Tracey Martin's Blog, page 3
February 13, 2014
YA Contest!
Sabrina Elkins, Clara Kensie, and I are hosting a contest over at http://yacrush-htd1.tumblr.com/.
Win copies of our books, jewelry, and more!
Win copies of our books, jewelry, and more!
January 14, 2014
Dirty Little Misery (Miss Misery #2) - teaser #1
The cover for Dirty Little Misery (Miss Misery #2) is live! Check it out here. And to celebrate, I wanted to share first teaser from the book. Hope you enjoy!
***
I frowned at the large seal hanging behind the Director’s desk. The lion-tailed, eagle-winged gryphon in the center clutched a sword in each talon. Encircling it was the Gryphons’ motto: For the Gifted Have a Duty to Protect Mankind.
Ignoring the old-fashioned, sexist language, the message was clear. The Gryphons had always been a humans-only and humans-first organization. They often allied themselves with the magi, a race of bird shapeshifters, but there were no magi in the Gryphon organization itself.
So despite what Director Lee said, it had never been obvious to me that a human with a non-human power should turn to them for help, and I said as much.
“That’s unfortunate because I think this organization could have benefited from your talents.” Olivia Lee absently moved some of the files around on her desk. From beneath one of them, she produced a new paper and slid it toward me. “However, now that we know what you can do, I’d like to rectify the situation. I want you to come work for us.”
I froze, certain I’d heard incorrectly. “You what?”
“Given your past activities, we’d have to consider this on a trial basis, and you’d only have limited clearance, but I’d like to bring you in as a special consultant on cases where you’d be useful.”
I gaped at her. All my life, I’d longed to be a Gryphon like my father had been. The pain of my gift turning rogue, the bitterness of getting kicked out of the Academy and watching my friends graduate—those things had haunted me like a curse for the past ten years.
Until two weeks ago. Until I’d been framed for a series of gruesome murders and the Gryphons had become obstacles to clearing my name. And until I’d learned the truth about my biology and the Gryphons had become, by their very ideals, potential enemies.
I glanced down at the paper, which appeared to be some sort of hiring agreement, but I didn’t take it. “You want to give me a job?”
Olivia’s dark eyes bore into me. “Let me be frank. I’m not sure ‘want’ is the most appropriate word."
***
I frowned at the large seal hanging behind the Director’s desk. The lion-tailed, eagle-winged gryphon in the center clutched a sword in each talon. Encircling it was the Gryphons’ motto: For the Gifted Have a Duty to Protect Mankind.
Ignoring the old-fashioned, sexist language, the message was clear. The Gryphons had always been a humans-only and humans-first organization. They often allied themselves with the magi, a race of bird shapeshifters, but there were no magi in the Gryphon organization itself.
So despite what Director Lee said, it had never been obvious to me that a human with a non-human power should turn to them for help, and I said as much.
“That’s unfortunate because I think this organization could have benefited from your talents.” Olivia Lee absently moved some of the files around on her desk. From beneath one of them, she produced a new paper and slid it toward me. “However, now that we know what you can do, I’d like to rectify the situation. I want you to come work for us.”
I froze, certain I’d heard incorrectly. “You what?”
“Given your past activities, we’d have to consider this on a trial basis, and you’d only have limited clearance, but I’d like to bring you in as a special consultant on cases where you’d be useful.”
I gaped at her. All my life, I’d longed to be a Gryphon like my father had been. The pain of my gift turning rogue, the bitterness of getting kicked out of the Academy and watching my friends graduate—those things had haunted me like a curse for the past ten years.
Until two weeks ago. Until I’d been framed for a series of gruesome murders and the Gryphons had become obstacles to clearing my name. And until I’d learned the truth about my biology and the Gryphons had become, by their very ideals, potential enemies.
I glanced down at the paper, which appeared to be some sort of hiring agreement, but I didn’t take it. “You want to give me a job?”
Olivia’s dark eyes bore into me. “Let me be frank. I’m not sure ‘want’ is the most appropriate word."
December 2, 2013
Scavenger Hunt Update
Update to the update! The final song is up. Once you have it (and all the rest), go ahead and email me here: http://tracey-martin.com/contact/
And, you know, you can still go ahead and buy the book anyway. ;-)
Because I don't want everyone going crazy looking for something that isn't there...
