Who doesn’t love a little Black Friday & Cyber Monday shopping action?
Black Friday is going to be a little different this year, at least for me. It’s going to be a virtual Black Friday…so kind of like. Cyber Friday?
SO CREATIVE!
Anywho, you can snag get 15% off your order by entering the code blkfri20 at checkout!
Ah, reviews. Reviews are quite literally some of the best exposure an author can get. Great reviews help books to be seen, and the crazy, ever-changing algorithms favor them. Bad reviews, well. Bad reviews suck. There’s no way around it. It sucks to read something bad about something you’ve worked so hard on, something you’ve poured your heart and soul into.
But the thing is, it happens.
Bad reviews are part of life. Authors know this, myself included, but they still sting every single time we read one. What I can appreciate about a bad review is that at least that reader took the time to write about the book. Most of the time, even the “bad” reviews are constructive criticism. Although, I did read a review one time via Goodreads and the reader shelved it on “piss-poor.” We can’t all have “great-bad” reviews, hah!
All jokes aside, bad reviews are part of being an author, and as I said, most of the time, they aren’t too difficult to deal with. I think it’s important that authors acknowledge both. We can learn and grow from it, and sometimes even have a good laugh at ourselves…at our own expense.
Take a look at my best and worst review for my recent book, Blurred Lines!
#transparency
Not everyone is going to love your book, and unfortunately, some people won’t even like it.
I think it’s so important to find the value in every review, even the ones from the readers who shelve your book in the “piss-poor” section.
<3 Until next time!
Want to pick my brain? Tell me about your current read? Your last five star read? Drop me a line at victoriaellisauthor@gmail.com
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Only a few more hours left!
This is the first time Raven’s Grove has been .99 cents! We don’t do this often but we’re having a little sale and the first book in our duo is only .99 cents. Make sure you check out Raven’s Grove: Redemption when you’re finished!
Haven’t heard of RG? Here’s the blurb:
Eight years ago, Eve ditched her last name and fled across the country after being brutally attacked and left for dead. She’s determined to forget, drowning her panic attacks in whiskey and living the life of a recluse.
The walls she’s built around her new existence are impenetrable until she meets Max, a captivating but broken hometown hero, who causes her to rethink everything. When Eve receives word that her attacker is being released from prison, she knows two things:
He will find her, and when he does, he’s going to finish the job.
He’s already stolen her innocence, her friendships, and her home. Now, she’s dead set on revenge. With the past’s demented secrets closing in as fast as Eve is falling for Max, will she be able to beat her assailant at his own game?
Grab it here, sale ends in a few hours:
smarturl.it/ravensgroveamazon
I am SO excited to be sharing the Prologue and Chapter One with all of you! I hope you enjoy this little sneak peak into ATP!
PROLOGUE
“Madi, will you marry me?”
His question evokes an automatic response from my gag reflex—I am choking on my goddamn buffalo wing.
There’re no dramedies here, I am full-on choking.
I bring both hands to my neck, what I assume is the signal for holy shit, I’m choking, please help me before I die, but Tate has no clue. He’s handsome as hell, but sometimes I’m convinced he’s missing half his brain.
I reach for water, thinking I can wash down the half of a chicken wing that is lodged in my throat, but the water only exasperates everything that much more.
I look at Tate again and stand, pointing at my throat, unable to make a noise no matter how hard I try. Suddenly, his eyes are bulging out from their sockets, more than likely because my face is damn near certainly changing colors.
Tate doesn’t move, and instead stays frozen in his chair, bringing both of his hands to his mouth like he’s shocked that I’m dying in front of him.
Give me the fucking Heimlich and I won’t be! I want to scream.
Two strong arms grip around the center of my body, and an intense pressure in my upper abdomen rocks me forward—and out pops the chicken wing. It rolls across the table and lands right in front of Tate as a horrified expression spreads across his face. I quickly gasp in as much air as I possibly can and bend at the waist, losing myself in a coughing fit.
When I finally catch my breath and I’m no longer heaving like I just ran a marathon, I turn to face the person who saved me—expecting it to be some large, burly man—but no one’s here.
“She’s right there,” Tate says, pointing toward a woman who turns at the last minute before leaving the restaurant, tipping her head to me and giving me a slight wave.
