M.C. Frank's Blog, page 467

Conversations with an Empty Chair (2) - Moon NightHow can...

Conversations with an Empty Chair (2) - Moon Night
How can so much pain be contained in just one person?
I miss you.
And it hurts.
There was a full moon the other night. You know I haven’t been able to look at the moon ever since you left. It wasn’t full that night, but it was fairly bit -almost full. It was early spring, the weather that makes you want to start wearing t-shirts and lift your face to the sun.
Well, I wore black for that whole month, and a few years after it. I still do, actually, I don’t have the heart to wear anything else. Carrying off a little darkness on my back, so that my soul will feel lighter. It doesn’t.
Anyway, the night the men with the box took you away, I was there. I saw them take you. I lifted my eyes to the skies, just as I’d done a million times in the past, looking for answers. For inspiration. For an escape.
And there it was.
The moon. Mocking me, with its beauty, its constance, when my world had been shattered. 
There’s a story in a Ray Bradbury book about an astronaut who went out to a different star every month. His wife and son were left behind, wondering if he would die this time. Wondering which star they’d never be able to look at. He ended up dying in the sun. They kept their shutters closed every day since then. Refused to look at the sun, cause it had taken him from them.
That’s how I feel. The night that took you away was fragnant and clear and beautiful. There was an almost full moon. I hated it. I still do.
Someone says: “Gosh, look at the moon, isn’t it pretty?”
I just turn my head aside.
They don’t know how it feels to look at the thing that just stood there and mocked you and looked on while you lost a part of your soul. They never will.

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Buying Bonnets<<<<<<< a Ruined story...

Buying Bonnets<<<<<<< a Ruined story >>>>>>
The Duke of Ashton is ordering hats for his niece. Trust him to find a way to turn even this simple task into an embarrassing moment for miss Beatrice Devon, the governess.
Get Ruined for 20% off using code DS87NSP5 



The following day proved to be quite exhausting, but Beatrice was determined to show her gratitude to the duke, so she allowed him to guide both her and his niece in whatever purchases it was expected of them to make without once laughing in her sleeve.  Adelina dragged her from milliner to mantua-maker mercilessly, the duke awaiting them on his stylish phaeton, a bored smile frozen on his lips. Finally, burdened by hat-boxes and trailing behind them a million orders of crumpled silks, kid gloves and pelisses trimmed with fur, they arrived at the doorstep of Madame Fleur’s elegant establishment. 

At this point his grace dismounted and, tossing the reins to his tiger, proceeded to enter the shop with Miss Devon and Adelina as though it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Madame Fleur, to her credit, betrayed neither by look nor by word how well she knew him from his frequent visits to her shop with his various paramours, and asked politely, if a bit haughtily, in what she might seem useful. Adelina, in the manner in which she had been instructed many a time by Miss Devon, eagerly proceeded to explain that they needed as many as possible ready-made gowns, for they were to leave on a journey in two days, so there was no time to order brand-new designs. Madame graciously replied that she would see what could be done, while calculating in her mind the additional charges she could pull off, knowing as she did how easily the duke’s well-lined pocket could afford her outrageous prices.

The duke scarcely spoke a word while these proceedings took place, and waited patiently while Adelina, under the guidance of her chaperone, ordered gown after gown in excellent taste, two with a sprinkling of lace, two with a trim of warm brown fur, a few sprig muslins and a couple of house garments, and many frothy, white ball-gowns for her coming out. More dresses were added to these, the entire shop twirling along in a flurry of silks and taffeta and crinoline, as Adelina was rushed to the changing-room to model the designs for her chaperone and her uncle. At last a couple of elegant wool and fur-trimmed coats were added along with five pelisses, and Adelina announced herself almost satisfied.

Rosy-cheeked and excited almost to the tether of her recently-acquired good manners, she then turned to step outside, intending to leave his grace to deal with the long bill she had amassed, but he stayed her with a hand on her arm and stepped forward.

“Madame Fleur, is it?” he asked, shamelessly, and Beatrice, all too aware of the probability of his many previous visits to the shop –for Madame Fleur’s establishment  was known to carry the most exquisite and extravagant designs for young ladies to be found anywhere in Town, and indeed every lady of Quality patronized it steadily- suppressed a smile.

His grace sent a frosty glance in her direction. 

“At your service, your grace,” Madame said, drawing her tall and rather sturdy, but quite elegantly attired, figure up.

The duke then proceeded to choose seven gowns single-handedly from her exclusive collection in less than five minutes, and presented them to her, like an artist at work.