As several people have noticed, song #11 on the playlist didn't make it up on Sunday. As soon as it's posted, I'll be sure to let you know!
Of course, if you don't want to wait, you can always cheat. The full playlist is in the book. If you buy it, I promise I won't count the cheating against you. ;-)
And, you know, you can still go ahead and buy the book anyway. ;-)
Because I don't want everyone going crazy looking for something that isn't there...
As several people have noticed, song #11 on the playlist didn't make it up on Sunday. As soon as it's posted, I'll be sure to let you know!
Of course, if you don't want to wait, you can always cheat. The full playlist is in the book. If you buy it, I promise I won't count the cheating against you. ;-)
November 30, 2013
The Totally Awesome Another Little Piece of My Heart Scavenger Hunt
Meant to post this yesterday but didn't have time... Harlequin Teen has teamed up with some amazing YA book bloggers to bring you a musical scavenger hunt celebrating Another Little Piece of My Heart's release tomorrow!
Here are the details:
12 awesome blogs
12 songs on Claire's Summer Survival Playlist
Friday (November 29th) through Sunday (December 1st), find each song on Claire's playlist to be entered into a chance to win some awesome books from Harlequin Teen plus Another Little Piece of My Heart swag! Each day, 4 blogs are hosting one song each. Every song is one chance to win - 12 chances to win stuff! The bloggers will be tweeting about it, and so will I and Harlequin Teen.
And if you find all 12? One grand prize winner will be entered into a drawing to win a $25 iTunes gift card plus more books and swag!
The complete rules are posted on the blogs. Happy hunting!
Here are the details:
12 awesome blogs
12 songs on Claire's Summer Survival Playlist
Friday (November 29th) through Sunday (December 1st), find each song on Claire's playlist to be entered into a chance to win some awesome books from Harlequin Teen plus Another Little Piece of My Heart swag! Each day, 4 blogs are hosting one song each. Every song is one chance to win - 12 chances to win stuff! The bloggers will be tweeting about it, and so will I and Harlequin Teen.
And if you find all 12? One grand prize winner will be entered into a drawing to win a $25 iTunes gift card plus more books and swag!
The complete rules are posted on the blogs. Happy hunting!
November 24, 2013
Another Little Piece of My Heart countdown
One week until Another Little Piece of My Heart releases! I'm counting down the days with tiny teasers.
November 14, 2013
Another Little Piece of My Heart - teaser 2
I wait for Jared to say more but he’s staring at the sky, at the seagulls congregating in a giant flock. All at once they swoop low and rest on the rocks across the way.
I don’t know what else to say, either, so I start fiddling around with the song again. For a moment, I lose awareness of the awkwardness between us. There’s something so peacefully familiar about sitting next to him while strumming.
I sneak glances at him while I play. His expression is contemplative, and the breeze blows stray strands of his sun-kissed hair into his face. I want to push the strands aside. I want to smooth down that stupid eyebrow hair of his. I want to press my cheek against his, feel how warm it is, turn my head so that our lips brush just one more time, and he’ll put his hand on my hip and pull me closer.…
I want a lobotomy so that I can get these dangerous cravings out of my head. It’s over, gone, never will be again. And I’d been fine with that until three weeks ago. Fine.
Maybe this song is about him, after all. Damn it.
I sing. Jared picks up my notebook and examines what I’ve written.
This is my world
This is my pain
This is my tears
This is me forsaken
“When did you get the new guitar?” he asks.
My fingers stiffen on the frets. “Christmas.”
“You dad actually bought you one? I thought that sort of thing was against his religion.”
“Funny. No, he didn’t buy it. I did with my gift money.”
“Ah.” Jared bites his lip. “Can I?”
It’s an old habit. I hand Jayna over to him without thinking and immediately regret it. I feel exposed without its weight on top of me, and I pull my knees in.
“It has great tone.” He plucks each string individually and strums a few chords.
I rest my chin on my knees. “Yeah, she’s—it’s—great. Know anyone in the market for one?”
“You’re looking to sell it?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“In case you haven’t realized, I’m not exactly working at the grocery store for my health.”
Jared stops playing. “I figured you were working there so you had extra spending money for college. Didn’t feel it was my place to ask.”
“I’m not going to college.” I can taste the bitterness in my voice. “It was too late to apply for financial aid when my dad lost his job. So college is out. For the moment anyway.”
I hold out my hand because now I’m trembling and need to keep my fingers occupied.
