M. Leighton's Blog, page 3
September 20, 2016
Chapter One of Levi’s Blue
Thank you for coming to read the first chapter of this book. I guarantee you this story is like nothing you’ve read before, like nothing that’s out there right now. I hope you will fall as madly in love with these two as I have. Welcome to Levi’s Blue:)
Chapter 1
Evie
I STOP in the doorway and reach for the wall. The plaster feels good against my damp palms. Cool, refreshing. Stable.
I’m nervous.
It’s hot in there, in the next room. I can tell because the humid air gushes through the opening and caresses my face like the kiss of summer, warm and moist.
I take a steadying breath and reach out with all my senses. It’s second nature to me now.
I hear the shuffle of feet, the rustle of movement. I smell the scent of a dozen colognes and perfumes, mixing with the faint aroma of alcohol. And I feel the presence of people nearby, their charge, their…static. They change the air around them, the way it sounds and smells, but also the way it feels as it washes over me. It feels heavier. More electric.
And what does all that mean? People. Lots of them.
A crowd is waiting for me. I know they’re there, even though I can’t see them. I haven’t seen a face, a color, a sunset, or a star in thirteen years. These days, all of my mental pictures are made from what I can hear, taste, smell and feel. The only things I see are memories that are locked away inside my head, in a palace with a thousand rooms, each filled with sights from the first half of my life.
When I could see.
I pull in a single deep breath, drawing in all the concrete and certain elements I can detect. They are my sight now. They are the things that soothe me. Ground me. Comfort me.
Well, sometimes. When I’m not a jumbled mass of nerves, all twisted and tangled around each other.
For the most part, I’ve learned to take comfort in different things since the accident, to find peace in different ways. And tonight, braving a crowd of people who have come to see my work, my art… Well, I’ll need all the comfort I can get, wherever I can get it.
I hear the delicate click of footsteps, stilettoes on polished marble, as someone—Cherelyn, I presume—walks toward me. It’s a purposeful gait, a completely different sound than the casual meandering of those walking around the room next to the one I’m in, looking at the walls, at all the squares and rectangles that colorfully display little bits and pieces of my soul.
“You ready?” a voice says as the steps draw nearer. As I suspected, it’s Cherelyn.
“Not even a little bit,” I admit, my innards knotted like a clutch of angry snakes, hissing and spitting.
“Too bad. This is your night and you’re going to enjoy it if I have to hog-tie you and drag you out there.”
I smile. “Hog-tie me? What the hell is that?”
“It’s a Texas thing. Now come on.” She tugs gently at my arm, but I resist.
“We aren’t in Texas, though. We’re in Shreveport, Louisiana.”
“I realize that, dingus.” Her answer is droll. I imagine her expression is, too, but I can’t see her, so I wouldn’t know. I’ve felt her pointed chin and high cheekbones, her pert nose and broad forehead, though, so I can conjure up what expression I think she might be wearing—a wry one. “You brought all that ’80s shit with you to school in New York. I brought Texas with me to Louisiana. Get over it and move your ass.”
“The ’80s were great for movies and music, and I’m offended that—”
“Stop right there. You’re stalling, and I can’t let you stall, because if you stall I might lose my nerve, and then I’ll stall and—”
“If you say ‘stall’ one more time, I’m gonna gag you and throw you in the closet.” I lay my hand over hers where she’s gripping my arm. Her fingers are digging in like someone who’s falling off a cliff that has no visible bottom. “Hey, it’s going to be fine. You know that, right?”
She sighs. I feel her minty breath breeze over the skin of my temple. “I know. I’m just nervous.”
Cherelyn is not only my best friend, she’s my biggest fan. She’s also the person who organized this showing, which is taking place in the gallery of a friend of her father’s. She has a lot to prove tonight, too.
“Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be nervous? This is my opening after all.”
Just saying the words out loud causes my insides to dance and fidget. This is my opening, for my work. Holy shit!
“Oh, God!” I exclaim, my fingers tightening over the back of her hand. “I may hurl.”
That snaps her out of it.
“Stop that! Stop that right this minute! You’re going to pull yourself together and go out there and charm the pants off of every person in that room. It’s what you do. It’s who you are. Now let’s do this.”
Cherelyn is the type of person who can’t be calmed by anyone when she gets in a snit. However, if she feels like she has to be strong for someone else—me, for instance—she’ll puke and rally (hopefully without the puking). It’s like she kicks into best friend mode. Shamefully, I sort of use that when I need to calm her. Kind of like reverse psychology. I let her come to my rescue. Even though I wasn’t entirely exaggerating about the throwing up part. I genuinely feel queasy.
Regardless, I continue with my role. “Okay, okay, okay. Go introduce me then. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”
She doesn’t budge, but after a short pause, she gives me a request that has become something of a game between us. “Tell me about the blonde first.”
I smile.
