Sarah Belle's Blog, page 10

Guest post: Larissa Reinhart, author of ‘Still Life in Brunswick Stew’…

Hi Larissa, and welcome to my blog! Congratulations on the release of ‘ Still life in Brunswick Stew’ which is installment two of the ‘Cherry Tucker Mysteries’.  Can you start by giving us a sneaky peek at an excerpt of the book?

Thanks so much for having me on your blog, Sarah Belle! I am so pleased to be here. You ask great questions!

This excerpt is from the beginning of STILL LIFE.

 “Luke is the perfect model for a Greek statue,” I explained. “Tall, lean, with great muscle definition. Especially those indentations between his waist and hips.” I paused a moment in delicious ecstasy, ruminating over Luke’s V-cut. “He even has the dark curly hair and the straight nose of a classic Greek. And I don’t think he’s got a drop of Greek blood in him. Pretty sure Harper’s not a Greek name.”

“Nor Roman. You just want to paint Luke naked,” Eloise cackled. “This doesn’t have anything to do with art.”

“Of course it does. I have an eye for beauty, that’s all.”

“You got a thing for beauty, all right. As long as it’s got a—”

“You can stop right there, Eloise Parker. No need to get trashy.”

“I’m not the one obsessed with painting Luke Harper nude.”

“He never lets me paint him, nude or otherwise. I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

“Probably because he’s worried the criminals in Forks County will laugh at him after seeing his bare ass in a painting,” Eloise lifted her brows. “Hard to arrest somebody when they’re laughing at you.”

For those yet to read the first novel in the series, Portrait of a Dead guy, can you give us a blurb?  

In Halo, Georgia, folks know Cherry Tucker as big in mouth, small in stature, and able to sketch a portrait faster than buckshot rips from a ten gauge — but commissions are scarce. So when the well-heeled Branson family wants to memorialize their murdered son in a coffin portrait, Cherry scrambles to win their patronage from her small town rival. As the clock ticks toward the deadline, Cherry faces more trouble than just a controversial subject. Between ex-boyfriends, her flaky family, an illegal gambling ring, and outwitting a killer on a spree, Cherry finds herself painted into a corner she’ll be lucky to survive.

Cherry Tucker, and her co-stars, are unique and quirky characters; can you tell us a bit about them and the small town of Halo?

Cherry’s a classically trained artist determined to try and make it as a portrait artist and still live in her hometown of Halo, Georgia. Halo’s a typical Southern small town. The family names are old and the social hierarchy was determined generations ago.

Some of the cast include her siblings Casey and Cody, who are talented in their own rights but extremely lazy. Their Grandpa’s affection for goats out rivals his affection for the grandchildren he raised. Cherry can’t seem to shake off her sort-of-ex-husband, Todd, an accomplished poker player, drummer, and blonde beefcake. But she’s been reunited with her old college flame, Luke, who recently moved home and taken a position in the sheriff’s department. Luke and Cherry have a fire and gasoline relationship, which they struggle to overcome.

 

Who would play Cherry in the movie version?  

If Kristin Chenoweth was twenty-six, she’d be perfect. However, every time I see Kelly Pickler on Dancing With The Stars I hear Cherry. Except Cherry’s sassier and has less curves.

You’ve got the perfect combination of a sassy, kick-arse heroine and  crazy situations; where does your inspiration come from?  

Can I say I have no earthly idea? I just hear her in my head and put her in situations that amuse me. My seven-year-old daughter dresses like her (crazy outfits). And I listen to a lot of kick-arse female country artists when I write Cherry.

I’ve read that you narrowly escaped a ferocious monkey in Thailand, studied Archaeology in Egypt, taught history in Japan and the USA, and adopted two gorgeous little girls from China. How have these experiences impacted you as a writer?

I think all those life experiences gave me interesting perspectives on life and people. I’ve met a lot of different people from various cultures and collected those impressions. I like meeting people. Not a fan of monkeys.

  What does the future hold for Ms Tucker?