There are still nice people in the world. It’s refreshing.
Now, back to business.
I clear my throat and dab at my face with my napkin as I sit back down.
“Are you okay, babe?” Tate asks, and the only thing I can think about right now is having one less chicken wing. I’m hungry, the PMS is real, and those two seldom mix well.
Will you marry me?
The words fell from his lips nonchalantly, easy as pie, like they don’t have the power to change the entire trajectory of both of our lives.
“That didn’t exactly go how I had planned it,” he says, staring at me over his plate of macaroni and mashed potatoes.
How you planned it?
“Tate.” I rub my throat, trying to calm the daggers that shoot pain throughout it. My voice comes out hoarse, “Did you really just propose to me over chicken wings?”
Honestly, I wouldn’t marry Tate if my life depended on it. I actually planned on ending things with him tonight, over said chicken wings, because this just isn’t going anywhere. In the three months I’ve dated him, I just haven’t really felt that spark that’s necessary to continue on with a relationship. The fact that he just proposed to me after only three months of dating and when we are very clearly on very different pages, if not a completely different book all together, only solidifies things.
Anytime I try to date someone for longer than a few dinners or a late-night rendezvous in my small New York City apartment, it ends up coming to an end like this. They want more, I just can’t get there. I’m not sure if I’m just not compatible with anyone here or if it has anything to do with the bar that was set years prior. Maybe my standards are just too high.
But I know that the man I want exists.
I just can’t have him.
CHAPTER ONE
MADI
The fresh, late spring air, bites at my skin as I wind the corner of the busy sidewalk, nearing the location for the photo shoot. In all my excitement of securing this job with Luxe—one of the hottest, up and coming New York City based clothing companies—I forgot my 70mm lens. I wanted this one to create the perfect close-up shot and capture the intricate detail of the clothing.
Guess I’ll have to perfect these ones on my own instead of relying on the equipment.
New York City is the second love of my life, the first being my little photography business. I love the busy streets, the hole-in-the-wall cafes and diners. I can get lost for hours with a good book, sipping on a hot coffee and people watching out storefront windows.
I don’t miss my old life in South Carolina at all. Nope. Not one bit.
I’m able to convince myself of just that, as I have so many times before, until I walk past a young girl walking hand in hand with her father and my heart picks up pace in my chest. A quiet sadness envelops me and I have to force my sadness away, to the back of my mind. I miss my own dad and the walks we’d take when I was a little girl.
Nostalgia gnaws at my bones as I continue making my way to the shoot. I pass by a delicious-smelling food stand and I’m reminded of Red’s Diner and the southern cooking that I love so much.
Okay, so maybe I miss pieces of my old life. But I’ve settled into this big city over the past six years and I’m finally feeling like I belong.
I send a quick text to one of my friends, asking if she wants to meet for drinks tonight. Between Tate’s proposal, my choking incident, and my nerves about this shoot, Lord knows I am going to need some liquid therapy tonight. Forgetting my equipment paired with a brand-new client…today’s not off to a great start.
I reach the intersection of Ballard and Vale and immediately spot the gray and white brick wall that I’ll be meeting the model at for the shoot. I’m going to have to get creative to keep passersby out of the shot, but this wall fits perfectly with the company’s aesthetic. I set my bag down and pull out my coveted camera, the one I worked doubles for at the restaurant when I first got to the city.
The sun is glaring down already, and I can tell my reflector is going to get its use today. I double check that my 50mm lens is on. At least I didn’t forget this one. It’s my favorite. I attach the reflector to the tripod and get ready to get some amazing shots for Luxe.
“Are you Madison?” A sweet-sounding voice calls to me and I turn to see a teenage girl walking toward me, striding shoulder to shoulder with another woman, who looks to be in her mid-forties.
“Hey!” I reach out to shake their hands once they stop in front of me. “I’m Madison, yes. I assume you’re Lauren?” I ask the teenager, who politely nods her head and gives me a soft smile.
“Yes, this is Lauren and I’m Veronica. She has another shoot in three hours, so we’ll have to start as soon as possible.” The older woman says, not breaking eye contact with me. Her tone has a brashness to it that I certainly wasn’t expecting, but I do my best to conceal the fact that she’s thrown me off a bit.