We’ve done this since I started to get back out into the social world my junior year of college. I make up stories about the people I can’t see. It used to ease my tension and lighten my mood, make me feel less nervous and self-conscious, but it didn’t take long for either of us to realize that it worked just as well for Cherelyn.
“The blonde with the big mouth? That one?”
“Yeah, her.”
I lower my voice like I’m telling State secrets. “She says her name is Petunia, but I heard through the grapevine that her stage name was Pussy Aplenty. You know, sorta like that Bond girl. Anyway, she’s an ex-porn star who took out a second mortgage to pay for her triple F boobs and then got a job as a fluffer for John Holmes. Rumor has it that he broke her gag reflex and she became a star overnight. She can swallow anything without barfing. You should probably keep all the men away from her.”
Cherelyn giggle-snorts, and I can feel some of her tension melt away as she relaxes, leaning against my side to rest her head against mine. “You should write stories.”
“I do. I just don’t use words.”
“You use paint. And you’re damn good at it, too. Maybe you should paint Porn Star Petunia one of these days.”
“I’d need the side of a building to do those boobs justice. Not my style. Sorry.”
“Eh, a girl can hope.”
Suddenly, I’m pulled into a tight embrace and kissed on the cheek. “You’re gonna be a star, Evie. A bona fide star.”
“I’d settle for enough money to pay my bills and not have to do the classes.”
“But you love teaching those classes.”
“I do, but I hate taking money for it. I do it because I want to help those kids. It seems…dirty to get paid for it. I’d rather be able to do them for free. I’d feel much better about it.”
“You get paid because the companies that donate to Healing Art need a tax write-off. You shouldn’t feel bad for taking their money. Those rich assholes can afford it and they undoubtedly need some good karma. Look at it as a service to the kids and the tyrants.”
“You’re not bitter at all,” I assert dryly.
“You forget. I know how those people work. I grew up in it. Lived around that corporate bullshit for half my life and was engaged to one for way too long. It’s an ugly, ugly business. Rich people can be so cruel, so ruthless. Unscrupulous. I mean, look at what happened to you!”
I close my unseeing eyes. I hate going back down that road. I’ve spent a lot of years letting it go, refusing to spend one more minute of my life dwelling on something I can’t change. Cherelyn is still furious about it, but I’m tired of wasting my energy. I’d much rather just move on and find a way to be happy without becoming consumed with the person who wrecked my life.
“I think I’ve done a pretty good job of making lemonade from those lemons, don’t you think?”
There’s a long, thoughtful pause as Cherelyn takes the hint and abandons that sore subject. “You’re the best maker of lemonade that I know.”
“Then how’s about going out there and introducing me so they don’t think I’m a no-show?”
She takes a deep breath. She’s bolstering herself. I can imagine her squaring her shoulders almost as clearly as I heard her suck in a gulp of courage. “I’ll make you proud.”
“You always do. But don’t make me sound like a superhero this time. That gets a little awkward.”
“What? You didn’t like my Dare Devil reference when we pitched to that new company who wanted to donate to Healing Art last week?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Hell no! I thought they loved it. I mean, they donated enough to keep it going for, like, three years. In fact, I considered dressing you in red leather tonight just for effect.”
“Note to self: Never let Cherelyn pick out my clothes again.”
“Like I’d be able to pull that over on you anyway. You’re too damn smart and…sensey. I can’t even get you to wear a sheer blouse because you can feel the difference in the way the air flows over your skin. Weirdo.”
I shrug, unconcerned. “Comes with the territory. Lose your sight and everything else starts working overtime.” I pretend glance down at a watch I’m not wearing and couldn’t see even if I were. “Speaking of time…”
“Shit! Right. I’m going, I’m going.”
I grin as she takes off like a shot. I hear the light click of her hurried steps as she walks briskly across the gallery floor. Seconds later, I hear the delicate clink of metal against glass as she taps her champagne flute to get the attention of the crowd. Her voice rises above the ambient noise, and she gives a blissfully short introduction.
“Now, the woman of the hour. Please welcome Evian de Champlain.”
I inhale, memorizing the scent of this moment, the taste and texture of it. I lock it away in a room all its own. It deserves its own space since it’s the first of my dreams to come true. I’ll revisit these details hundreds of times before I die. Maybe paint something to give it life outside my head.
Hesitantly, I start out across the gallery. The light tap tap, tap tap of my cane’s tip grazing the floor is enough to quiet the audience. Silence falls around me like dusk, and I imagine that all eyes turn to watch me enter.
I squeeze the grip of my cane, the fingers of my free hand trembling at my side. My lips wobble as I attempt to keep my smile in place.
I count each step, having rehearsed this entrance a dozen times in the last week. There are forty-eight of them from the back doorway to the center of the room. I’m on twenty-three.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
Twenty-six.
So far, so good.
I hear hushed murmurs and the soft slap of skin meeting skin as someone begins to clap. Others join in, and a subdued applause welcomes me to one of my biggest goals in life.
