Candy Sky Tells a Lie Review and Giveaway

 

Candy Sky Tells a Lie

by Shanna P. Lowe

Genre: Middle Grade Fantasy

Candice “Candy” Sky is a thirteen-year-old girl with a lying streak. She hides her poor grades from her parents, she fibs about having a famous cousin, and she claims that rising pop singer Elijah Nole is her boyfriend.

Unfortunately, after lying to her English teacher, a rumored witch, Candy is cursed to live in a world where all of her lies come true. At first, Candy has everything she has ever wanted—designer clothes, popularity, straight A's, and Elijah Nole as her boyfriend!

However, Candy’s lies put her and those she cares about into many dangerous situations. What's worse? In the "Cursed World," Candy is her best friend's bully.

Can Candy break the curse…or will she be forced to live with her lies forever?

To the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,

I am writing to you out of concern for your

daughter’s missing project due last Monday.

She claims that a pipe in the bathroom broke,

flooding the apartment and soiling her project.

If you could confirm her story, I would be

happy to give Candice extra time on this project.

Candice is such a joy to have in class.

I look forward to her success!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Gulligan

7th & 8th Grade

English Teacher

To the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,

I am writing to you out of concern for your

daughter’s study guide for an upcoming test.

She insisted that it, and I quote,

“had a bath in the fryer and was served

to a customer” at a local fast food restaurant.

I struggle to understand her story, so if you

could contact me for clarification, that would

be appreciated. Thank you!

Candice is such a joy to have in class.

I look forward to her success!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Gulligan

7th & 8th Grade

English Teacher

To the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,

I am writing to you out of concern for your

daughter’s failed test. Her latest anecdote

has her stranded on a boat after hitting

an iceberg that destroyed the motor.

Because she had to wait most of the night

for a rescue boat, she was too exhausted to

focus on the exam. Forgive me for saying I

find the story a bit unbelievable. Please

contact me at your earliest convenience.

Candice is such a joy in class.

I look forward to her success!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Gulligan

7th & 8th Grade

English Teacher

To the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,

I have yet to hear from you regarding your

daughter’s missing assignments and grades.

Perhaps email is not the best mode of

communication. I will be calling to set up a

parent-teacher conference. Let me know what

time works best for you.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Gulligan

7th & 8th Grade

English Teacher

ONE

My Little Secret

Neiwood School District

Neiwood, CA

Missed Calls (2)

Mom’s phone rings again. I jab the red end-call button and swallow. Air grinds down my throat like bare skin on a dry tube slide. Why does Mrs. Gulligan have to be so persistent?

I listen for the running shower from the only bathroom in our apartment, praying Mom takes her time under the hot spray. My foot ricochets against the hardwood floor of the den with nervous energy. I can’t even concentrate on my favorite show, Young, Bold, and Beautiful, as it plays on the wall-mounted television. It trails several tween fashion designers sewing and piecing together outfits for models. It’s the premiere of the newest season, something I’ve been counting down to for months. Now, I’d have to watch the recording later.

Thanks, Mrs. Gulligan.

This is all because of that ridiculous essay due yesterday. The one focusing on a book I may or may not have read. I can’t help it, though! I have seven classes to manage. Seven. No one should put that kind of pressure on a thirteen-year-old.

I press my finger against the touchpad and watch the screen unlock. Mom doesn’t know I saved my fingerprint on her phone. As I open her email app, I remember the test I flunked last week. Twenty-five multiple choice questions followed by three essay questions. Anyone who can finish that in fifty minutes isn’t human.

There are also a few assignments that slipped my mind earlier this month. And the other essay from a while back. Again, seven classes. Mrs. Gulligan can’t blame me.

I open a blank email and type:

Dear Mrs. Gulligan

What would Mom say to my English teacher? I chuckle uneasily. I’d be dead if she actually knew about my grades. Not really. She would probably ship me off to Grandma Carrie for fall break, grounded inside her house of creepy antique dolls and an ungodly amount of shrieking parrots. Mom has done it before. I still have nightmares from decades of dust and feathers—dead, glassy eyes following my every movement.

I glance at the bathroom door on the corner of the hallway that leads to our bedrooms. Steam rises out from the crack at the bottom and wafts through the den, making the air hot and uncomfortably humid. Good. Keep showering, Mom.