“You will add these to the bill, if you please,” he told her curtly. “No alterations will be needed to the muslin and cotton one, but the rest will need to be taken in severely, as you can see by the slim figure of my governess.”

By this time, that said governess’ cheeks were aflame, and she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

“I am not your governess!” she whispered hotly to herself.

“I beg your pardon?” the duke turned to her in an infuriatingly calm  manner. “Did you speak, child?”

Beatrice swallowed.

“If you please, your grace,” she said, trying to curb her temper, “the first two gowns would be more than sufficient. I thank you for your generosity, and you’ll be certain, I hope, to take their price out of my next paycheck. And my figure,” she added in quieter tones, meant only for his ears, “is none of your business!”

The duke regarded her seriously for a moment, before his eyes turned to ice again. “Very well,” he said to Madame Fleur. “Do as she wishes,” and he tossed his purse indifferently to Beatrice, taking Adelina’s elbow and guiding her out of the shop in the early afternoon sunshine.

Miss Devon, left alone to arrange for the delivery and payment, cringed under the austere glance of the matron, who now, as a matter of course, must be considering her a cheap addition to his grace’s conquests. Indeed, she made no concealment of her disapproval and went so far as to tell Miss Devon, in no uncertain terms, that her presence in her shop would be scarcely tolerated again. Beatrice hung her head low and accepted the false charges, finding no reason to argue with the vulgar woman, and went out of the shop with a splitting headache.
“Stupid girl!” a voice from the past screams in her ear. “You have no morals. You only get what you deserve, don’t you know? It’s no one’s fault but your own…”
The duke drove them home as the shadows began to lengthen all around, but for once the feel of the breeze against her hot cheeks did nothing to soothe her. She kept silent under the constant chatter of an over-excited Adelina.

Trigger warning.Until Friday Night is the story of a stru...

Trigger warning.
Until Friday Night is the story of a struggling boy. To everyone who knows him, West Ashby has always been that guy: the cocky, popular, way-too-handsome-for-his-own-good football god who led Lawton High to the state championships. But while West may be Big Man on Campus on the outside, on the inside he’s battling the grief that comes with watching his father slowly die of cancer.
Two years ago, Maggie Carleton’s life fell apart when her father murdered her mother. And after she told the police what happened, she stopped speaking and hasn’t spoken since. Even the move to Lawton, Alabama, couldn’t draw Maggie back out. So she stayed quiet, keeping her sorrow and her fractured heart hidden away.
As West’s pain becomes too much to handle, he knows he needs to talk to someone about his father—so in the dark shadows of a post-game party, he opens up to the one girl who he knows won’t tell anyone else.
West expected that talking about his dad would bring some relief, or at least a flood of emotions he couldn’t control. But he never expected the quiet new girl to reply, to reveal a pain even deeper than his own—or for them to form a connection so strong that he couldn’t ever let her go…

This book made me relive all those sad, painful memories of losing someone to a terminal desease. When we read, we do so to escape, to learn and to feel. Good things. This book served the exact opposite purpose. I know 'sickness sells', brutal as this sounds, but I wish I had protected myself from the unnecessary pain this story evoked. As for the romance, it should have felt sweet, healing and heart-warming, and it did some times. That's what I love about Abbi Glines. But two broken people can't fix each other. That's a law of nature.

I totally understand why an author would want to explore the brokenness some people have to go through and conquer, and I think she wanted to give out a message of hope in the end. But the thing is, unless you have been through such a situation yourself and dealt with it, and unless writing about it comes from a deep, personal place inside, while seeking redemption -and ideally finding it as you create art- you can't give such a painful story with a positive message. It will end up being depressing, hopeless and pointless. It will end up hurting and disrespecting those whose reality this has been. It's not cute. It's my life. Please don't treat it as entertainment. It can be done tastefully, of course. I have read so many books that have helped me during these past, nightmarish years. But I can smell it when someone isn't writing from personal experience. From miles away.

Keep yourselves safe while you read...Also, have you read this book? What did you think? Do you get where I'm coming from? Please leave me a comment, I'd love to talk.
Goodreads. 

Conversations with an Empty Chair (1) - DreamTell me this...