The moment is magical. Exquisite. Surreal. I’m so caught up in the splendor of it that the sound of something dropping and rolling across the floor barely registers in my mind. I only feel the rush of accomplishment. I only hear the heavy beat of my own heart. I only smell victory.
That is, until my foot skids over something and sends me tumbling backward. Then I hear nothing but my own gasp, one of surprise and humiliation.
It happens in slow motion, my blunder. Or at least it feels like it does. One foot flips out from under me, causing me to lose my balance. My other foot wavers unsteadily on my three-inch heel. My fingers open reflexively, and my cane goes flying out…somewhere. My arms flail as I reach out for stability and find nothing but air. And my face… I hate to even imagine what my expression is like.
I’m going to fall.
In an art gallery.
On opening night.
On my opening night.
In front of an assortment of rich and powerful people.
And just like that, my confidence, my moment, my dream comes crashing down around me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact. I know I’m racing toward the hard ground and can’t do a damn thing about it.
But that impact never comes.
Instead, I’m caught by a strong arm and jerked up against a warm body. A chest, I imagine. A wide one that’s as solid as a brick wall and as welcome as a feather mattress.
It takes me a second to realize I’m safe, but the instant I do, I turn my face into the expensive material of my savior’s jacket and hide. It’s the only thing I can do, because facing all these people is obviously out of the question. At least for a few more seconds. A few more heartbeats.
It’s during those few heartbeats of reprieve that some part of my humiliated brain notices two things, two very specific details, and tucks them away in an empty corner of my mind, to be taken out and looked at—and likely enjoyed—again later.
Much later.
Scent. The scent of the man holding me is curved as tightly and protectively around me as his arms. It’s a dark, manly aroma, equal parts high speed car chase and hot wax dripping onto bare skin. Inanely, I think to myself that this must be what heaven smells like. This man.
The second thing I notice is that where my breathing is erratic and shallow, his is deep and even. Measured. He is the calm in my storm, solid and steady and…comforting in an odd sort of way, like he has me and I don’t need to worry.
But that’s only one small part.
The rest of my brain? It’s in a tizzy.
As I’m nearly hyperventilating into this random guy’s tuxedo, I become aware that my fingers have a death grip on his lapels, and I’m holding on like white clinging to rice, even though I can feel how strong he is and that there’s probably zero chance of him dropping me. Still, I’m not letting go until I absolutely have to. Held against him is a very nice place to wither and die if one must.
As my flustered mind begins to clear, I listen to the utter silence around me. That’s when the tears, a bitter mixture of humiliation and gratitude, begin to prickle at the backs of my eyes.
I know everyone else is feeling as uncomfortable as I am. They don’t know what to do or what to say, so they do and say nothing. They just watch as the poor blind girl struggles to get her bearings.
Moments tick by, moments long enough to die a thousand deaths within. They’re painful and tense and never-ending.
Finally, the man who caught me begins to straighten, slowly settling me on my feet. For one panicked second, I consider asking him not to let go. His hold on me feels so good. So strong. So…right somehow. It’s been years since I’ve been held this way. So many I’ve lost count. However, I know I will need to move eventually.
Two big hands come to my upper arms to steady me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a low, deep whisper.
My chin trembles embarrassingly, but I manage to nod and attempt a smile.
“Can I help you to the front?”
I nod again, forcing my fingers to relax their hold on him. When they do, he slides his grasp down my arms and entwines the fingers of his right hand with my left, then gently turns me toward what I assume is the front of the room. My spill caused me to lose my orientation in space, and I have no idea which way I’m supposed to go.
I let him guide me until he slows to a stop and nudges me to turn again, presumably to face the attendees. I blink against the brightness of the overhead lights as I look out, unseeing, into the crowd. I’m glad for once that light and dark are the only things I can perceive. It hurts to even imagine the pity in their expressions.
I clear my throat. This will be my first speech. Given to patrons who came to see my work on opening night. My first ever opening night. This is one of the most important nights of my entire life and…the words won’t come out.
After long, strained seconds, some finally do, but they’re nothing like the ones I prepared. At this point, however, I just want to welcome everyone and excuse myself to go shrivel up and blow away in peace.
I swallow once.
Then I swallow again, willing the lump in my throat to go away.
“Thank you all for coming. Everything you’ll find on these walls tonight represents something that inspired me when I could see. These images stuck with me, and now they’re all I can see. I hope you find something here that inspires you as well.” After a short pause, I add, “And be careful. The floors are booby-trapped.”
I hear a few hesitant laughs, so I smile, I nod, and then I turn to the man at my side and say, “Would you mind escorting me to the ladies’ room?”
“No, of course not,” he replies, his words nearly drowned out by a second, louder round of applause.
With one hand at my lower back, the other still holding the tips of my fingers, my rescuer guides me away from the electric buzz of people, away toward the quiet. I can hear the way it sounds as we approach, the silence. It has this empty, flat quality about it that can’t be duplicated. Like it swallows up sound, and that sound is never to be heard from again. And, right now, I crave that emptiness, that swallowing like I crave air and sight.