Dear Mrs. Gulligan,

Sorry to have missed your calls. I am a flight

attendant and spend most of my time on an

airplane.

That’s sort of the truth. Mom does occasionally work as a flight attendant when someone calls out sick or has a family emergency. Usually, she’s a reserve, checking people in at the gate while on standby. She goes on, maybe, four or five flights a year.

Contacting me by phone will not work due

to my busy schedule and constant change

in time zones. Please continue to email.

Emails are easy to delete. Phone calls? Not so much. They’re dangerous.

As for your concerns regarding my daughter

Candy, I can safely vouch for every incident

she has claimed. She has such bad luck.

Bad luck when it comes to English teachers. Why can’t Mrs. Gulligan leave me alone like the others? They hardly bat an eye when I miss an assignment, opting for communication through the online parent portal (which mysteriously had a glitch that changed the password at the beginning of the school year).

Perhaps her persistence could have something to do with the rumors circulating about her.

My best friend Maggie swears on her life that Mrs. Gilligan is a witch. A living, breathing, cauldron-stirring, broom-riding, frog-eating witch.

Maggie claims that Mrs. Gulligan cursed a boy named Sayer Lafayette after he was caught paying classmates to write his papers. Every dollar bill he touched turned into dried leaves. Coins became acorn caps. If that wasn’t enough, his perfectly smooth angel face grew massive boils that oozed greenish white pus. No one could look at him without gagging.

Do I believe Maggie? Absolutely not.

If she were a witch, Mrs. Gulligan would have found a way to contact my parents.

Please grant Candy extra time for these

assignments. I’ll make sure she gets them

done by the end of September.

Sincerely,

Samantha Sky

My thumb hovers over the send button. I re-read the email, double-checking for errors and clarity. I certainly sound like my mother. Prim and proper. Practically her middle name.

A wormy sliver of doubt wriggles in my mind, softening my earlier determination. This email will officially open a line of communication between Mom and Mrs. Gulligan. Bile rises at the realization. “Mom” must admit to reading the other emails.

I picture the email tennis match I’ll have to play in that scenario.

By not replying, Mrs. Gulligan might actually give up. Eventually. Hopefully.

With a sigh, I tap the trash icon. I have to prevent Mom from answering Mrs. Gulligan’s calls somehow. There’s more at stake than a summer with Grandma Carrie.

The Fall Equinox Dance.

When fliers for the dance appeared around school, I secretly ripped one from a bulletin board and taped it to my bathroom mirror. I read the flier every morning, planning what will be the greatest moment of my life.

Unlike other middle school dances where the dress code calls for jeans and t-shirts, the Fall Equinox Dance mimics a high school prom. Only eighth graders are allowed to attend. We get to wear dresses and heels and make-up and doll our hair up with spray and shimmer and–

I exhale noisily, a tornado of fantasies leaving me winded. I’ve seen these dances all the time in movies, but to actually experience one? The idea leaves goosebumps on my skin. It’s not just because it’s a day dedicated to glamor and DJ tunes. I’ll fulfill a lifelong dream of mine.

Perhaps not lifelong. But I have daydreamed about it since starting middle school.

The dream?

A boyfriend.

And not just any boyfriend.

Elijah Nole.

The rising pop singer who happens to be in the same grade at my middle school.

I met Elijah in-person on the second day of sixth grade. Or rather, his soccer ball met my face during PE, knocking me clear off my feet. Dazed and bleeding from my nose, I barely recognized Elijah helping me up and dusting me off until I was inches away from his warm amber eyes and worried frown. His voice, asking me if I was okay, was as calming as rain pattering against leaves. His touch a comfortable sea breeze. His presence was like taking a bite of the world’s finest chocolate, hazelnut-ganache center and all. I wanted more.

My dream is for Elijah to sweep me off my feet and, quite possibly, share a first kiss with. To rest a hand on my hip on the dance floor, lean me backwards, gaze into my eyes, and whisper, “Candy Sky, you’re the only girl for me.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. I squeal and hide my face in my hands.

“What are you doing on my phone?”

I jolt. The phone slips from my fingers and clatters face down on the floor. I scramble for it, chest heaving. I check for damages (and if I actually deleted that email). The screen is black except for the time and lock icon. I can’t use my fingerprint with Mom watching me from the bathroom door.

Her arms cross over her plush robe. A towel twists on the top of her head, drying her brown hair.