Conversations with an Empty Chair (1) - Dream
Tell me this is a dream.
Tell me I’ll wake up and you’ll be here, sitting in your chair, working at your laptop. I’m a writer too now, did you know that? Yes, I know, you read so much of my writing as I was growing up (not that you ever went easy on me, but I didn’t mind your criticism at all, I wanted to get better). But I wish you were here to read the books I’m putting out there in the world, to give me your opinion, your wisdom. Just to cheer me on. To tell me everything is going to be ok when things are going wrong, to tell me how proud you are of me when things are going right. How proud you are of me anyway. It’s because of you that I’m a writer. I wanted to be just like my daddy when I grew up.
And now I’m all grown up (well kind of) and I’m a writer like you (well kind of), but you’re not here to see it.
Oh, I’m not crazy. (Well, I am, but not the kind of crazy that makes me talk to empty chairs thinking there’s someone there. I’m a whole different kind of crazy.) I know you’re not sitting there. I’m imagining you’d appear suddenly, right after I blink, with your crooked smile, your pajamas on, and ask me what I want this time. You’ll grab a cookie and start chewing on it, turning your chair sideways to give me your full attention, leaving your work for a moment to talk to me.
Blink.
Blink again.
Nope. Nothing.
Still gone. 
I was crying today again. I know we all want to know that when we’re gone someone will be crying over us, but I know you’d hate this. To see me like this, all of us, to see what your absence is doing to us. To see our hearts broken, bleeding.
Make it stop. Say it was a dream. It’s enough now. I can’t handle your absence any longer.

Extraordinary Means is the extraordinary story of a band ...

Extraordinary Means is the extraordinary story of a band of sick teens who struggle to find health, love and happiness in a futuristic/metaphorical/contemporary world.

There, Lane encounters a girl he knew years ago. Instead of the shy loner he remembers, Sadie has transformed. At Latham, she is sarcastic, fearless, and utterly compelling. Her friends, a group of eccentric troublemakers, fascinate Lane, who has never stepped out of bounds his whole life. And as he gradually becomes one of them, Sadie shows him their secrets: how to steal internet, how to sneak into town, and how to disable the med sensors they must wear at all times.

But there are consequences to having secrets, particularly at Latham House. And as Lane and Sadie begin to fall in love and their group begins to fall sicker, their insular world threatens to come crashing down.

Told in alternating points of view, Extraordinary Means is a darkly funny story about doomed friendships, first love, and the rare miracle of second chances. 
Well, first of all, let me say this: don't read it if you don't want to get your heart broken. However, if you don't have a problem with that, and you do pick this beautiful book up, you will end up loving it. It is a hymn to hope, human endurance, and complicated relationships, all given with the intricate and sometimes lyrical writing style of the author.
Although much less gruesome than her last book, Severed Heads, Broken Hearts, this book is more poignant in my opinion, as well as powerful. I loved the portrayal of first love, teen angst and death struggles - it was so realistic. And I think I prefer that the disease is a non-existent one, it was a nod of respect to victims of real diseases, which I always find really tasteless when done in books (as a sufferer myself).
I loved reading this book, and, although I would definitely have preferred that it had ended in a completely different way, it did leave me with the taste of hope on my lips, which is a pretty hard thing for a book (or pretty much anything) to do these days.
Goodreads. 

Let me know in the comments.Meanwhile, don't forget to si...

Let me know in the comments.
Meanwhile, don't forget to sign up for an ARC of any of my books, from now on I'll be randomly including bookmarks to a few of the books I send out free for review, so sign up for your copy now.


The Persuasion giveaway is almost done, so I'll be working on ordering the bookmarks and shipping them to the non-winners (as well as shipping the books to the two winners, of course) and preparing the next one! 
Quick question: Which of the two following books would you prefer to enter a giveaway for:
The Light Princess and Other Stories To Die For (edited by M.C. Frank)


or 
Ruined by M.C. Frank

Please let me know in the comments below. You are all so amazing, I want to give something back to you as a small thank you for encouraging me to write and for being so awesome and kind. 
So don't forget to comment! I'll give away as many copies as I can of the book you pick (if anyone votes ; P) Ly

PERSUASION ♥ a love story in three parag...

PERSUASION  ♥  a love story in three paragraphs

"Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Harville.
"Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes."[...]Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs. Croft was taking leave.
"Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe," said she. "I am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to Anne.) "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?"
Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully.
"Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute."
Mrs. Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed impatience to be gone. Anne know not how to understand it. She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look! He had passed out of the room without a look!


She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his being in it: the work of an instant!
The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A. E.--," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:
"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in
F. W.
"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."


Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half and hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was overpowering happiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.
This is one of my favorite pieces of literature (and I'm sure a lot of you will agree with me). I just wanted to share it here on my blog because we all need a bit of swooniness in our lives every now and then and also because we need a little Persuasion.
Have you entered my giveaway yet? It will be over in a few days! Hurry hurry hurry.

This is the best day in an author's life. Whether you alr...