The instant we step into the back room, the coolness of the dark envelops me. In here, there is no hum of florescent lights, there is no humidity from dozens of other bodies, there is no soft murmuring about what just happened. There is only the echo of my own sigh as it bounces off the walls and returns to me in a whisper.
I reach out until I feel something solid, and I sag against it. I take a deep, steadying breath and exhale slowly.
“You can go now. Thank you very much for your help. I’m sure my friend will bring my cane shortly,” I tell the man who’s been kind enough to assist me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be completely and utterly alone in my mortification.
“I don’t mind staying until you’re ready to go back out there.”
“I won’t need any more help, but I appreciate the offer.”
“It would make me feel better.”
I release another breath, half-cry, half-groan, and let my head fall back against the wall. “Please. Just go. It makes it worse to be treated like a frail blind woman.”
“Am I treating you like a frail blind woman?”
“A little, yes.”
“I didn’t intend to. I don’t see you as frail, but… you are blind.”
“No shit,” I snap.
I regret it immediately.
“Sorry. I…I just…I just hate being treated differently.”
“People who treat you with compassion don’t mean it to be insulting, I’m sure.”
“I know, but I still don’t want to be treated differently. I get so tired of it—the stuttering and stammering. I get so tired of being tiptoed around. For once, just once, I want to be treated like every other woman on the planet.”
There is a short pause before he responds, a response I was far from expecting. “Would it make you feel any better if I hit on you?”
Stunned, I raise my head, and my mouth drops open.
“Out of pity? Seriously?” Now I am insulted. “No. I’m pretty sure that would just send me on a mission to find the necessary materials for making a noose.”
“You know how to make a noose?” he asks incredulously.
“Beside the point,” I growl.
“Right. But what if I meant it? What if I wanted to hit on you? What if I’m intrigued by a woman who knows how to make a noose?”
I sigh.
I give up. I’m too exhausted for this.
“I’d say you should wait until she’s had time to recover her wits and piece her pride back together.”
“Is that going to take a while?”
“Depends on how long you stand here arguing with me.”
“Are we arguing?”
“Apparently.”
“Already?”
“So it would seem.”
“Wow. I’ve never argued with a woman before I’ve kissed her.”
“Your kissing induces arguments? Maybe you should work on that.”
His voice drops to a quiet, sensual rumble. “Is that an offer to help me with my kissing?”
“If I say yes, will it make you go away?”
“Probably.”
“Then yes, it’s an offer to help you with your kissing.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that. Later, of course. After you’ve recovered your wits and pieced your pride back together.”
I feel the corners of my mouth threatening to curl up into a reluctant smile. “Fine, but this is a limited time offer. You have to leave now and let me mourn in solitude or the deal is off.”
I hear him draw closer. His body, which must be big and dense, blots out more of the noise coming from the next room. It narrows the sounds to only the ones we’re creating—the rush of breath between us, the thud of my heart, the shift of his expensive tux on his skin. It makes it seem like we’re more alone than we are.
His voice is a mere vibration that resonates in my chest. “There’s nothing to mourn. All those people are here to meet the brilliant artist behind these beautiful paintings. That hasn’t changed.”
I feel his closeness, too. It leaves me breathless with a strange anticipation. The heat from him radiates toward me, causing chills to break out down my arms and, if I’m being honest, it scrambles what’s left of my brain. That’s why I say the first thing that pops into my head.
“You…you smell like the woods after it rains at night.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Like sweet moss and musk and midnight.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. It’s not a bad thing. It’s…soothing.”
He says nothing for a long while, not until I both feel and hear him step back. “I’ll take soothing. For now. See you out there, Ms. de Champlain.”
I make no move to respond as I listen to the heavy thump of his footsteps get farther and farther away.
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September 19, 2016
Levi’s Blue is LIVE, y’all!
Levi’s Blue is LIVE!
Welcome to my brand new super sexy standalone that is guaranteed to make you sweat and make you swoon.
“Amazing. Unique. Beautiful. Sexy. LEVI’S BLUE by M. Leighton is ALL THAT and MORE!” ~~ Shayna Renee’s Spicy Reads
Levi’s Blue
Four beautiful days. Three steamy nights. One breathtaking love.
Levi Michaelson.
He wanted four dates. Four opportunities to prove I could trust him. Four chances to change my mind about him.
I agreed.
Probably not my smartest decision. He was everything I knew to avoid—gorgeous, charming, sexy as hell—but I couldn’t help myself. When he touched me the whole world disappeared. I should’ve known I could lose myself to him, that he could be the one man to destroy me.
I guess it’s true what they say—some things are too good to be true. And Levi Michaelson might just be one of them.
#LevisBlue #Unzipped #Sept19 #NewRelease #ComingSoon #MLeighton
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September 9, 2016
The store is open for signed copies of Levi’s Blue!