Cherry’s got a lot to overcome. Her family history has stunted her maturity in some ways, but it’s also made her fearless. She’s a fun character to write and her creativity makes her a unique amateur detective. I’m having fun with her in HIJACK IN ABSTRACT, her third book which should come out this fall.

A prequel about Cherry and Todd’s adventure on their way to the ill-fated Vegas wedding will appear in an anthology called THE HEARTACHE MOTEL, which comes out in December. The Heartache was especially fun because I got to write with two other Henery press authors, Terri L. Austin and LynDee Walker. The stories all take place at the dumpy, Elvis wannabe Heartache Motel in Memphis. Lots of hijinks ensue!

 

If you’ d like to contact Larissa, or learn more about her and her novels, just click on the links below:

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Call for Submissions

Reblogged from The Escapades:

Here's a fun fact: if you submit to Escape now, you can be a published (or multi-published) author by Christmas. We're working to an aggressive publishing program, and we want stories!

I'm going to list some subgenres/themes that I'm very interested in, but please note: we publish all subgenres all the time. So if yours doesn't necessarily fit in to the list, I…

Read more… 131 more words

Come and be an Escape Artist with me! Don't be shy, give it a go. Your Manuscript deserves a chance!

‘Hindsight’ cover reveal and sneaky, peeky excerpt…

Whoo-hoo, it’s here – the cover for my novel, ‘Hindsight’! I am sooooo excited, and to celebrate, I thought I’d share an excerpt…

Chris is standing with his sister, Lauren, resting against the wall of an ancient shed perched to the left of the backyard, under the shade of an enormous fig tree. The cracked concrete pathways complement the lopsided trees that flank them, making my journey to Chris perilous in these heels. Anya Blackshaw, a divorcee from school and sometime work colleague of Chris, rounds out the trio. She laughs a little too loudly at his jokes, stands a little too close to him and always seems to be jutting her perfect breasts in his direction. Up until recently I thought nothing of her extra attention, but now, it’s starting to irritate me more than pinching elastic on a G-string. Anya’s grip on Chris’ arm would certainly prevent her from falling over should an earthquake split the backyard.

She moves in closer to whisper something in his ear, the sight of which propels me into action. My approach probably resembles that of a daddy longlegs walking on scorching hot sand, but it’s the only way to reach her before she makes herself too comfortable in such close proximity to my husband. I stumble into the group, in-between Anya and Chris and blurt out, “Guess who?”

“I am guessing that would be my gorgeous, but time-challenged, wife,” Chris says, checking his watch.

Not exactly the most elegant of entrances, or the most eloquent of greetings, but the objective is achieved – Anya shoved out of the way of my husband, literally.

Anya looks down at the ground and appears to be suppressing a smirk, probably under the misapprehension that Chris is upset with me, but of course he’s not. Not yet, anyway. That will come later when he finds out about me working tonight. My headache is now spreading into my neck and jaw. It feels as though an invisible fist is clenched around my entire head, squeezing me like a stress ball.

“I’m glad you’re here though,” Chris says.

“Oh, that’s so sweet. Thanks Chris.” Violins start playing romantic music in the background.

“Because that means Rob owes me a twenty,” he laughs.

“What?” The violins come to an abrupt halt.

“He bet me twenty dollars that you wouldn’t show.”

The silence is replaced by the sound of crickets.

“And, it goes without saying, that I’m just glad to see you as well,” he says.

Anya smirks and snorts as though she’s so superior, which she’s not. She’s probably relied on her looks to open doors her entire life. She’s no better than me. For a thirty three year old mother of two I look pretty bloody fab – with a lot of help from various facials, injections to inflate my lips, injections to paralyse wrinkles, regular mani/pedis, a hairdresser I use more often than my femme cup and a waxing therapist who doesn’t even have to look at my face to know it’s me. My hair is the perfect blend of three shades of blonde and almost looks natural, except for when those pesky roots appear. My jade eyes take on a brilliant emerald colour when my contacts are in and my boobs are natural – silicone is a derivative of silicon, a natural element commonly found in the Earth’s crust.