When did the water turn off?

“Seriously, what are you doing?” She plods over and holds out her hand.

“N-Nothing!” I almost pull the phone away from her, but doing so indicates guilt.

I give her the phone shakily.

She presses her thumb against the lock pad. Her eyes narrow on the screen. “You were obviously doing something on my phone.”

“You left it on and—” Think, Candy. Think. “—I needed to look up information for an assignment. I couldn't use my phone since you took it away.”

“Why is the email app open?” she asks.

I shrug and lean back on the couch nonchalantly. The trick is to look relaxed. Don’t break eye contact. Twirl a strand of hair. Appear annoyed that someone doesn’t believe you.

“It must have opened when I dropped the phone,” I say. “Seriously, I was on the school’s website looking up an assignment.”

She purses her lips together, unconvinced. There’s no evidence of any wrongdoing. Innocent until proven guilty, right? Eventually, she lets it slide. Mom crosses the den to her bluetooth speaker and presses play.

I relax as soft jazz floats through the room. Silly coffee quotations on colorful canvases hang from the walls. Home Is Where the Coffee Pot Is. Live Life to the Fullest Cup. My Coffee Needs Coffee. Throw pillows on the cream-color furniture feature cappuccinos so realistic that I’m pretty sure you can taste the espresso. And the smell of coffee clings to everything in this apartment. Mom is addicted.

Mom’s shift at the airport starts in an hour, so she heads down a short hallway to her bedroom and disappears inside. She shuts the door behind her.

On the rare occurrence that I venture inside, I’m met with clothes vacuumed in airlock bags and the smell of organic all-purpose cleaner mixed with, of course, coffee. Mom’s room is never out of place.

Mine on the other hand . . . I like to tell Mom tiny elves have dress-up parties. They cover every surface with my clothes and play 52-Card Pickup with my schoolwork. Not only do they never win the game, but they also leave their garbage and dirty plates all over.

Curse those pesky elves!

I sprawl on the couch, lift the remote, and increase the volume. I watch the montage of tweens fitting their outfits onto their live models. The theme is a cocktail party. They have to create dresses worthy of high-end social and business networking.

I’d give anything to be one of those models, dripping in beautiful designer clothes and accessories. Elijah would definitely notice me then. I wonder if there’s a way I can apply to the show.

Through the wall, Mom’s phone blares Mozart’s symphony, and my heart sinks.

Could it be Mrs. Gulligan?

“Don’t answer!” I spring off the couch, run down the short hallway, and pound on her bedroom door. “It’s spam callers! Dangerous spam callers!”

When Mom doesn’t answer, I back up a few feet and crouch into my best impersonation of a football player. I shout a battle cry and barrel forward, tensing my shoulder for impact.

The door opens.

I yelp, momentum too strong to stop, and I collide with Mom. We fall into a pile of groans and tangled limbs. I wince as her elbow juts into my ribs.

“Hello?” a disgruntled voice says from beside us. “Samantha, are you there?’

Her phone!

I kick and squirm my way free, and then snatch it up.

“We don’t want your overpriced vacuum, you scheming salesman!” I cry. “Now stop calling this number before I report you to the police!”

“Candice?” the person on the other side says.

That’s not Mrs. Gulligan.

“Aunt Becky?”

“No, it’s a scheming salesman,” she snorts sarcastically.

Oops.

I open my mouth to respond, but the phone is yanked out of my hand. Soon, I’m on the receiving end of Mom’s infamous you-are-so-dead glares.

“Candice Lynn Sky!” she says. “What on earth has gotten into you!”

“I-I thought . . .” I stutter, tailing off as embarrassment paints my cheeks bright pink.

“How would you know it’s spam callers? And how did you get past the lock screen in the first place?"

Aunt Becky calls our names, but Mom ignores her. She taps and swipes her screen, eyes flickering back and forth swiftly. What is she reading? I bite my lip and fidget my thumbs.

Please let that email be deleted.

Please don’t let Mom see the school district’s calls.

Mom huffs before pressing the phone back to her ear. She frowns suspiciously at me but turns away. My shoulders sag. Luck is on my side. This time.

“You’re asking me what that was about?” Mom barks an incredulous laugh. “Who knows! I can already feel my hip bruising.” She massages the spot, wincing.

I frown. I didn’t mean to cause an injury.