I let Lauren know that Luxe has already spoken to the café next door and we have approval to use their restroom for outfit changes. She eyes up the petite clothing, trendy and new age. Crop tops and short skirts, things I’d never wear, but it’s definitely what’s in right now.
Twenty minutes later, the model has arrived and I’m in my element, looking down the view finder at my subject, getting some bomb shots, feeling better than when I first got here.
“Honestly, Lauren.” The woman she brought with her rolls her eyes. “Do you think you can suck your gut in a little bit?”
Her words hit me hard, a sucker punch to my chest, and I’m not even the one she was talking to.
“Oh.” Lauren smiles meekly at me, hunching her shoulders over and attempting to suck in something that isn’t there in the first place. “Sorry. Of course.”
Pushing my index finger down, I capture her awkwardness as I look down my lens at her, practically watching as her confidence melts into the sticky New York City air. I rest my camera against my chest, the strap hugging it close to my body.
“You keep doing… Whatever it is you’re doing there.” She tosses her long, platinum-colored hair over her shoulder, waving her hand haphazardly. “I’ll be back. I’m going to make a phone call.” The lady walks away, sauntering down the street in her black heels and pencil skirt. I resist the urge to tell her to just stay wherever it is she’s going. She’s only making my job harder and totally ruining this young woman’s confidence simultaneously.
I start to pick my camera back up, but think better of it. “Are you okay?” I ask the model, gathering my long, dark hair and pulling it up, securing it with a hair tie. “I’m so sorry she’s being so rude to you,” I tell her, hoping to bring back a little life into her eyes. If we have any hope of getting a few good shots for the clothing boutique to pick from, I need to help this girl down off the ledge.
Lauren gives me another small smile. “She’s just like that. It’s all right. I’m used to it.”
“Is she your manager or something?” I can’t understand why she doesn’t just fire her. Luxe has sizes zero through twenty-four. I know she cannot possibly be tied to them, not with the way she’s body shaming her.
An uneasy smile stretches across her face, like something I’ve said is funny, but quickly disappears when she notices the woman strolling back in our direction. “No, actually.” She gulps, and her throat bobs a little. “That’s my mother.”
Guess our mothers have something in common, then. They’re both scumbags.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s being way overly critical. You are absolutely stunning, and you were doing so great before she started making those comments.” I lower my voice as the woman approaches. “Don’t let what she’s saying get to you.” I feel like I’m failing miserably at my attempt to give her a quick pep talk as she nods at me, still looking unsure of herself. “I’m not one to condone physical violence, but just imagine you’re like…throwing a drink in her face or slashing her tires or something.”
That gets a giggle out of her, and I wink before turning away from her to get an angled shot, farther away.
Veronica walks toward us, snapping her fingers. “All right. Enough chitchat. Daylight is burning.” Daylight is burning. It’s a phrase Tate said often. Daylight is burning, baby. I gotta make that money. I can’t believe I stayed with him as long as I did.
I roll my eyes, hoping she doesn’t see my expression, but it’s hard to contain my visceral disdain for her ignorance. Just as I pick my camera back up and Lauren shifts to a new, slightly more assured pose, my cell phone rings against my thigh. I huff, quickly dropping the camera back against my skin and fumble with my cell phone and silence it while it’s still in my pocket.
Not even two seconds later, my phone rings again.
“I’m so sorry.” I shrug, pulling the phone from my pocket and glancing down at the unknown number with the area code from the city where I grew up. Weird. “I’ll just be a minute.”
My heart flutters quickly in my chest at the realization that something might be wrong. I step away from the women and answer the unknown caller. “Hello?”
The caller clears her throat. “Can I please speak to Madison Alexander?” Her tone is cool and calm.
“This is she. Can I help you with something?” I say, trying to match her demeanor. Business is picking up, so there’s no way it’s a collection agency.
Another pause. “Oh, hello there. This is Jade O’Connell. I work for the Huntington Police Department, I’m not sure if you remember me.” Of course I remember her. She’s six years older than I. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Madison, but your father has been in an accident.”
My entire world falls out from beneath me. All at once my vision is clouded, and I can only think about all the ways my father could have possibly hurt himself. A series of horrible images flashes through my mind.