Jared passes me Jayna. “Sorry. Hannah clued me in about your dad. What do you plan to do?”
“Don’t know.” I throw him a sarcastic smile, or as close as I can get to one. “Run off to New York and get noticed by someone famous? How’s that been working for you?”
I don’t know what else to say, either, so I start fiddling around with the song again. For a moment, I lose awareness of the awkwardness between us. There’s something so peacefully familiar about sitting next to him while strumming.
I sneak glances at him while I play. His expression is contemplative, and the breeze blows stray strands of his sun-kissed hair into his face. I want to push the strands aside. I want to smooth down that stupid eyebrow hair of his. I want to press my cheek against his, feel how warm it is, turn my head so that our lips brush just one more time, and he’ll put his hand on my hip and pull me closer.…
I want a lobotomy so that I can get these dangerous cravings out of my head. It’s over, gone, never will be again. And I’d been fine with that until three weeks ago. Fine.
Maybe this song is about him, after all. Damn it.
I sing. Jared picks up my notebook and examines what I’ve written.
This is my world
This is my pain
This is my tears
This is me forsaken
“When did you get the new guitar?” he asks.
My fingers stiffen on the frets. “Christmas.”
“You dad actually bought you one? I thought that sort of thing was against his religion.”
“Funny. No, he didn’t buy it. I did with my gift money.”
“Ah.” Jared bites his lip. “Can I?”
It’s an old habit. I hand Jayna over to him without thinking and immediately regret it. I feel exposed without its weight on top of me, and I pull my knees in.
“It has great tone.” He plucks each string individually and strums a few chords.
I rest my chin on my knees. “Yeah, she’s—it’s—great. Know anyone in the market for one?”
“You’re looking to sell it?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“In case you haven’t realized, I’m not exactly working at the grocery store for my health.”
Jared stops playing. “I figured you were working there so you had extra spending money for college. Didn’t feel it was my place to ask.”
“I’m not going to college.” I can taste the bitterness in my voice. “It was too late to apply for financial aid when my dad lost his job. So college is out. For the moment anyway.”
I hold out my hand because now I’m trembling and need to keep my fingers occupied.
Jared passes me Jayna. “Sorry. Hannah clued me in about your dad. What do you plan to do?”
“Don’t know.” I throw him a sarcastic smile, or as close as I can get to one. “Run off to New York and get noticed by someone famous? How’s that been working for you?”
November 11, 2013
Another Little Piece of My Heart - chapter 1 teaser
Three weeks until release day! If you haven't checked out the first chapter yet, here it is...
...
Some people are like a venereal disease. Not that I know what one is like firsthand, thanks, but I did have to sit through health class. My point is, these people are the product of a moment of fun in your past, a wild and crazy passion that you look back on with longing and regret. And just when you think they’re gone for good, they return to irritate the hell out of you.
Jared Steele is one of those people.
Down the hallway, someone turns on the radio, and Jared’s soulful voice drifts through my bedroom doorway:
Daddy’s girl, was that red Miata the price of your heart?
You know you can’t—
“Off! Turn it off!” I put my hands over my ears as Kristen runs over and slams my bedroom door shut.
Slumping against my bed, I glimpse the key to my red Miata, which is currently parked in the garage. My nails dig into my palms as I wait for the surge of rage to pass.
It’s not as though Jared’s ever said “Daddy’s Girl”—or any of the other anti-love songs on his hugely successful album—is about me. At least not publicly. I know this because although I try to avoid the hundreds of interviews he’s given, somehow I manage to read them all. But among those of us Jared left behind in southern Connecticut, the truth is a much-whispered but never-confirmed rumor. I’m Jared’s “Daddy’s Girl,” and he got the ultimate revenge, with whipped cream, sprinkles and several Grammy nominations on top.
Asshat.
For good measure, Kristen yells at my sister and her friends to keep it down. As for me, I take a deep breath and pick up my guitar. I need to clear my head or distract myself. Both if I can manage it.
“So, Claire.” Kristen coughs in an exaggerated fashion, trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t happen. “About this new song of yours.”
This is why she’s awesome and my best friend.
Unfortunately, I am not so awesome. After a few minutes of plucking away at an alleged melody, I let out a small scream and bang my head against the footboard. “It’s not coming together. I suck.”