I want to apologize, but Mom ushers me out before I utter the words. The door slams in my face. The lock clicks.

For a moment, I stand completely still and breathe. That was much too close for comfort. I need to be more cautious next time.

I force myself back to the couch. Energetic techno plays from the TV as models strut down the runway. It’s the judgment portion of the show, which will be followed by the elimination of one unfortunate tween. Whoever wins the entire season gets $10,000 and a scholarship to Sarian Design Academy.

Usually, I sit on the edge of my seat, hands clasped together, and maniacally mutter to myself who deserves to move onto the next round and who should be sent home. Right now, though, all I can focus on is my queasy stomach.

Part of me knows it’s only a matter of time before my gig is up. Although eighth grade started a month and a half ago, I’m already not doing so hot in my classes. My parents will inevitably learn of my poor grades during parent-teacher conferences. But I’m okay with that. They are held in October. The dance is at the end of September. By the time my parents do find out, I’ll have completed my lifelong goal and can write letters to Elijah from Grandma Carrie’s house.

Once I make Elijah my boyfriend, of course.

I just have to make sure Mom and Dad don’t find out my secret before the Fall Equinox Dance.

Rating: Four out of Five Stars

There are many things to like about this story. I'm not a fast reader, but I went through the book in two days because I was interested to find out what would happen to Candy after her lies finally catch up with her and she is cursed by Mrs. Gulligan. 

Candy's priorities are upside down. Instead of appreciating her loving but nit-picky mother, her dorky but affectionate dad, and her excitable, environmentally conscious best friend Maggie, Candy focuses on trying to get in good with young pop singer Elijah Nole's cousin Laurell, hoping to get a date with Elijah. Candy believes her lies are slick, but she is always just one slip-up from getting caught, and Mrs. Gulligan is tired of playing games with her.

Candy is a likable heroine despite her flaws. I think readers will root for her to get out of the mess she finds herself in. She is a believable character. All too many young girls become overly concerned with being popular and fashionable and with having the right boyfriend as an accessory. Candy has a chance to learn that there are more important things in life.

The author does an excellent job with world-building, plot pacing, and creating believable characters in a sometimes outrageous setting. The one flaw that prevents me from giving the story a full five stars is the inevitable instance of size shaming. The target of the size shaming is a plump cat, but no creature deserves to be called "a slab of lard." The cat remains a cat regardless of his size. Candy's mother could have simply said "remember, the vet said we need to feed him on a schedule rather than whenever he demands it" and Candy could have said "okay" without insulting the poor animal. 

Aside from the unfortunate instance of size shaming, I really enjoyed this story and give it four out of five stars.

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Shanna P. Lowe started writing when she was in preschool. She would carry around seed catalogs and copy them word for word into her notebook.

Shanna P. Lowes shares her birthday with The Land Before Time. You better believe she loves dinosaurs!

Shanna P. Lowe is completely and totally, 100% in control of her life. She knows exactly what she needs to do and where she needs to go. She certainly is not a hot mess.

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Historical Romance, Regency Romance, Steamy and Sweet romances

Published Date: E-Book releases October 18, 2022

Publisher: WOLF Publishing

 

This wintery holiday collection of seven never before published Regency romances by seven of your favorite historical romance authors will bring you dreamy gentlemen and fierce ladies that share swoon-worthy kisses, heart-pounding nights, and magical happily-ever-afters.

On WOLF Publishing's Naughty or Nice list, you'll find captivatingly sweet tales that melt your heart as well as sizzling romances that heat up your nights!

Find out who's been naughty and who's been nice this year, in...

 

Bree Wolf's: Once Upon an Aggravatingly Heroic Kiss

Once upon a time, our beloved Grandma Edie began her career as the best matchmaker in known history by using her extraordinary talent to bring about her own happily-ever-after...

Determined to perform a Christmas miracle by seeing her friend wed to the man she loves, Edith finds herself distracted from her task by a teasing gentleman with wicked eyes and a devilish smile.

 

Sydney Jane Baily's: A Diamond for Christmas

In a Regency Romeo and Juliet, heady desire blossoms between a lord and a lady from warring families.

Lord Geoffrey Diamond is the heir to an earldom with dash-fire to spare. There is no lady in London he ought not to be able to woo and win. Except one. Lady Caroline is vexed to learn the only man who makes her tingle is prohibited. Forbidden even to dance with Diamond, she finds herself breaking all the rules in order to follow her heart.