“Ms. Alexander, are you there?”
I want to tell her I’m here, but no words come as I crouch down on the sidewalk.
“If you can hear me, just sit down for a minute. Your dad is okay. I’m sitting with him here at the hospital, and the medical staff will be calling you to update you as soon as they get him stabilized.”
“Stabilized?” I choke out, standing and spinning back to where Lauren and her mother stand, holding up my index finger. “Tell me what happened, please.” This long, drawn-out waiting is too much.
“Yes, he passed out while driving down route seventy-four. He almost hit a vehicle in the westbound lane head-on, but they swerved just in time. He ended up flipping the car a couple of times and came to a stop in Samson’s soybean field. You’re aware of the spot I’m talking about, right?”
Of course I am. Being gone for the past six years doesn’t fog my memory of my hometown of Huntington, South Carolina. I can’t think straight. Why would he pass out? Did he forget to eat or something? My dad never forgets to eat, nothing makes sense. “Can I talk to him?”
She clears her throat again, obviously a nervous habit. “I’m sorry, but unfortunately he isn’t able to talk just yet. I have given over all of his information to the hospital here; your cell phone number is with the staff, and they’ll call to up—”
“Tell them I’ll be on the next flight home.” There’s no way in hell I can just sit idly around waiting for a phone call while my dad is in the hospital alone. I have to move, I have to go.
As much as every single bone in my body aches even thinking about Huntington, South Carolina, knowing all of the things I ran away from all those years ago, there’s no way around this.
I have to go back home.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, I would love for you to preorder! The price is $1.99 until release day and then it goes up! Let me know what you thought about the beginning of ATP in the comments below! <3
Preorder According to Plan Here!
V
Have you thought about snagging up my contemporary romance, Blurred Lines, but would rather see what it’s all about first?
I got you, boo.
Check out the first two chapters here and then make sure you go grab your copy on Amazon to finish the story. It’s free on Kindle Unlimited!
BLURRED LINES, A SECOND CHANCE CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE, IS OUT NOW!
***
CHAPTER ONE
AVA
You Got Lucky by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
***
March, 2010
He shakes his hair out of his eyes and flips through albums at The Vinyl Kitty—my favorite record shop in all of Chicago. I don’t want to be standing here, gawking at him, but my eyes are drawn to him.
He’s tall, so fucking tall, easily six-foot-four or five. I can tell he works out from the size of his biceps, yet he doesn’t look like a typical gym dude. My eyes trail from his arms to his shirt—a Bob Seger concert tee. Intriguing. I wonder if he’s more of a We’ve Got Tonight or Old Time Rock N’ Roll kind of guy.
His hair is dark, matching mine. I like the way he’s left just a little bit of scruff on his face. His Converse look like they’re falling apart, like he’s been to a lot of places in them.
He stands dead center, in the rock section, one row away from me. I’ve never been the type of girl to walk up and introduce myself to a guy, but he makes me want to. It isn’t love at first sight—I don’t believe in that garbage—but it might be infatuation at first sight. I feel a slight pull toward him. Like the universe has conspired to put me directly in his path.
He turns in my direction, and I snap my head down to the bin of albums in front of me so hard I think I’ve given myself whiplash. I start thumbing through them like I’ve been doing this the entire time.
“Hey,” he says, and when I don’t answer, because I’m blissfully unaware that he’s speaking to me, he says it again.
I look up and around, trying not to seem too obvious. When we finally make eye contact, I see his are a beautiful emerald green—the kind you can get lost in, make bad decisions because of, and swoon over.
“Come here often?” he asks.
Did he really just use that line? My face must display my thoughts, because he immediately starts in again, smiling. My God, his smile.
“Yeah, that was stupid. My bad.” He laughs, walking my way, where he extends his hand over the albums that separate us. “I’m River.”
I take his hand in mine and he’s fire to my ice.
“You’re freezing,” he observes. “What’s your name?”
I forgot to tell him my name. Jesus Christ, this is going really well. “Ava Keyes.”
“Well, Ava Keyes,” he starts, smiling at me again—and his teeth are damn near perfect, blinding white, “The Doors or Black Sabbath?”
