Guest blogs
I am a housewife. And a novelist. But at poker tables, my demure ways transform and I become something I’m normally not. A killer — metaphorically speaking, of course. – read more at The Huffington Post
Ten years ago, I was straight out of graduate school and sold my first novel for six figures. To promote Eating the Cheshire Cat, I was told that bookstores sold books. And by gum, The Alabama Booksmith, Lemuria, and Eddie Suttles of a Georgia Barnes & Noble hand-sold the heck out of it. I was sent on a twenty-stop book tour, put up in legendary hotels like The Peabody in Memphis, spent my days being interviewed by local TV, radio, and newspapers, and met with one blogger: you…And then I fell, slowly and despite my best efforts, off the face of the literary earth…Now I’m ready to promote THE TURNING: What Curiosity Kills, but I am hardly going anywhere. Physically, that is. It’s 2010 and 99% of my promotion is happening online. - read more at Beatrice
“Her name was Helen Ellis, and she’d worked at Merlotte’s about four years before…She was wearing a leopard print top over brown stretch pants.” – p.194 Dead and Gone by Charlaine Harris
- read more about how my fictional self was born at Musings of a Bookish Kitty
The Manhattan I know is the alluringly creepy Cellar Used Bookstore in the basement of the Webster Library branch on the Upper East Side. Downtown, it’s the funky salon, Kropps & Bobbers, with an overgrown back garden haven for stray cats. Surely, you’ve seen on TV or read about in books: Radio City Music Hall and the Plaza Hotel. In The Turning: What Curiosity Kills, I let you in on my Manhattan’s best-kept secrets. – read more at Beth Fish Reads
Nope, no vampires in THE TURNING: What Curiosity Kills. No werewolves, either. No angels or fairies or mind readers or kids who can enter their own dreams like Six Flags Over Georgia. But there are demons—not up-from-the-fiery-pits-of-H-E-double-hockey-sticks kind of demons, but demons in the way that only a sixteen-year-old mean girl or prehistoric-size feral animal can be. – read more at Grasping for the Wind
Here’s a dirty little secret: you never outgrow your awkward phase. – read more at Connect With Your Teens
Nope, it’s not your period. - read more at Dark Faerie Tales
Human that I am, I very happily domesticated, but if I were a cat, I’d be a stray. The breed isn’t so important. If I lived on the streets, it wouldn’t matter what color my coat was (milk chocolate like a Havana Brown), how big I was (the biggest like a Maine Coon) or how light I was on my feet (the best jumpers are Norwegian Forest cats). What would matter would be my bravery. It takes a lot of courage to take care of yourself and make up your rules. - read more at Anna’s Book Blog
Thinking back on the loneliest times in my life, I think of the books that got me through. - read more at Novel Novice
I’m surrounded. Well, to be perfectly honest, I only have two cats. But, like all cats, they make their presence known. – read more at Book-Lover Carol