Kristen hits me with one of my slippers. “How long have you been working on it—two days? Give it time. This is about your mom. You can’t just pluck a tune out of thin air.”
“Some people can.” Some people. Meaning Jared. I have memories of sitting on the floor of his bedroom while he provided soundtracks to our conversations. Even his random nonsense could be amazing.
Groaning, I set the guitar down and throw myself on my bed in despair.
Kristen points a finger at me in an aha kind of way. “You and your mother were a case study in the tangled knots of love and power struggles. Maybe you can’t write a song about being twisted up in your emotions because you’re still too twisted up in your emotions to write clearly?”
I hug my down comforter. “First of all, ‘a tangled knot of love and power struggles’? That doesn’t even make sense. Second of all, twisted is the point. That should help the song be honest or something.”
Kristen goes back to uploading the video she took of my band, Stabbing Shakespeare, to our website. “Honesty is good, but maybe the song’s too heavy. Why not stick to the I-hate-Jared tunes? You honestly kick ass at those.”
“Aren’t they getting old?”
“A classic ‘Jared Steele sucks lime-green donkey balls’ tune will never get old. Not with me. And as your manager, you should take my advice. Stabbing Shakespeare is all about the ‘Jared Steele sucks.’”
I slide off the bed and grab my guitar again. “You’re our manager now? I thought you were my therapist.” Actually, Kristen’s father is a psychologist, but she’s been reading his books for years. She claims it’s to help me survive my post-Jared high school life without gratuitous amounts of bloodshed.
“The best managers are probably both.” Kristen presses a couple buttons on my laptop. “Ta-da! Here we are, from last week’s talent show.”
I brace myself as I watch, but Kristen’s right—Stabbing Shakespeare kicks ass, especially on those driving I-hate-Jared songs. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have room to improve.
As she gleefully points out the audience reaction, I concentrate on our performance. The sound is crappy, thanks to Kristen shooting the video on her phone, but even so I can hear how we rushed through the beginning of our first song until our nerves calmed down. So typical.
I turn my attention next to my band members, looking for ways we could improve our visual performance, too. We’re an odd mix. Tiny Alex is lost behind her drums in the auditorium’s poor lighting, but Nate is jumping all over the place, a crazy ball of energy with his bass. Erica, in contrast, serenely strums away, lost in her playing. Every now and then I peek at myself, stuck between Erica and Nate, pretending I have the charisma and stage presence to pull off this act.
I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’m the front person for the band only by default.
Yet despite these flaws, I know we’re good. Really good. Too good to just play at stupid school talent shows or at drunken parties. Good enough that I am determined that one day, one of the songs I write about Jared will get as much play as his songs about me. Only unlike his nasty breakup songs, my songs will be truthful. After all, the truths I have on Jared are so scathing that I don’t need to make up lies about him.
Speaking of which, for the record, I did not dump Jared for a new car. That’s just the most blatant lie on his stupid lying album.
The video ends abruptly and Kristen closes the laptop. “Not bad.”
I bite my lip. Kristen might make an excellent wannabe therapist, but she doesn’t have a trained ear like I do. She didn’t notice how Erica’s high E was slightly flat, or how Alex skipped a beat during the intro, or how I timed my breath badly on the bridge and couldn’t extend the vocals long enough.
She doesn’t want to notice, either. She wants to be our cheerleader, which is yet another reason she rocks and why I need her around. I can be critical enough for both of us. But we will never, ever excel if I’m not. Never, ever be able to compete with Jared.
It’s ridiculous of me to even try. I know. What are the odds of two musicians from the same small town both making it to superstar status? My band will never catch up to him, yet I can’t shake the dream. The sting of his success is all the more painful since it comes at my expense.
But I’ve been over this territory so often that talking about it bores even me, and I soften my thoughts so Kristen doesn’t start on me about the perils of perfectionism. “No, it wasn’t bad, but we can always improve. And I still think we need new, quality material. We’ve been playing mostly the same songs since Erica and I started the band. We’re not going to get better if we don’t stretch ourselves.”
I don’t know when I turned into my piano teacher, but that’s what she always says whenever she challenges me with more difficult pieces. It frustrated me when I was younger, but I get it now.
On that thought, my fingers crawl back to their respective frets, trying to work through this mother-daughter song again.