I laugh, nervously. “That’s kind of like asking me to compare apples to oranges.” I stare at him as he holds both albums up on either side of him. “The Doors would get my vote every time, though. Jim Morrison is one of the greats—a lyrical genius.”
He nods, cocking his head to the side and pursing his lips a little. “Hm.” He studies me, looking me up and down, and I’m fully aware that he’s taking me in. “Thank you, Ava Keyes. It was very nice to meet you.” With that, he flashes another toothy smile—placing the Black Sabbath album back in its place—and walks over to the cash register with The Doors album in hand.
I stand and stare at the space he’s left me in, wondering what the fuck that was all about. Until I hear the bells chime, signaling his departure.
I walk around to the spot he’d stood in while browsing, happy to see two more of the same record. My fingers make their way to The Doors album and I trace the lines of Jim’s face, admiring him, then I turn to head to the checkout.
Right before I leave, Frankie—the owner of the shop, and one badass seventy-year-old tattooed and pierced grandma—calls out to me.
“Ava!” She rushes around the counter toward me, her bright pink mohawk staying in perfect place. “I almost forgot to give you this. That guy who just took off, he left this for you.”
She hands me a small folded piece of paper—with a phone number—that reads:
“There are things known, and things unknown, and in between are the doors.”
Call me, Ava Keyes.
***
CHAPTER TWO
AVA
We Are Family by Sister Sledge
***
Everything I’ve learned about life, love, and being a decent human has come from my father. He’s my number one go-to, the coolest dad to ever exist, and he likes to remind me of it often.
My family is comparable to the annoyingly perfect sitcom kind. My mom and dad were high school sweethearts who married at nineteen, had me at twenty-one, and my brother Dillon at twenty-four. The only time I can even remember things being almost rocky is when we were waiting to receive an answer on my brother’s autism diagnosis. But even if—or when—they were struggling, they never let it show.
I want a love like my parents have, the kind that sweeps you off your feet. I want a family like mine, even if we are the annoyingly perfect kind.
My mother glances over at my father. “Honey, can you please get a haircut? It isn’t the seventies anymore, and I love you, but you’re starting to make the neighbors think we just smoke doobies and listen to music all day.”
My dad turns to look at her, obviously perplexed. He arches just one brow and brings his hand to his chin, rubbing at his blonde scruff. “Honey,” he playfully mocks her, “isn’t that exactly what we do?”
“Hey!” Dillon yells out. “Drugs are bad. It isn’t something to joke about.”
“Dill, there’s nothing wrong with taking a load off.” My father flashes a grin, puffing at an imaginary joint, and my mom swats him on the arm.
“You’re right, babe. Your father thinks he’s hilarious,” she says, patting Dillon on the shoulder before she returns to washing dishes.
But I know that wasn’t all joke. I found a joint in his nightstand when I was looking for money for takeout when they went to see The Eagles last summer. I know all about their little recreational activities. My mom would never admit that, though. At least not to us. While the two of them are pretty open with us, that’s a line she won’t cross.
I admire the doodle my dad is concentrating on. He always has a sketchbook with him, insisting that inspiration can strike at any time.
He’s a freelance graphic designer, one of the most talented artists I’ve ever known. My mom, on the other hand, works solely with the left side of her brain. She’s an executive at a record label here in the city. She’s less artistic, more conservative all around. They balance each other out.
“Dad, what’s this one?” Dillon asks. The Devil Went Down to Georgia blares on the stereo. He’s been trying to learn the names to our parents’ favorite songs.
While our father explains the origin of the ballad, I remember being a few years younger and asking him these same questions. Now, at seventeen, I can name them all easily.
I love both my parents equally—most of the time—but I have a connection to my dad that runs deep. It’s almost as if we’re the same person, just in different bodies.
When I was younger, he’d always tell me, “Kid, there’s going to be good days and bad days. You’ll have them both. It’s inevitable. But as long as you’ve had more good days than bad, you know you’re doing all right.”
When I was sad after our dog died, or because a friend moved away, he gave me the same quick pep talk. It helped me realize I wouldn’t be sad forever, so I could put things into perspective. So I could understand these were just small blips on my radar. Soon I’d have another dog I’d grow to love, or another friend to hang out with. There would always be more good days than bad.
Dillon starts galloping around the kitchen, breaking me from my thoughts. “Lookin’ for a soul to steal!” he half-sings, half-shouts.