When they take a desperate chance on happiness, will it lead to a Christmas miracle or a Christmas calamity?

 

Tracy Sumner's: The Governess Gamble

He's a devil of a rake. Can an accidental governess teach him life's most important lesson?

To repair her scandalous reputation, American heiress Franny Shaw flees to London in search of a desperate nobleman with a title for sale. An impulsive decision places her in the path of lonely libertine, Chance Allerton, at Christmastide. Can a make-believe governess teach a wicked viscount a sizzling lesson in love or will it take a holiday miracle?

 

Fenna Edgewood's: The Countess's Christmas Groom

She is his ideal match. The woman he has been waiting for all of his life. The only problem? He's her servant.

This Christmas, two very unlikely individuals are about to realize they are one another's ideal match. And once mutual desire has been sparked, they will never be parted, no matter the price they must face.

 

Charlie Lane's: A Very Daring Christmas

Christmas is the most daring time of the year.

Crowded London streets, eccentric shop keeps, violent-minded maids, and chaotic coffeehouses. A daring but reluctant debutant and the steward who adores her will brave it all to find the elusive perfect gift that could win their hearts desires.

 

Jennifer Monroe's: Gentleman of Christmas Past

A lady determined to find love. A gentleman wanting her hand in marriage. A Christmas story you will never forget.

Miss Agnes Fitzimmons and Mr. Phillip Rutley each have a Christmas wish—to marry one another. Yet with financial burdens threatening to keep them apart, it will take a Christmas miracle to have the happily ever after they deserve.

 

Meredith Bond's: Christmas Intrigue

Can the joy of Christmas, and a beautiful woman, distract him from his duty?

Is it a recipe for disaster? Not even close. Whether Markgraf Alexander Kottenfurst thinks the spirited Prudence Torrington is naughty or nice will determine if this Christmas intrigue will lead to something wonderful.

 

Authors

Bree Wolf, Sydney Jane Baily, Tracy Sumner, Fenna Edgewood, Charlie Lane, Jennifer Monroe, Meredith Bond

 

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Mystery, Thriller

Published Date: August, 2022

 

 

It was the Roaring Twenties, the Jazz Age, the era of Model T Fords, bootleggers and G-men. Spiritualism was all the rage. Everyone wanted to talk to the dead. Except Dr. Alex Gabriel, who thought talking to the dead was ridiculous. Until he met Savannah Bishop, the country's most unique medium. Using Savannah's contacts with the World Beyond, Dr. Gabriel and Miss Bishop set out to solve a series of brutal murders that range from the glitz of Hollywood to the backwoods of Arkansas and eventually to the bohemian Left Bank of Paris and finally to pre-Nazi Berlin.

About the Author

Jim Lester holds a PhD in history an dis the author of the historical novel, The Blind Boxer and a successful mystery novel called Deadline: New York about the early years of the paperback book industry. He is also the author of four young adult novels and a non-fiction book entitled Hoop Crazy: College Basketball in the 1950s.

 

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Bod Behavior Teaser #rabtbooktours

Personal Transformation, Self Help, Body Image

Date Published: 06-21-2022

 

 

A book where readers delight in both an “infectious storyline” and simultaneously a unique venture into their own personal development… including handfuls of interviews and excerpts featuring significantly impactful teachers, mentors and healing, therapeutic guides.

 

Excerpt

 

 

Chocolate, I know you sound clichéd. For years you’ve been associated with making up for love lost, poetically punctuating rom-com breakup scenes or presented as a prop in illicit affairs: a declarative symbol of substitution. Forgive me, my beloved, where words might fail me; I’ve picked up a drugstore satiny-red box of liquor-filled chocolate for you.  Chocolate has a history through the ages, long before Hershey’s confectionary affair gained speed at the end of the 1800s.

Anthropologists deem we’ve associated the chocolate bean with love for more than five thousand years, which means that chocolate might be, to speak in broad sweeps, our longest romanticized relationship.

Our chocolate devotion, however, is definitely not just fluff; it certainly stands scientifically solid, whether in the formation of a solid dark or a solid milk flavor. Ancient cultures prescribed raw chocolate medicinally as a means to activate powerful heart-opening energy, and today, the latest laboratory research reveals that the ingredients in chocolate possess properties that support heart health.