What’s so great about her? Just because she looks like a Victoria’s Secret model crossed with a goddess of the enchanted fairy kingdom and isn’t full of polymers, collagen and toxins derived from botulism. Who bloody cares if she wouldn’t melt by standing too close to a flame or glow iridescently if accidentally set on fire? Natural beauty is so overrated.

“There’s no way I’d miss Anna’s sixth birthday party, it’s such a special family day,” I say turning and smiling directly at Anya as my arms throw themselves around Chris. His arm encircles my hips, drawing our bodies together and his warmth spreads through me, slowing my breathing rate to yogic proportions.

“Juliette, you remember Anya don’t you, Molly’s mum?”Lauren asks.

“Yes, of course I remember Anya,” desperate divorcee who has the hots for my husband.  “Lovely to see you again, how are you?” The PR smile and poker face are a true asset at times like this, although my facial muscles are about to spasm.

“Well, thanks, Juliette. I haven’t seen you in ages, you’re never at school.” She tilts her head on the side and smiles as though she is stating an innocent observation, rather than making a cutting remark about my level of participation in my children’s lives.

“No, work is keeping me very busy right now.” Which is the truth. “Being in two places at once would be handy, but I was absent the day they taught astral travelling at university,” I say.

“I understand completely, Juliette. Your business is very important to you. Chris has told me all about it,” she says, touching Chris on the arm.

Of course he has, seeing as how close the two of you seem to be. He’s probably told you that he’s forbidden me from eating pea and ham soup too, because it makes me fart like a draught horse. My head feels as though a thunderstorm is raging on inside it. I really need a paracetamol.

“Are you alright, Jules?” Lauren asks. “You look a bit pale.”

“Yes, thanks. I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache, that’s all. I don’t suppose you have a headache tablet?” I ask.

“No, sorry,” says Lauren as she moves around behind me and begins to massage my temples. “But I can ease it using pressure point massage. How’s that?”

“It’s heavenly. It’s almost worth having a headache just for the massage,” I say.

“Here you go,” says Anya, shoving two pills under my nose. “I’m literally a walking pharmacy since having Molly. You’ve got to be prepared for anything when you’re a Mum.” She looks me directly in the eyes and something passes between us – a sense of knowing exactly what the other is thinking. I know, without doubt, that she wants my husband. And now she knows that I know it too.

‘Hindsight’ will be released by Escape Publishing on the 1st of July, with pre orders available from the 1st of June. I will post links closer to the date.

Happy Mother’s Day…

Today is Mother’s Day in Australia, the day when Mums of young kids get a sleep in, cremated toast, luke warm tea or coffee and loads of hugs and kisses from overly excited little people, who will thrust drawings of stick people with triangle bodies and four fingers at them.

Those with teenagers may hope to get grunted at less frequently today, be eyeball rolled only a dozen times, sneered at with reduced lip curl and told that they suck only once. I don’t have a teenager yet, but I’ve been told that this is the teenage version of affection towards a parent.

Mums of adults who are parents themselves may receive the recognition they have worked so hard for – a simple, but heartfelt, Thank you Mum.

I have asked my four boys for one thing today – that there be no fighting between them at all – all day! Not one push or shove, not one snarl or growl, not one evil eye or scowly face. No dobbing, no picking on, ganging up against, teasing, pinching, flicking, snapping, rolling of eyeballs, displays of frustration or anger, tanties, or whinging.

Now what are the chances of that happening?

And the reason I have asked for this seemingly enormous gift?

Firstly, because I usually ask for a bottle of Cointreau or Midori when it comes to any form of present. Seeing as it was my birthday less than a month ago, I am concerned that my boys will think Mummy is a drunken lush if I score another bottle. (I must clarify that the Cointreau from my birthday is still 75% full. Mummy is neither a drunk nor a lush, much to Daddy’s disappointment.)

Secondly, I want them to see just how lovely an entire day of not being told off for fighting, not being sent to their room for hitting or karate kicking, and not being nagged to death by a frustrated and slightly insane mother can be.