I look over to my parents, who are both now sipping from their matching coffee mugs and having a silent conversation with their eyes.
Yeah, we’re that family. The one that loves hard as hell and is probably about to get a noise complaint from the neighbor for the third time this week.
***
I sit cross-legged on my bed and look around my room. These walls have changed so many times over the years. From lime green, to hot pink, even black. Now, they’re white. Fresh and clean. They’re home to old school rock posters and shadow boxes with ticket stubs.
My bedroom is a sanctuary. Like, an actual sanctuary. It’s where I go to recharge. My beta fish, the plants on my dresser, even down to the fresh lilac candle that’s burning, it all adds to my comfort. A different kind of peace I feel only in here. My mom says I should practice yoga whenever I feel stressed, but I feel like that’s some woo-woo hippie shit I don’t need. Junior year has been stressful. The ACT is coming up, but I have zero motivation to study. I know exactly what I want to do when I grow up, although I already feel like an adult.
I want to be a writer. I want to make people feel something. To take them out of their world and into a different one. Right now, my writing consists of poetry and short stories, but one day I’ll be a real writer, writing real novels. My words will be out in the world for everyone to read.
I pick up the note River left for me at the record shop, running my fingertips over the words he wrote. It’s been two days. I’m nervous to call him. He probably thinks I’m not going to, but I’m just trying to muster up the courage to actually do it. I’ve never had a guy do something like that for me. Sure, I’ve dated, but his note was swoon-worthy. Mysterious.
My dad swings open my bedroom door and I smile at him, unable to ever be mad when he doesn’t knock. Now, if it were my brother or mom, I’d be fuming. But my dad, he gets free rein. It’s an unspoken rule between us.
He has a soda in his hand as he smiles back and extends the blue can toward me. I take it, gratefully.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, old man?” I ask, popping the top on the can before taking a quick swig.
“Ah, just needed to escape the chaos for a bit. Figured you’d be listening to some good jams. What do you have there?” he asks, nodding to the paper in my hands.
I immediately fold it and tuck it underneath the pillow resting behind my back. “Oh, nothing, Dad. Just…” All words leave my brain. “Nothing.” My voice shakes when I say it, and he gives me a suspicious stare.
He walks over to my bookshelf, quickly turning around and then swiping the note from its safe spot. Or, what I thought was a safe spot.
“Hey!” I shout, laughing. Annoyed, but somehow still laughing because that’s what he does to me.
“Ooh la la,” he says, in a high-pitched voice that makes me want to die inside. “Who is this River dude? He likes my buddy Jim, I see.” His eyes grow wide, a goofy smile spreading across his face while he waits for my answer.
Weighing the pros and cons of telling him, I decide it’s better to just spill it than continue to deal with his badgering. “He’s just a random guy I met at The Vinyl Kitty.”
“A random guy? Random guys don’t typically write you love notes, kid.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Dad, a love note—really?”
“I’ll be right back, Aves,” he says, turning on his heels and hurrying out of my room.
What’s he doing? Is he going to get Mom so they can both try to get it out of me?
I go after him, walking down the long hallway to where I hear him rummaging through what sounds like papers.
“Dad, what on earth?” I round the corner to my parents’ room and see him digging through a clear plastic bin.
“Ah-ha!” he declares, clenching a paper in his fist and holding it above his head like he’s just won an award. “I knew I’d find it.” He flashes another one of his silly smiles.
“You’ve officially lost me, Father.”
“Let me recite this beaut’,” he says.
My god. The Jim Morrison thing really has him going.
He clears his throat. “Love, just a quick note to tell you I love you. And remember, like Jim says, ‘It’s like gambling somehow. You go out for a night of drinking and you don’t know where you’re going to end up the next day. It could work out good or it could be disastrous. It’s like the throw of the dice.’ Last night was great. Winking face—”
“Dad, what the hell! Too far! I don’t care how your night went. Gross.” I feel the contents of my stomach threaten to come back up.
“Oh, kid, it’s just sex. Relax. Your parents made you and your brother. You know that, right?” He laughs. “My point is, this is a guy after my own heart. This is a note I wrote to your mother after we…you know…for the first time. A Jim Morrison quote, Aves! I feel like this might be meant to be. Who is River, and have you utilized that phone number he left you?”