Kristen chucks the other slipper at me. So much for hiding my thoughts. “Okay, Ms. Morose, let it go. Have you considered that maybe the one-year anniversary of your mother’s death is not the best time to be working on a song about her? That maybe you need a time when you can be more emotionally distant?”
“News flash: there will never be a time when I’m more emotionally distant.” I glance down at my wrist and the diamonds on it sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight.
When she’d decided to go off the chemo, my mom had insisted on giving me and my sister each one of her beloved tennis bracelets. She had two that she used to wear together all the time. Now we wear them all the time.
The bracelet works for April because she’s a lot like my mom was. But it doesn’t really work for me. It clashes with my style the way, well, the way I clash with everything and everyone in my family. Be it the vinyl record albums decorating my bedroom walls, the bright purple-and-green polish on my nails or the collection of band T-shirts in my drawers, everything about me screams that I am the un-Winslow child—the bad seed, although no one says that aloud. No, it’s far more proper to just fret about my wasted potential.
But if I take my tennis bracelet off before April takes hers off, it’s like me finally admitting that I really was the worse daughter, a public acknowledgement of the knowing glances exchanged by the rest of my family behind their closed doors.
Of course, if I were half the rebel everyone thinks I am, I’d have tossed the bracelet by now. But I can’t. I won’t. I miss my mom. So it stays on, and five thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds shimmer on a wrist that doesn’t appreciate them.
“I’m sure your mom didn’t expect you to wear that every day for the rest of your life.” Ever astute, Kristen swats my bracelet.
“We don’t know that, and it’s just as likely that she did. I mean, she expected my bed to be made every day so I wouldn’t embarrass her in front of the housekeeper. Reasonable expectations were not my parents’ forte.”
Hence, why my mom also once expected me to dump my boyfriend, and oh-so-rebellious me went ahead and did it. Eventually. Because when your mom has cancer you will do whatever it takes to make her happy, even if you’re the “bad” daughter. You will remember the effort she made to ensure sure you got the cupcakes with the blue sprinkles on your birthday, and how she once spent an entire day with you at the library helping you research that awful term paper you had to do in eighth grade. You’ll think about the gross homemade chicken soup she forced you to eat when you were sick, and how she held your hand when the ER doctor stitched up your busted lip. You will do anything to make that woman’s life easier, even if it means overlooking all the ways she made your life difficult.
And then, if you’re like me, the boyfriend you dumped for your mom’s sake will write a nasty song or two or three about what a bitch you were for doing that, and you’ll realize your mom was right and you made a good decision.
That alone is reason to keep the bracelet on—as a reminder that maybe she knew what she was talking about on occasion and I should have listened to her more often.
“Claire?” Kristen snaps her fingers in my face and I nearly hit the ceiling.
...
You can read the rest of the chapter here.
I'll release a new teaser from one of my favorite scenes when we hit 200 adds.
...
Some people are like a venereal disease. Not that I know what one is like firsthand, thanks, but I did have to sit through health class. My point is, these people are the product of a moment of fun in your past, a wild and crazy passion that you look back on with longing and regret. And just when you think they’re gone for good, they return to irritate the hell out of you.
Jared Steele is one of those people.
Down the hallway, someone turns on the radio, and Jared’s soulful voice drifts through my bedroom doorway:
Daddy’s girl, was that red Miata the price of your heart?
You know you can’t—
“Off! Turn it off!” I put my hands over my ears as Kristen runs over and slams my bedroom door shut.
Slumping against my bed, I glimpse the key to my red Miata, which is currently parked in the garage. My nails dig into my palms as I wait for the surge of rage to pass.
It’s not as though Jared’s ever said “Daddy’s Girl”—or any of the other anti-love songs on his hugely successful album—is about me. At least not publicly. I know this because although I try to avoid the hundreds of interviews he’s given, somehow I manage to read them all. But among those of us Jared left behind in southern Connecticut, the truth is a much-whispered but never-confirmed rumor. I’m Jared’s “Daddy’s Girl,” and he got the ultimate revenge, with whipped cream, sprinkles and several Grammy nominations on top.
Asshat.
For good measure, Kristen yells at my sister and her friends to keep it down. As for me, I take a deep breath and pick up my guitar. I need to clear my head or distract myself. Both if I can manage it.
“So, Claire.” Kristen coughs in an exaggerated fashion, trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t happen. “About this new song of yours.”
This is why she’s awesome and my best friend.