Just imagine  – an entire day where no one gets in trouble! Heaven.

But you should have seen the look on their faces when I made my request. The older ones did the maths  – up at 7.30ish and to bed at 7.30pm, that’s 12 whole hours of not fighting. Twelve hours!

Their eyeballs sunk backwards into their heads in shock, their complexion paled, and the hinges on their jaws slackened like a ten year old bra strap.

“But…what are we going to do then?” one of them asked.

“Indeed! What are you going to do?” I replied.

Silence. Four little faces staring back at me with vacuous expressions, clearly at a loss as to how they would fill in their day if it didn’t involve arguing or fighting.

“How about we watch a movie, without fighting over which one it will be, or play a board game, without anyone getting cranky about losing or missing a turn, or even go to the park, without anyone getting stroppy because someone is riding a bike faster than them,” I suggested.

Blank stares from eight eyeballs – 4 brown, 4 blue, all framed with luxuriously long eyelashes. (why do the boys always get the beautiful eyelashes?)

Holy crap! What have I done? I’ve asked for the impossible!

They can’t even go to the toilet without fighting. Of the 3 toilets in the house, only 1 is used by any of them. It’s the favourite loo. There’s a major meltdown if two kids need to pooh at the same time. We have to try to schedule crap o’clock so that everyone is accommodated and happy.

The 2 older boys have electric toothbrushes that are timed to run for 2 minutes and they always synchronise  their start times. One gets upset if the other’s toothbrush cuts out before his does, even though it is outside of either boy’s control.

I mean, come on! Must you argue and fight about everything?

And the answer to this is….yes, probably.

Siblings arguing is how the pecking order is established, challenged, altered and maintained. It is where they learn (slowly) to put their thoughts forward and to listen to those of others as they gain a new perspective. It is how they evolve into small adults who are confident enough in themselves and their ability to communicate effectively, to go out into the big, wide world and function as well informed, social  humans.

So, what can I take away from this? If I’m smart, I’ll realise that siblings arguing is a necessary part of their development, and even though it drives me nuts at times, as long as they are exercising their mouths (in a polite way) and not their fists, I can be sure that they are learning how to settle their differences with each other, and live in a world that encourages many different points of view from which they can broaden their own horizons.

If not, I might empty that bottle of Cointreau a bit quicker!

Happy Mother’s Day to all you wonderful women who choose the love of your children over your own sanity! You rock – and don’t ever forget it or let anyone tell you otherwise.

‘Cookies for Dinner’, guest post and book review…

What do airplane toilets, a crow-fearing husband, engorged breasts, creaking floor boards, toilet-clogging poohs and animal sanitary products all have in common? Believe it or not, they are all elements of motherhood as described by Pam Johnson-Bennett and Kae Allen in their new book, Cookies for Dinner.

The book covers the period from pre birth/adoption to around five years of age, and each chapter is divided into stand alone anecdotes, which is a perfect structure if you don’t have the luxury of devoting hours to your reading habit.

I volunteered to do an open and honest review of this book for ‘Chick Lit Plus’ and the main reason I wanted to read it was because of the title – Cookies for Dinner really appealed to the mother in me. I was curious to see just how honest other mothers would be about their experiences on Planet Mum, and I wasn’t disappointed.

This book is a MUST for all  to-be mums, first time mums, experienced mums and grandmothers because it is not only hilarious, but heart warming, open,  honest and bridges the gap between being a ‘text book’ perfect mother and a real mother. Even Dads will get a laugh out of it, and an insight into the true world of motherhood.

I laughed until I cried, numerous times, not only because of the humourous writing, but because I could relate to the vast majority of these experiences. Whose child hasn’t suffered diahorrea at an inconvenient time or place? Who hasn’t had to pre-empt an oncoming tantrum in the shopping centre? Who hasn’t battled toilet training, breast feeding, and long family drives encumbered with various crises? The difference is that Pam and Kae write about their experiences with nitty gritty, open, all out clean honesty. There is no cookie left unturned here.