He seems excited—too excited. He’s normally over-the-top critical if I even have remote interest in a guy.
“So,” I start, “let me get this straight.” I look my father dead in his aqua blues. “You’re telling me, to call a random guy I met in a record shop. You are condoning this. You do realize he could be a psychopath, right?”
“Kid, anyone who writes Jim Morrison quotes on notebook paper and goes to The Vinyl Kitty is our type of guy. I’ll get you some pepper spray, just in case. But call the dude. This is going to be good.”
Did you enjoy those first two chapters? Snag it from Amazon here!
xo
Victoria
The Stories Inside Us
We all have a story idea swirling inside our brains.
A phrase similar to this was uttered at a book convention I attended in 2016, and the
words resonated with me. To be completely transparent, I listened to a panel speak about this topic with bated breath as I scribbled an obscene amount of notes in the blank journal I carried.
On a personal level, I knew the phrase to be true. I had written stories here and there
throughout the course of my life before I became so consumed with a story idea that I wrote an entire book in the span of a month. Now that may not seem like a feat, but I was also pulling twelve hour shifts at the hospital three to four times a week. And if you’ve ever known or met a nurse, you know our bodies operate in a constant state of exhaustion. But despite this, I couldn’t stop until I had finished relaying my story.
I was a madwoman on a mission.
Tales told from the perspectives of Katniss and Clary had no doubt both inspired me and
pushed me from the role of reader to that of creator.
So, what is it exactly that separates the dreamers from the doers in this regard?
The answer is obvious . . . writing.
Over the last few years, I’ve talked to so many people, both friends and strangers about
the process of writing a book. And the general consensus for what stalls them before they can even type their first word is fear.
What if I can’t write good enough? What if I make mistakes? What if people don’t
connect to my characters?
I understand that kind of fear on an intimate level. Every author does. We live in a
perpetual state of waiting to have our writing criticized and to be labeled as frauds. But when these types of negative emotions set in.
I remember a quote from Jodi Picoult…
“You can’t edit a blank page.”
Her words are an unadulterated truth. You don’t have to be a grammar and punctuation
aficionado to be worthy of putting pen to paper.
Perfection is not the point.
The story is.
That is the advice I share with anyone who asks me about writing a book. If we were
meant to be perfect from the first draft, then editors wouldn’t exist. Their jobs would in a sense be pointless. Developmental, line, and copy editing would all fall by the wayside. And in my opinion, such a thing would be a loss for any soul who claims to be a lover of the written word.
Now, I know there are authors out there who don’t need an editor, and they have my
utmost respect. But, because I am a flawed human, I love to have an extra set of eyes analyzing my work. When needed, my editor pushes me to be a better writer. For lack of a more appropriate phrase, she calls me out on my shit.
Why?
Because she knows I can do better.
She has confidence in my abilities even when I don’t. That level of faith pushes me to reach for the next level. It inspires me to strive for continual growth and refinement of my writing skills. If there is nothing on the page, then nothing can be gained. The story you long to tell has the potential to resonate with others. However, if you never
start, you’re depriving someone of what could be their favorite book.
So, give fear the finger and transform yourself from a dreamer to a doer. Because when
you really think about it, we all have stories locked within our hearts and minds.
It’s a simple matter of sitting down to write them.
Keep dreaming and start writing.
~A.P. Watson
About A.P. Watson:
A.P. Watson is a contemporary and paranormal romance author who discovered her love for reading at a very young age due to her rural upbringing. She enjoys a variety of genres and authors, from Jane Austen to Charlaine Harris. When she isn’t reading or writing, she loves to dance. A.P. has been an avid pole dancer for several years and thoroughly enjoys the challenging nature of the sport and the thrill of performing onstage. Professionally, she has worked as a registered nurse for several years, and she graduated with a Master of Science in Nursing in 2019. Her goal is to combine her love for aesthetics and skincare by utilizing her Family Nurse Practitioner certification in the field of dermatology. A.P. currently resides in Johnson City, Tennessee, with her adorable rescue pup, Elle.
Connect with A.P. Watson on Instagram here:
https://www.instagram.com/apwatsonauthor/
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