It’s that time, y’all! As of about 5 minutes ago, the store is officially open! You can order your autographed (and personalized if you wish) copy of Levi’s Blue today through October 1st. I will be getting shipments of Levi’s Blue paperbacks weekly until then:)
Look at this deliciousness! I am DYING to get my hands on the first physical copy! OMG!
If you don’t know what it’s about, here’s the blurb. And a teaser (or three). And let me just tell you that it’s not like any story out there right now. It’s very unique in a very interesting way that makes the story sort of leap off the page and smack you right in the…senses:) I hope you love it as much as I do!!!
Levi’s Blue Four beautiful days. Three steamy nights. One breathtaking love.
Levi Michaelson. He wanted four dates. Four opportunities to prove I could trust him. Four chances to change my mind about him.
I agreed.
Probably not my smartest decision. He was everything I knew to avoid—gorgeous, charming, sexy as hell—but I couldn’t help myself. When he touched me the whole world disappeared. I should’ve known I could lose myself to him, that he could be the one man to destroy me.
I guess it’s true what they say—some things are too good to be true. And Levi Michaelson might just be one of them.
September 5, 2016
When thank you is not enough
What do you say to someone who tells you that what you’ve worked so hard on has touched them? What do you say when someone tells you that they’ve fallen in love with a character that you poured onto “paper” from the bottom of your soul? What do you say to someone who, through their words, validates your dreams? Tells you things that make your heart sing? Do you say THANK YOU? Of course you say thank you. But what do you say when thank you isn’t enough?
This is where I have found myself in recent times, in a place where thank you is just not enough.
I have been blessed with a multitude of readers who have taken time out of their lives not only to read my books, but to e-mail me or post or comment or tweet about how much they love my work or how much they have been affected by what they’ve read. And, believe it or not, this is where I run into trouble. I am so humbled by it, so grateful for it, I find myself at a loss for words.
How can someone whose career revolves around the turning of phrases and the wielding of words find them so inadequate? I don’t really know, but here I am. I am that person. I find that it is impossible for me to express how much it means to me when someone tells me that they cried with Cami or that they laughed Ginger or that they’ve fallen a little bit in love with Cash or Trick. It is truly, truly a dream come true.
I love to write. I love to create characters and lives and problems and solutions. My passion is to write about love and heartbreak, about hope and the search for wholeness. But more than any of that, I love to write for YOU. I adore–absolutely ADORE–what I do, but nothing about the process is as fulfilling as getting an e-mail from someone who has taken a break from their life to tell me how much they loved my story, how much they felt as they turned the pages. There is nothing like it in the whole world. I sincerely treasure each and every message I get. I’ve saved many of them so that I can go back and read them again, experience the incredible satisfaction and pleasure of your words. For me, they make the writing world go round and for them I thank you. From the bottom of my heart and the deepest part of my soul, THANK YOU. Really. Truly. Honestly. THANK YOU.
August 17, 2016
Levi’s Blue Cover Reveal
Levi’s Blue
Four beautiful days. Three steamy nights. One breathtaking love.
Levi Michaelson. He caught me when I fell. Literally.
He wanted four dates. Four opportunities to prove I could trust him. Four chances to change my mind about him.
I agreed.
Probably not my smartest decision. He was everything I knew to avoid—gorgeous, charming, sexy as hell—but I couldn’t help myself. When he touched me the whole world disappeared. I should’ve known I could lose myself to him, that he could be the one man to destroy me.
I guess it’s true what they say—some things are too good to be true. And Levi Michaelson might just be one of them.
ADD TO GOODREADS: http://smarturl.it/LevisBlueGR
June 29, 2016
The Big, PRETTY Fourth of July Sale!
Look, look, look! The Pretty Series books have pretty new faces! And to celebrate them, they have a VERY PRETTY new price! Each ebook is ONLY 99 pennies from June 29-July 6, so grab your copy fast! Find them here:
I’m also opening the store for the week so you can purchase signed paperbacks of the newly recovered beauties. Find them HERE!
June 20, 2016
Back to Square One
Going “back to square one” usually has a bad connotation, doesn’t it? It’s usually indicative of a setback of some sort, of having to start over because of failure. Well, in this case, in the way I’m talking about it today, it’s not. It’s actually a very, very good thing.
The realization that I need to go back to square one came to me in two swift kicks to the head. Kick one happened last week.
I have new covers for the Blood Like Poison series and I showed them to my sister. She told me that series was, still to this day, her favorite of all my books. She remembers specific lines from those books, which is very telling in and of itself, as any avid reader knows. When actual quotes stick with you, they’ve made a big impression.
As I was thinking about that series, I remembered how easy those books were to write. I just sat down with my characters and my love of them and I typed. There was no worry, no fear of judgement, no concern over popularity or perception. I was just doing something I loved and I was thrilled to the bone to be able to do it. My only goal was to make enough money doing it that I wouldn’t have to go back to nursing. That was my ONLY goal. I finally had a job that I not only didn’t HATE, but LOVED and I was as happy as a pig in mud.