But what impressed me most about these ladies, was the innovative and unconventional ways in which they solved their varied crises. Duct tape. A garden hose. Re-engineered jumpsuits. Sippy cup envy.  I’ll leave you to connect the dots.

There’s something very special about this book, something that crosses cultural differences, geographical boundaries, religions, political views, age and even the great divide between working and stay at home mums. This book brings us together as mothers – women who do the hardest job in the world, who give of themselves every day to the people we adore. It allows us to laugh, relate and feel a little less alone in our struggle to be the best mums possible.

If it’s Gross and Disgusting, We’ve Touched it!

Hi Pam and Kae, and welcome to the blog. Can you tell us a little about motherhood from your pespective?

From Pam: If you know me then you’re well aware of the fact that I am a germophobic woman with just enough OCD to provide my family with hours of entertainment as they watch me attempt to sterilize the world. My journey during the writing of “Cookies for Dinner” was really an eye-opener for me and I have to pat myself on the back (because no one else will, I’m sure) because as I started working on the stories I realized I have touched a lot of gross of disgusting things as a mom!

When dreaming of motherhood I knew there would be diapers, scraped knees, some amount of blood, sickness, crying, tantrums and other unpleasant things but I wasn’t prepared for how much. When preparing my sweet baby for bed at night I had no idea that I was holding a child who was planning to decorate the walls of her room with her own excrement. I had no idea that my initial response to a child throwing up on my sofa would be to hold out my hands in order to limit the damage done to my furniture. I certainly wasn’t prepared for pulling dead spiders out of my daughter’s tangled hair (the spiders were a present from her brother) with my bare hands while trying to avoid hearing damage due to her intense screaming. I have had boogers shot at my face from the nose of a sneezing child while he lay in my arms and have landed flat on my butt on the bathroom floor due to poorly aimed peeing attempts by my potty-training son.

Ahh yes, motherhood… I love it… blood, vomit, pee, poop, boogers and all. Ok, maybe “love” isn’t quite the right word there.

From Kae: When I was pregnant with my first child, Matthew, my grandmother pulled me aside at a family function and told me with intense sincerity, “Just remember dear, everything that comes out of a baby’s body is good for your complexion.” At the time, I thought it was an odd comment, but I accepted the advice even though I had no idea what she meant. It only took a couple days of motherhood for that saying to become my mantra during gross motherhood moments.

I thought of it when I had to wear a washcloth on one hand like a catcher’s mitt every time I changed Matthew’s diaper because the cold air on his “fire hose” always made him pee. I used it when Christina would nurse a full meal and then inevitably proceed to projectile vomit down the front of my shirt while I attempted to burp her. With three lactose intolerant kids, one of which has intense motion sickness, I have cleaned up more than my fair share of gross messes. Once it involved a garden hose and once it involved the hot air hand dryer in a restaurant bathroom. Funny thing is, since I had my kids I have never had a break-out of acne. My grandmother must have been right. It seems that everything from snot to faeces was good for my complexion.

Ahhh, the serenity…

Last week my eight year old son, Rylan, came home with this…

A Rather Ear-piercing Contraption Often Releasing a Discordant, Excruciating Racket. Otherwise known as a Recorder.

He has been in raptures over his new plaything and constantly walks around the house with it poking out between his lips, followed by ‘sound’ (and I use the term loosely) that is so painful it could be used by riot police, instead of tear gas, to beat large crowds into submission. However the smile on his face is priceless and well worth the associated pain.

We were told at the start of the year that all Grade 3 students would be receiving their recorder during first term. When this didn’t happen, I had hoped, rather guiltily, that the entire shipment of recorders had been involved in an incident that rendered them silent or useless – such as a small nuclear blast or exposure to a solvent strong enough to melt them back into little globs of cream coloured plastic.

But, my hopes were crushed when in the first week of term 2, Rylan raced over to me at the school playground, a mile wide smile on his sweet face, holding the object of worldwide-parental dislike, in his little, gnawed at the fingernails, hands.