This is the best day in an author's life. Whether you already are a writer or hoping to become one, 
you must already know this: to do it for the money is laughable; to do it for the fame is silly.No, that's not why you become a writer. This is the reason...
You probably know, if you've been following this blog for any period of time, that being a writer isn't an easy job. In fact, it might be one of the toughest jobs on the planet. Why? Well, because, as Hemingway famously said: "there's nothing to being a writer. You just sit at a typewriter and bleed."
image from quotesgram

You don't bleed your hearts innermost secrets out on paper for money. It just doesn't work that way. And if you set out to do it for the money, you'll fail. You'll get discouraged, you'll stop. You don't do it for recognition, you don't do it for people to applaud you. In fact, you don't do it for any other reason than that's who you are: you need to write. You are someone who writes.
But there come a few moments in a writer's life when something happens and it's the perfect reward for all your hard work. It's the perfect response. The perfect... thing for a writer. When I started, those moments came far and few between, but they were still worth keeping writing for.
Now, I get them daily, multiple times a day. 
A message on tumblr or instagram. A day-making email. A reader who wants to be my friend irl (in real life) because they liked what they got to know of me through my stories. A lovely picture someone took of my books, because they read them and love them so much (in this case, the above picture was taken by Kaylin of thereadingbum, whose feed is goals, by the way). My instagram notifications are flooded with more.
Or someone saw your book and was drawn to it, so they read it and they loved it. Not just that, they GOT it. Like Manon did. Read her thoughts on her blog, noobbellas..
That's what makes all the labor, sweat, blood and tears totally worth it. The readers. Connecting with someone. Opening up your soul to them, and having them absolutely get it. The pain, the grief, the frustration, the hope. The truth you tried, you wanted to convey.
That's it, right there.

I really hope you are not the intended audience for this ...

I really hope you are not the intended audience for this book, because that means you're not a teen (we all know how much that sucks), you haven't in your entire life struggled with any mental issue, nor have you had anyone close to you suffer from mental illness at all. There's one more option, and that's that you aren't a human being who is curious about what other people might be...
If the last one is true, I won't congratulate you, but as someone who has suffered severely from the many issues tackled in this book (including anorexia, suicidal thoughts and depression) maybe I can't even understand your mindset. Point is, whether you yourself are struggling or would like to educate yourself about what other people are going through, then this is the book for you.
Paperweight by therapist/author Meg Haston (I mention that she's a therapist because, boy, does it show in the book), is about seventeen-year-old Stevie. Stevie is trapped. In her life. And now in an eating-disorder treatment center on the dusty outskirts of the New Mexico desert.
Life in the center is regimented and intrusive, a nightmare come true. Nurses and therapists watch Stevie at mealtime, accompany her to the bathroom, and challenge her to eat the foods she’s worked so hard to avoid.
Her dad has signed her up for sixty days of treatment. But what no one knows is that Stevie doesn't plan to stay that long. There are only twenty-seven days until the anniversary of her brother Josh’s death—the death she caused. And if Stevie gets her way, there are only twenty-seven days until she too will end her life.
Before I go any further, let me tell you one thing: this book is not what you probably expect it to be. It has little to zero sympathy for anorexia, and a bit misplaced insider stuff, because it's mainly written from the view of the therapist. That is to say, the book's POV is a patient's, who also is a teen, so technically this is YA, but right now I am in a place to appreciate and be helped by this book's 'tough love' that I wasn't always in. Facts and feelings are sometimes described with such formality and coldness, that I almost felt that this book didn't understand me, you know? But after that, I always felt that I was in a place where I could be understood, and, more importantly, helped as I had probably never been before in my life.
Yep, it's that good.It's like looking inside the brain of a person qualified to help you, someone who is supposed to have 'all the answers' from a caring point of view, and from a sufferer's perspective.
I didn't care for the backstory, which was a bit vague and a bit unnecessarily packed with teen drama and improbable situations, but thankfully it didn't take up too much of the book. I mean, come on now. If you're a therapist, you'll know that it doesn't take a 'I think I killed my brother' to send you over the edge. We carry our worst demons inside of us, and they can surface with the slightest of reasons. Parents divorce, classmates bully, friends leave, relatives die. It kind of makes the rest of us look guilty if we're ill for a less reason than thinking we killed someone, as though it's our fault if we're suffering for no dramatic reason. And there's nothing further from the truth.
The rest of the book, however, was filled with passages that you might want to mark and give to your relatives/friends to read, so that they might try to begin to understand you better, if you understand what I mean.
P.S. If you understand what I mean, I'm sorry. It means you're probably in a place where no one gets it, and I've been there (still am, sometimes) and it's not an easy place to be. So I just want to tell you, you're not alone. Also, grab this book. It will help.
goodreads