So much has changed since those days.
Now, there are a million worries that go along with writing and publishing, and, being the overachiever that I am, I take them ALL very seriously. I could go into copious amounts of detail. Lists upon lists of concerns, but that’s another talk for another day. Today I’m talking about square one.
The second part of this realization came just a little while ago when my husband and I were sitting outside. We were simply enjoying the weather, partaking in some silent contemplation of life and all. the. things. As I was pondering, I asked him, “What would make you happy?” I thought he might have some new life goal that I didn’t know about. I was expecting an answer like, “To go to Fiji” or “To lose twenty pounds.” You know the kinds of answers you get when you ask people broad questions like that.
That’s not what I got at all.
My sweet soul mate looked across the table at me and said, “For you to be happier. For you not to worry so much about your books.”
Even now, as I sit here typing this, my heart breaks. I could just cry. How wonderful is he? How absolutely amazing is this man? And look how I’ve hurt him– that he is less happy because of me. I’ve let my competitiveness, my need to excel and succeed steal my joy. I’ve been aware of it, of course. It’s not like I don’t know that I’m driving myself crazy. No, I know exactly how out of balance I’ve become. I know exactly how stressed I get, how much pressure I put on myself. I know exactly how nuts I get over things that don’t matter in the long run, that don’t really matter NOW. But it never occurred to me that HE might feel it, that I might be hurting the person I love most in the world.
And yet I have.
That has to stop. It has to.
It’s time to get back to square one. To writing what I love because I love it, and with no other agenda in mind. That sounds like it would be the easiest thing in the world, and for some it is. But I’m not built that way. It’s a struggle for me to be casual about anything. I’m the type of person who can take anything and make it harder than it has to be. LOL But this is something I NEED to do. For me. For my husband. For the quality of the rest of my life. For my marriage. Because, unless God has other plans, I intend to write for many, many years to come. But I plan to be married forEVER.
So, the crux of it is, I need to find a happier way forward. Love is worth it, isn’t it? Isn’t that what I write about? Pleasing a man who loves me so much that MY happiness is HIS happiness?
Yes. It sure is.
THAT is what REAL love is and I intend to keep it:)
So, *raises glass* here’s to happier, better balanced, well-adjusted days ahead, loving and being loved by the most amazing man in the world, and writing about just such things!
June 14, 2016
All things personal
Let me forewarn you that this is likely going to be a rambling post. Why? Because number one, it’s emotional. And number two, I have a habit of going back over something once, twice, three times and then I talk myself out of posting it altogether, which is sort of why I’m here writing this today. What you read next is NOT an indication of my ability to form a coherent sentence:) hehe This is just straight from the heart, unfiltered and unedited. It’s that or I won’t post it at all, so here goes.
I want to tell you a little about myself, some things that you may have gleaned by following me on social media. For starters, social media is hard for me. In some ways, I’m a very private person. My first inclination when virtually anything happens to me or around me is not to share it widely. I tell my husband. I tell my sister. I tell my best friend. Usually, it stops there unless I make myself put it online. A few things come naturally, like when dad died or when I’m super passionate about something, but for the most part, I just don’t share things with the world in that way.
My family is private, too. My husband has no desire to be “Mr. Leighton” in the sense that he is “The Husband Of That Chick Who Writes.” Now HE is truly a private person. Truly. He doesn’t even HAVE a Facebook account. My mother is the same way. She HATES it when we post about her online. That’s probably where I get it. Like her, I hate having my picture taken, too. HATE. IT. I’m the least photogenic person in the world. I will look at a picture of myself and pick out every single thing I hate about my face or my features. That’s just the way I am. I’m comfortable with who I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still see the flaws. I’ve just learned to love myself despite them. But it’s for that reason that I don’t post many pictures. I either have to post it and run or it won’t get posted at all. LOL
When I was growing up, my sister was the beauty of the family. Every family event we would attend, the relatives would just OOOO and AHHHH over her when she walked in. “Look at those blue eyes!” “Look at that head full of gorgeous hair!” “Look at that smile!” She was also kind and sweet, never raised her voice and never EVER had a temper tantrum.
I was the exact opposite.
I was the holy terror of the family. Loud, wild, always getting into trouble and accepting dares I had no business accepting. I had a temper, too. My parents used to pray that God would take it away from me. Yeah, it was that bad. Needless to say, I had a lot of insecurities growing up and many of them have stuck. Many of them have made me overly sensitive or a bit over concerned with how I’m perceived or how I make others feel. For that reason, I go out of my way to try and make people feel welcome and appreciated and comfortable. I never want to hurt feelings or offend or anger or make anyone feel like less. Unfortunately, on social media it’s very hard to ensure that my tone and intent are conveyed appropriately, so most of the time, I just delete what I would otherwise post.