“Mum!” he screeched, “look what we got today!”

I hadn’t seen him this excited since Easter Sunday.

“A recorder!” he beamed, “listen to this…” he said as he blew as hard as he could into the instrument.

And that was when it started…the sound that is pitched to divide the human brain straight down the middle.

I could feel my ear canals starting to collapse inside my head and developed an instant toothache.

“Ooooh, that’s fantastic, sweetie,” I replied, trying to sound enthusiastic, but probably not doing a very good job.

“And listen to this one…” he said and then continued to blast away.  All the birds nesting in a nearby tree took flight and flapped for their lives.

And so it went on…and on…and on.

Most of the other mothers in the school yard had the same look of shock, disappointment and surprise on their faces. The initial deer in the headlights expression soon made way for drooping shoulders, hunched backs and dragging feet as each mother pondered the noise that would soon permeate her house for the remainder of the year. For the next eight months. For the next two hundred and forty days until Christmas day is once again upon us and our kids have new toys to play with.

The worst thing about the recorder, is that it never sounds any better, even after the kid has mastered it and is proficient in both reading and playing music.  No one can make a recorder pleasant to listen to – it’s not soothing like panpipes, or stirring like Bagpipes, it’s not energising like a guitar or drum kit, it’s not beautiful like a violin. It doesn’t invoke any of the emotions or feelings usually associated with the beauty of music. It still sounds like a plastic instrument designed to hurt people. There is no light at the end of this tunnel.

And the worst, worst part is that Rylan is a perfectionist. He will plug away at something until he has mastered it completely. He taught himself to whistle like a lumberjack in less than a week. He designs and builds Lego jets that look as though NASA has made them.  He even worked out how to land a simulated jet on an aircraft carrier on his IPod touch as though he had been trained by the RAAF.

So, you can see my conundrum – it’s a vicious cycle because Rylan will continue with it day and night until he is happy with the quality of his playing – of which there is no such thing for a perfectionist – not realising that no one, not even Louis Armstrong himself, could make the recorder sound appealing. It will never end.

So, what am I to do? Hide it? Squash it under my car tyre? Feed it to the dog?  No, I need to suck it up like every other parent on the planet, like my parents did, and let Rylan enjoy his recorder, that’s what. It brings him so much happiness to blast us out of our seats and make our brains rattle in our heads, make the dogs whimper and hide, and fill the room with ‘mood music’ – which is a cross between a Yodeller and a howling wolf.

It could be so much worse, after all, there’s only another two siblings behind him, who in the years to come will also bring home a recorder. Ahhh, the serenity.

Things that make you go…ouch!

When you think about some of the ways us women try to enhance our appearance, and the resulting pain / debilitation from those efforts, it’s no wonder men have a hard time understanding us.

For instance, skyscraper heels – I’d rather be uncomfortable, on the verge of tears in agonising pain, and left hobbling on aching, tortured feet for days afterwards with blisters that weep more than the dayshift in a onion peeling factory, than wear sensible shoes that do nothing for my legs. And apparently I’m not alone in this thought – there’s almost an entire gender that feels the same way.

I mean, just look at these puppies! (I’ve also got a pair in hot pink!)

In fact, during my University days, I spent my grocery money on an utterly fab pair of shoes and had to survive on boiled rice and Vegemite sandwiches for the next two weeks. Was it worth it? Of course it was! My feet were mangled beyond recognition, (pain that was numbed with the anaesthetic properties of Vodka),  but my legs looked awesome in my little, black dancing shorts, and as if the dancing-queen faerie herself had sprinkled her ‘groovin’ dust all over me, the shoes even made me a better dancer at our usual hangout,  the ‘Mad Cow’ tavern.

The financially astute among you are probably asking how I could afford Vodka but had to eat rice and bread.  Wouldn’t it be better to spend my money on food that was nutritionally balanced, that would wrap my brain cells in all the goodness they needed to propel me to the top of the Business faculty and not on a luxurious and frivolous item like Vodka? Yes, of course it would be. But where’s the fun in that?  Besides, the DJ at the ‘Mad Cow’ took a liking to me, and my longer legs, and supplied me with drink cards for the next six months. I believe that’s what was  called, in the Business faculty,  an excellent return on investment!