Unfortunately, I am not so awesome. After a few minutes of plucking away at an alleged melody, I let out a small scream and bang my head against the footboard. “It’s not coming together. I suck.”
Kristen hits me with one of my slippers. “How long have you been working on it—two days? Give it time. This is about your mom. You can’t just pluck a tune out of thin air.”
“Some people can.” Some people. Meaning Jared. I have memories of sitting on the floor of his bedroom while he provided soundtracks to our conversations. Even his random nonsense could be amazing.
Groaning, I set the guitar down and throw myself on my bed in despair.
Kristen points a finger at me in an aha kind of way. “You and your mother were a case study in the tangled knots of love and power struggles. Maybe you can’t write a song about being twisted up in your emotions because you’re still too twisted up in your emotions to write clearly?”
I hug my down comforter. “First of all, ‘a tangled knot of love and power struggles’? That doesn’t even make sense. Second of all, twisted is the point. That should help the song be honest or something.”
Kristen goes back to uploading the video she took of my band, Stabbing Shakespeare, to our website. “Honesty is good, but maybe the song’s too heavy. Why not stick to the I-hate-Jared tunes? You honestly kick ass at those.”
“Aren’t they getting old?”
“A classic ‘Jared Steele sucks lime-green donkey balls’ tune will never get old. Not with me. And as your manager, you should take my advice. Stabbing Shakespeare is all about the ‘Jared Steele sucks.’”
I slide off the bed and grab my guitar again. “You’re our manager now? I thought you were my therapist.” Actually, Kristen’s father is a psychologist, but she’s been reading his books for years. She claims it’s to help me survive my post-Jared high school life without gratuitous amounts of bloodshed.
“The best managers are probably both.” Kristen presses a couple buttons on my laptop. “Ta-da! Here we are, from last week’s talent show.”
I brace myself as I watch, but Kristen’s right—Stabbing Shakespeare kicks ass, especially on those driving I-hate-Jared songs. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have room to improve.
As she gleefully points out the audience reaction, I concentrate on our performance. The sound is crappy, thanks to Kristen shooting the video on her phone, but even so I can hear how we rushed through the beginning of our first song until our nerves calmed down. So typical.
I turn my attention next to my band members, looking for ways we could improve our visual performance, too. We’re an odd mix. Tiny Alex is lost behind her drums in the auditorium’s poor lighting, but Nate is jumping all over the place, a crazy ball of energy with his bass. Erica, in contrast, serenely strums away, lost in her playing. Every now and then I peek at myself, stuck between Erica and Nate, pretending I have the charisma and stage presence to pull off this act.
I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’m the front person for the band only by default.
Yet despite these flaws, I know we’re good. Really good. Too good to just play at stupid school talent shows or at drunken parties. Good enough that I am determined that one day, one of the songs I write about Jared will get as much play as his songs about me. Only unlike his nasty breakup songs, my songs will be truthful. After all, the truths I have on Jared are so scathing that I don’t need to make up lies about him.
Speaking of which, for the record, I did not dump Jared for a new car. That’s just the most blatant lie on his stupid lying album.
The video ends abruptly and Kristen closes the laptop. “Not bad.”
I bite my lip. Kristen might make an excellent wannabe therapist, but she doesn’t have a trained ear like I do. She didn’t notice how Erica’s high E was slightly flat, or how Alex skipped a beat during the intro, or how I timed my breath badly on the bridge and couldn’t extend the vocals long enough.
She doesn’t want to notice, either. She wants to be our cheerleader, which is yet another reason she rocks and why I need her around. I can be critical enough for both of us. But we will never, ever excel if I’m not. Never, ever be able to compete with Jared.
It’s ridiculous of me to even try. I know. What are the odds of two musicians from the same small town both making it to superstar status? My band will never catch up to him, yet I can’t shake the dream. The sting of his success is all the more painful since it comes at my expense.
But I’ve been over this territory so often that talking about it bores even me, and I soften my thoughts so Kristen doesn’t start on me about the perils of perfectionism. “No, it wasn’t bad, but we can always improve. And I still think we need new, quality material. We’ve been playing mostly the same songs since Erica and I started the band. We’re not going to get better if we don’t stretch ourselves.”
I don’t know when I turned into my piano teacher, but that’s what she always says whenever she challenges me with more difficult pieces. It frustrated me when I was younger, but I get it now.
