This is a difficult post for me to make, as admitting anything less than perfection with my baby — ahem, my novel — is contrary to all of my instincts as an author. As an author, I spent four years (probably more like two, considering I birthed a screamy creature somewhere in the middle there) molding the clay that is Fight. I made character sheets, researched names and locations and what trees are prevalent in Virginia. (You’d think I’d know that, living in Virginia and all.) I initially embarked on a helter skelter write-at-will journey that dragged me fifty pages in with continual straying from the plot, so I started over by composing a twenty page outline detailing the major bullet points of each chapter. I agonized over whether I would have a third person POV in addition to my two first person narrators. I wrote chapters and scenes in third person and they didn’t jibe with the rest of the book, so I scrapped them. I rewrote everything in present tense. Yes, the entire novel. I went back and changed it page by page upon realizing that this style “popped” more and pulled you, my reader, into the lives of characters who were suddenly very real to me. My husband was an innocent hostage in our nightly discussions of them. “You’ll never believe what Conley did today.” “Emma’s dad is such a jerk.” “Do you think I should get a nose ring again? It’d be weird now, right?”

I put my book in a drawer for a year. I pulled it back out. I loved it sometimes, I hated it others. Depending on the day, I was both the next most promising author and the worst writer in the world. I cried, I laughed, I felt crazy. I went crazy. I gained clarity and self-respect while somehow living in pajamas. The only breaks taken were to eat or step outside and blink up into a bright sun with unnecessary confusion as to why my sore eyes felt like they might fall out of my head.

[Read more…]

Been to any carnivals lately?  Emma has….

(Sung to the tune of Happy Birthday)
Happy book launch of FIGHT,
It went live last night!
I’m thrilled and elated,
Now its sequel I write.

Check out the “How to Buy FIGHT” tab to snag your copy. And here’s a special treat for those who visit my website: a micro-teaser of FIGHT’s sequel, FLIGHT!

“What are you thinking about today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. There’s too much to think.”
“So just focus on one thing at a time.”
“How do you know which thing?”
“It’s the one that’s been fighting to get your attention all along.”

Website Countdowns

My proof copy is here, and just in time! Less than two weeks remain until Fight‘s release. Look at that shiny cover. 😀 Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

 

Pre-orders are here, and with that comes knowledge of a release date! Fight will come out October 22nd. To secure a copy ahead of time, click on the “How to Buy FIGHT” tab and find your favorite reading method in pre-order form, including: Amazon paperback, Kindle, Google Play, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble eReader, and iTunes.

Check back next week for a Fight pre-order announcement! Here’s chapter one for a little taste of what’s to come:

1. EMMA gets a shock

My eyes fly open from the surge of adrenaline.

It takes a petrified half second to figure out the culprit is my alarm, blasting a song at its highest possible volume. The bluegrass twang flows through my ears and I groan. Like every morning, it is right on schedule; and like every morning, I forget that the explosion of (ironically) chipper tunes is coming.
This is good. This is my plan, to be shaken awake by music I hate. Better to associate the looming misery with a negative vibe.

I tense and prepare, contracting muscles that I hadn’t known existed before this ordeal.

One, two, three.

Silent counts to the rhythm of the banjo’s backbeat, and yet … nothing.

Time for test two.

My fingers release the death grip they have on my sheets. I sit up slowly. Getting out of bed is a delicate process; it must be done with the utmost of care. Gently swinging my legs over the side, touching my feet to the hardwood floor, and shifting my weight to my toes are all potential time bombs followed by more cringing, more counting, and more waiting.

Again, nothing. I sigh and tiptoe across my room – still bracing for pain at any second – when my body locks in response to the single knock on my bedroom door.

“Emma –” my father begins before clearing his throat unnecessarily, a nervous tick from decades of business presentations.

It’s his only nervous habit. He commands respect (and fear) with a permanent frown and perfect enunciation of every word in the English language. I imagine him on the other side of the door right now, brushing lint off of a two thousand dollar suit.

He raises his voice to compete with my horrid music. “Why must this always be so loud?!”

I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Your mother and I are leaving for work. See you tonight.”

He and I both know this last part isn’t true. My parents spend every evening schmoozing with higher ups from their company at some swanky bar in Washington, D.C. Well, that’s not entirely true. Sometimes they go straight to dinner with coworkers. I don’t know why they bother with the charade of false promises anymore. They aren’t fooling anyone.

Right as I decide against saying goodbye, his shoes echo down the hallway. Small talk just isn’t done in my family. We are expected to be self-healing, emotionless, and verbal only for informational purposes.

I listen until the echo fades away. A mere whisper would echo in this house. It is a dark, empty shell where three people sleep at night. And to ensure it stays dark, one of the few rules my parents established is that curtains are to be drawn at all times. Doors to all rooms also have to remain shut unless exiting or entering (“to prevent a draft”).

This was ingrained in me from early on. I’d thought nothing of it until I started hanging out at friends’ houses. It didn’t take long to realize how much my home differs from others, where light and openness are encouraged. There is no smiling here. There are no family portraits or knickknacks of any kind, and there are certainly no silly souvenirs from the lack of vacations we’ve taken together. Foreign art and rock sculptures reside here. I live in a museum.

No, my parents would never stoop so low as to partake in any activity resulting in a smiling snapshot. Phone calls and meetings come first and foremost. The faint clacking of computer keys from behind their closed office door (known as the master bedroom in most houses) was my childhood lullaby. This is the way of life at the Briar house. As if further proof of this is even needed, most rooms still house unpacked boxes from the move. I was five then. I’m sixteen now.

The whir of my parents’ car fades down the street, and my anxiety-riddled body relaxes enough to let me turn the radio off – but not before I inspect it to ensure the alarm is preset for tomorrow. Then I walk back to my original destination: the full length mirror secured behind my door. When I catch sight of myself, I freeze. This is by far the weirdest part of my day. No matter how many times I do it, I never get used to it. Confusion from what I’m becoming, fear of not knowing what to do about it, and hope that it will just go away … every emotion hits me when I face that mirror.

Before giving myself any real time to think about it, I pull my ratty sleep shirt over my head and twirl around to examine my back in the mirror. I frown as I scan over what I know I will see … what I’ve stared at for countless hours over the past six months. They are just there, plain as day, greeting me in my reflection as if they’ve always been as much a part of me as my hands, my hair, my eyes.

An uncomfortable chill sweeps through me as I think back to when it all began…. [Read more…]

Welcome to my website! Check out the calendar to learn when my book, Fight, will be released and subsequently available on Amazon. Please feel free to email me with any questions/comments.

Happy reading,
Chelsea

P.S. Stay tuned for teasers about Fight’s sequel. 😉