I still have a lot of my younger self in me, though. I’m all about the fun and the socializing IN REAL LIFE, still a bit loud and wild and sort of hyper. But in the cyber world, I just can’t seem to find a footing that I’m comfortable with. I don’t trust easily (been burned a few too *hundred* many times), which means I don’t have a zillion author friends. I never make friends simply because of what they can do for me. I don’t take many pictures of ANYTHING, much less pictures of my house or car or jewelry or purses or shopping excursions or trips or…anything (I was raised never to brag, so I err on the side of keeping things to myself). I don’t like photos of myself. I’m always afraid my sense of humor will be taken the wrong way (it can sometimes be heavy on the sarcastic side). I think and re-think and then over-think every thing I post, which makes even an “check in” post a thing of torture for me. Anyway, you see where I’m going with this.
So, you take a person like me and put her in a profession where she has to put herself “out there” for the judgment and criticism of the entire world, not just for her work, but for who she is, what she thinks and believes, what she says and how she behaves, and you have a recipe for a recluse. LOL Which is essentially what I am. And yet, in this day and age, social media has a direction correlation to sales. To a certain extent, we have to sell our books online. That, too, is very hard for me and I’m sure it comes across loud and clear. So where does that leave me?
Here. Writing this lengthy, raw-and-real post to explain myself to you.
Y’all, I do this– ALL THIS– because I love writing. I love writing stories that Y’ALL love. It’s like crack to me. It really is. Almost to an unhealthy degree, I would guess. I would love nothing more than for millions of readers to devour and adore ALL of my books. I would swear I’d died and gone to heaven. Seriously. But when a book doesn’t do well and that doesn’t happen, I turn inward and start questioning EVERYTHING. I think about what I could’ve or should’ve done differently, what I need to work on, what skill I need to hone, how I can do it better next time. I’m a writer. My entire career goal is to write an epic book that makes itself a permanent fixture in your heart, to write “that book” that you never forget. Never. But that can also come at a price, a price that can be counterproductive to an author. There comes a point when it all becomes about sales as a measure of a book’s worth rather than writing what I love and pouring my heart into it.
I hate that place.
I hate it.
I hate feeling like I have to write a certain thing in order to sell books, or that I have to sell mySELF in order to sell my books. And I’m being 100% honest when I tell you that I’ve been told that more than once–that we have to make y’all fall in love with US and then you’ll buy our books, that we aren’t just selling our work, we’re selling ourSELVES.
But I just can’t do it. No matter how much I try to be like everyone else, I can’t. It blows up in my face. And for good reason. I’m NOT like everyone else. I’m me, for better or worse. THIS is who I am. I have faults and insecurities and flaws just like everyone else in the world. I’m not a jetsetter. I’m not a rockstar. I don’t want to live my life in the limelight, nor do I want to tell the world to eff off. I’m just me, a regular person with regular feelings. And I’m genuine. I will say that about myself. I’m genuine, and trying to be something online that I’m not makes me disingenuous, and THAT is not okay with me.
I say ALLLLLLL of the above to say this: I want y’all to love my books. So much so that you read them and tell all your friends about them. And if you don’t, then I’ll half kill myself trying harder and harder and harder to give you a book that you DO love that much. THAT is who I am. I’m an overachiever. I’m a people pleaser. I’m a gusher and a squealer. I’m still part nerd and part cheerleader. But I’m not a quitter. I don’t give up. I’m just going to have to do this my way, hermit and all, social suckitude and all. (Yes, I just made up a word, but that’s okay, too.) Trends and fads will come and go, but I’ll still be here writing for you. Because I love it and this is who I am. I’m a writer. I’ll be here trying to make you fall in love. Trying to make you feel something. Trying to make your world a better place, if only for a few hours at a time. I care what you think. I care what I write. I just happen to suck at social media.
Okay, so… *shakes it off* Before I end this train wreck-of-a-post, let me say this as well: I love y’all. You’ve changed my life. I wouldn’t even HAVE a blog if it weren’t for you. I lovelovelove interacting with you. This wouldn’t even be an issue if we could meet in person, but this is the digital age. Just please know that I’m much better either in person OR via a message/email/wall post. If you don’t believe me, hit me up and find out for yourself:)
May 8, 2016
THE EMPTY JAR IS LIVE!!!
Finally!
THE EMPTY JAR IS LIVE! And what better way to celebrate Mother’s Day than with a book like this, a poignant tale about the power of love. This is what readers are saying about my new story and I couldn’t be ANY MORE EXCITED!
“The ultimate love story.”
“It is a masterpiece.”
“Heartbreaking. Hopeful. Brilliant.”
“Hands down the best book I have ever read.”
“If I could only tell you to read one book this year, it would be this book.”
“After today, life as I know it will be ‘AEJ’, after The Empty Jar. I will not be the same.”
Get your copy today!
