look over at him, unable to figure out if he’s actually being serious.  “Are you sure you’re a genius?”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe I have to ask such a ludicrous question. 

“Don’t make me show you my MENSA card.  That’s just embarrassing for everyone.”

I quickly close out the search screen and turn to him.  “I don’t embarrass that easily.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a loud laugh.  “I like you, and I don’t like just anyone.”

“Better not let too many people hear you say that,” I tell him as I gather up the stack of books I needed to check out.  Good thing I’ve already read most of the books on the AP English summer reading list, or else I’d have to cram a whole summer’s worth of books into two weeks.  “Word might get back to Goldilocks that you’re cheating on him.  He seems like the jealous type.”

“Goldilocks, huh?”  He laughs as he plucks my stack of papers off the printer.  “That’s a good one.  What are you building, a bomb?”

“Yeah.”  This time, it’s me that laughs.  It comes out weird and high-pitched, a little half-hysterical, but if Bravo notices, he doesn’t say anything.  “If by bomb, you mean bicycle wheel.  And, not so much building one, but repairing a slightly broken one.  Then, yes, I’m building a bomb.”