How about body hair? Mohair stockings and scary bikini lines don’t leave me feeling feminine or sexy. I’d rather live with the regular stinging, teeth-clenching pain of having hot wax poured on my girly bits and my pubic hairs ripped out by the roots than look like a mountain gorilla. I’m not sure where this procedure originated, but I am hoping that, through the generations our DNA will adjust to the new hairless body of the female and will naturally evolve itself into a Brazilian state of being. That way, my great, great, great granddaughters may not have to suffer the trauma of wanting to scream like a banshee when the wax is being pulled off, but having to hold it in for fear of being ushered out of the beauty therapists, with a half waxed muff, by security.

Before the luxury of foils, I used to allow a hairdresser to stab me in the head with a crochet needle as she extracted seventy or so small wisps of hair through a very large condom on my head that resulted in a monster headache and red marks across my forehead for the next three hours. Just when the sores on my scalp had healed, eight weeks later, I would call on all my strength and courage to go back and have it done all over again. Bless the hairdresser who created foils – I could kiss your peroxide splattered feet.

In my teen years my friends and I would squeeze ourselves into our ‘Faberge’ jeans, which were so tight they could have doubled as compression bandages to prevent deep vein thrombosis. We had to throw ourselves backwards on the bed and struggle to pull the zipper up with a coat hanger. Sometimes there were two or three friends on the end of that coat hanger, performing a tug of war with the reluctant zipper as I breathed in and tried to make my tummy as concave as possible.

We would then pull each other up from the bed and have to stand stiff legged until the jeans warmed with body heat and were able to stretch a bit, which almost resulted in partial movement of the lower limbs.  It also meant that we were completely numb from the waist to the ankles, were incapable of sitting down for fear the jeans would split and usually developed bladder infections from holding off going to the loo until the jeans had warmed up enough to be manoeuvred back into position without three friends helping. But it was sooooo worth it because, in our minds, we looked fabulous. Or should that be ‘fabber-ulous?’

So, why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves through pain, disfigurement and physical torture? Well, I can only answer for myself, but it makes me feel good, positive about myself, confident, happy, radiant, because I am a girl, and for the most part, girls like to look pretty, to feel pretty, to be told they are pretty. I don’t do it so that my husband will compliment me (although if he doesn’t there’s trouble), I do it for me – the best reason of all.

‘Plotting to Win’, by Tara Chevrestt – cover reveal…

Today I welcome my friend and fellow Escape Artist, Tara Chevrestt to the blog for the Cover Art Reveal of her debut novel, Plotting to Win, which will be released June 1st from Escape Publishing.

Plotting to Win, is a new reality TV show romance novel.

Dancers have a show. Bachelors have a show. Singers have a show.

Now authors do too. It’s called The Next Bestseller.

In New York City, seven writers compete for a hundred thousand dollars, a publishing contract with Bright House, and the title of the next bestseller. One is Felicity James. One is Victor Guzman.

Drama, plagiarism, and trash talk play out to enthralled audiences across the country as all seven contestants compete against each other in a range of heated challenges, with tensions reaching breaking point. As Felicity and Victor start up a show‐mance, their relationship burns up the ratings.

Will this sizzling fling escalate into a vicious battle for money and fame, or will these two authors manage to write their own happy ending?

Mark Plotting to Win to read on Goodreads.

Tara Chevrestt is a deaf woman, former aviation mechanic, writer, and an editor. She is most passionate about planes, motorcycles, dogs, and above all, reading. That led to her love of writing. Between her writing and her editing, which allows her to be home with her little canine kids, she believes she has the greatest job in the world. She is very happily married.

Her theme is Strong is Sexy. She shares a blog with her naughty pen name ‘Bookbabe’ and they have a Facebook page. Check it out!