★AMAZON → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarAMZ
★BARNES & NOBLE → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarBN
★iBOOKS http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarIB
★KOBO → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarKobo
★AMAZON UK → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarAMZUK
ADD TO GOODREADS → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarGR
There is something I’d like to say about this book.
This book is not a romantic fairy tale. Yet, it’s the most romantic story I’ve ever told. It’s a journey of pain and loss, of hope and happiness. It’s both achingly tragic and exquisitely beautiful. It’s a love story. A true love story about real love. The kind that sees you through the night and holds you when you cry. The kind that won’t give up and never lets go. The kind we all dream about and few find. But it’s real. I promise you, it’s real. I’ve seen this kind of love, and I’ve seen this kind of heartbreak. I got to see it up close and personal, and quite honestly, I will never be the same. I hope it changes you as much as it changed me.
The Empty Jar
Three months touring Europe.
Romantic. Dazzling. Unforgettable.
The trip of a lifetime.
But some lifetimes are shorter…
We couldn’t have known it would work out this way. No one could. No one could’ve guessed that something so beautiful could be so tragic.
But it is tragic.
Yet so, so beautiful.
That’s what sacrifice is—beauty and tragedy.
It’s pain and suffering for something or someone you love.
And this is the ultimate sacrifice.
One stunning act of true love.
This is our story.
Our true love story.
Get your copy today!
★AMAZON → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarAMZ
★BARNES & NOBLE → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarBN
★iBOOKS http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarIB
★KOBO → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarKobo
★AMAZON UK → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarAMZUK
ADD TO GOODREADS → http://smarturl.it/TheEmptyJarGR
CONNECT WITH MICHELLE!
May 5, 2016
The Empty Jar excerpt- the cuteness of Nate
The fabulous Stephanie Phillips from Stephanie’s Book Reports interviewed me last night on her radio show, and the main topic of conversation was The Empty Jar. She read it and has declared it a MUST READ, which tickles me to death. “Everybody just has to read this book. They just have to,” she said. “It’s a must read.” (Told you I was gonna quote you on that, Stephanie! LOL)
Anyway, as she was giving us her thoughts on it, she mentioned that she laughed at several parts in the book, which made me very happy. Yes, it’s a heartbreaking story in many ways, but it’s also hopeful and inspiring, beautiful and, at times, even funny. That’s what I want to share with you today. Something from the lighter side of things.
Nate reminds me so, so much of my husband! He can make me laugh in the worst of situations, and I’m eternally grateful for that. Just like Lena is. This excerpt is from a scary time for this couple, but as always, Nate sweeps in to save the day, this time with humor. Penis humor, of all things. LOL I love this guy!
[[teasingly referring to his penis]]
“More like a damn weapon.”
Nate’s lopsided grin inspires an answering one of my own.
God how I love him!
I love how solid he is, how hard he tries to protect me, even from his own doubts and fears. I love how he can always find a bright side, even in the darkest times. And I love how his sense of humor has never failed us, just like it didn’t today.
“I hope you’re not going to try to get it registered.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I could?” Before I can retort, he begins nodding, chasing that silly thought. “Maybe they’d take pictures. Send them to Guiness and declare me ‘The Most Dangerous Penis Alive’.”
“No, that sounds like you’re calling yourself a penis. Do you want people to start calling you ‘dick’?”
After giving it a few seconds thought, Nate’s smile widens. “Not unless they call me Mr. Dick. You know, out of respect for The Most Dangerous Penis Alive.”
Of course he isn’t serious, but I go along with him anyway. “I think the last thing that you and every other man alive need is to revere your penises anymore than you already do.”
“Oh come on, admit it. You love my penis.” When I roll my eyes, Nate tickles the underside of my chin with his fingertip. “Commme onnn. You can say it. ‘I adore your penis, Nate. It’s the prettiest penis in the whole wide world, Nate. Thank you for loving me with The Most Dangerous Penis Alive, Nate.’” A thump near the door has both of us stopping to listen.
I gasp.
Nate’s eyes widen guiltily.
I’m sure he’s hoping as much as I am that no one was listening to our odd conversation.
After thirty seconds have passed and we are still very much alone, Nate finally whispers, “Maybe we should keep The Most Dangerous Penis Alive between us. The world might not be ready for it yet.”
“I think that’s best,” I reply, my words hushed and conspiratorial, too. “I’m not sure I’m ready for it yet.”
We stare at one another for about fifteen seconds before we both give into our laughter. We giggle and snort like two teenagers and it feels good. It feels good to laugh, maybe even more so because we are covered by a dark cloud of uncertainty. But we are together and that makes all the difference.
We are like two young lovers huddled beneath an umbrella in a rainstorm. We find shelter from the elements, warmth in each other’s arms, and solace in otherwise unforgiving circumstances. It’s us against the world.
Us against time.
As our merriment wanes, I lie staring up into Nate’s eyes, and he into mine. “I love you more than anything,” I declare softly. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but I’m more frequently impressed with the need to tell him these days.