On that thought, my fingers crawl back to their respective frets, trying to work through this mother-daughter song again.
Kristen chucks the other slipper at me. So much for hiding my thoughts. “Okay, Ms. Morose, let it go. Have you considered that maybe the one-year anniversary of your mother’s death is not the best time to be working on a song about her? That maybe you need a time when you can be more emotionally distant?”
“News flash: there will never be a time when I’m more emotionally distant.” I glance down at my wrist and the diamonds on it sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight.
When she’d decided to go off the chemo, my mom had insisted on giving me and my sister each one of her beloved tennis bracelets. She had two that she used to wear together all the time. Now we wear them all the time.
The bracelet works for April because she’s a lot like my mom was. But it doesn’t really work for me. It clashes with my style the way, well, the way I clash with everything and everyone in my family. Be it the vinyl record albums decorating my bedroom walls, the bright purple-and-green polish on my nails or the collection of band T-shirts in my drawers, everything about me screams that I am the un-Winslow child—the bad seed, although no one says that aloud. No, it’s far more proper to just fret about my wasted potential.
But if I take my tennis bracelet off before April takes hers off, it’s like me finally admitting that I really was the worse daughter, a public acknowledgement of the knowing glances exchanged by the rest of my family behind their closed doors.
Of course, if I were half the rebel everyone thinks I am, I’d have tossed the bracelet by now. But I can’t. I won’t. I miss my mom. So it stays on, and five thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds shimmer on a wrist that doesn’t appreciate them.
“I’m sure your mom didn’t expect you to wear that every day for the rest of your life.” Ever astute, Kristen swats my bracelet.
“We don’t know that, and it’s just as likely that she did. I mean, she expected my bed to be made every day so I wouldn’t embarrass her in front of the housekeeper. Reasonable expectations were not my parents’ forte.”
Hence, why my mom also once expected me to dump my boyfriend, and oh-so-rebellious me went ahead and did it. Eventually. Because when your mom has cancer you will do whatever it takes to make her happy, even if you’re the “bad” daughter. You will remember the effort she made to ensure sure you got the cupcakes with the blue sprinkles on your birthday, and how she once spent an entire day with you at the library helping you research that awful term paper you had to do in eighth grade. You’ll think about the gross homemade chicken soup she forced you to eat when you were sick, and how she held your hand when the ER doctor stitched up your busted lip. You will do anything to make that woman’s life easier, even if it means overlooking all the ways she made your life difficult.
And then, if you’re like me, the boyfriend you dumped for your mom’s sake will write a nasty song or two or three about what a bitch you were for doing that, and you’ll realize your mom was right and you made a good decision.
That alone is reason to keep the bracelet on—as a reminder that maybe she knew what she was talking about on occasion and I should have listened to her more often.
“Claire?” Kristen snaps her fingers in my face and I nearly hit the ceiling.
...
You can read the rest of the chapter here.
I'll release a new teaser from one of my favorite scenes when we hit 200 adds.
October 15, 2013
Wicked Misery at Urban Fantasy Investigations
Time is running out to win a copy of Wicked Misery over at Urban Fantasy Investigations. Odds are pretty good!
October 11, 2013
Miss Misery #2
What better way to celebrate Wicked Misery's release week than by signing the contract for the sequel? Dirty Little Misery (Miss Misery #2) is tentatively scheduled for summer 2014!
So what's in store for Jess? Gryphon shenanigans, magical drugs, secret societies, and--of course--a whole lot of Lucen. Can't wait to share it!
So what's in store for Jess? Gryphon shenanigans, magical drugs, secret societies, and--of course--a whole lot of Lucen. Can't wait to share it!
October 8, 2013
Wicked Misery Release Day!
OMG, so much flailing!
While I curl into a ball and hug my bottle of Jameson's, you can check out all the stops on Wicked Misery Blog Tour here. It starts tomorrow and is filled with a couple chances to win a copy, plus other goodies.
Also, don't forget you can get swag in three simple steps: deets here.
But, of course, you just want to read it. Right?
*whimpers*
While I curl into a ball and hug my bottle of Jameson's, you can check out all the stops on Wicked Misery Blog Tour here. It starts tomorrow and is filled with a couple chances to win a copy, plus other goodies.
Also, don't forget you can get swag in three simple steps: deets here.
But, of course, you just want to read it. Right?
*whimpers*