Of course, I would never dismiss any elements considered divine in sacred ceremonies, and I will absolutely agree that chocolate, in its purest form, is a potent substance. But what I’m investigating here when it comes to craving  is surely not about gorging on bags of raw, unsweetened, hard, whole cacao beans from the Theobroma tree of the flowering Malvaceae plant family. I’m talking about teeth-sinkable, caramel-centered, sugar-laden, chewy, melt-in-your-mouth, candy-corporate chocolate—the kind that is first and foremostly a globbity-glunk of vegetable fat and high-fructose corn syrup, factory designed to dissolve within two to five seconds of making contact with your tongue. I’m talking about the kind of chocolate you can rake up in your top teeth, scraping the northmost side of a covered brick of vanilla wafer, which dissolves just moments after the chocolate-like topping evaporates into that savory-sweet pocket of the mouth just near the back molars. What I’m describing is the type of chocolate bar you can accidentally pack into your oversized purse, wrapped in bright packaging, which comes conveniently in countable squares; one square, two, five, ten—all fractional justifications of one wholly complete serving. Finger-licking chocolate, shirt-collar, car-seat, luggage-staining chocolate; the kind of chocolate that, just like it fills every commercial, can fill in all the gaps in our regularly programmed schedules.

Wake up, get to work, chocolate, meeting, chocolate, drive home, chocolate, dinner, After Eight chocolate. And, most of all, my favorite kind of chocolate: chocolate that makes us forget what we might have started to long for. Nostalgic peanut-butter cups, fudge- flavored toffee, the sticky sweetness of candies kept from my sticky fingers with just one thin wax paper: oh, how I’ve known you. Mint- thin chocolate layers to support my own tendency to hide out in layers, in a cool refuge away from the hot, grilling mess of intensity that is the rest of the racket-filled world: how you momentarily silence mayhem.

And while I, too, have romanticized you, chocolate, leaving scandalous trails of wrappers from freezer to carpet-covered basement staircase, I have no clue why the heck I’ve gone through such war fighting against you while simultaneously keeping the intensity of your ammunition alive. Twinkle, twinkle little bar (of chocolate), how I wonder what you are (or what you stand for). Up above my fridge, so high, (to ignore that cupboard how I’ll try—yet, next at market, again I buy).  Yes, it’s a nursery rhyme for the girl who’s lived a life lassoed again and again by foods that trap her in a self-deserting scene, forever deploying dessert as distraction from despair. Oh, chocolate, what do you mean to me?

Here’s the truth: while I’d explored a multitude of modalities in the past to heal my affliction—my damaged relationship to my body and self-nourishment—when it came to developing a healthier relationship to eating, I’d actually never sought the most obvious type of specialist: a certified and registered dietician. I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d avoided someone who might make me stare in a cognizant fashion right down at the nose of my fork. Why would I be turned off by someone like a dietician, who might expect that I actually put in the time, make the conscious effort during my living daylight hours to positively review and shift my eating habits—to be truly self- accountable?

When it came to dietary choices, I’d lived under a spell that supposed I was a victim of compulsive eating, like an innocent Giana character going about my day when I was suddenly seized by a tumultuous weather pattern, teleported to the eye of a tornado, for example. I felt that this storm pattern rendered me incapable of any option other than heading, frayed and frenzied, into a food-consumptive hell that, really, I had nothing to do with. I believed I was bullied by an energy, and I’d share this condition with any genre of specialist except those who would mandate that I take the role as my own healer. I chose to go through hypnotisms, rebirths, clearings, cleansings, ceremonies, and cosmic voyages, rather than decide I had the power to sort my patterns out. I’d prefer to have crystals, energetic hands or tarot cards read my energy, but that was my history—and I didn’t have to repeat it. I could believe in myself to liberate my fortune and fate.

I’d been ready for the last months, and was even more ready now, to look at my relationship to nourishment head-on. I wasn’t just craving chocolate, in fact, when I reached for something that felt opulent and alluring; I was reaching to recognize qualities about myself that possessed such prowess.

Perhaps I was ready to seek a well-schooled yet holistically informed nutritionist specializing in complex, disorganized or disordered eating styles. After all, these were the experts specifically geared up to help people gain clarity about nourishment itself. I’d seek the wisdom to help me reach within to access inner wealth, rather than reach deeper into a decadent box of Pepperidge Farm chocolate-chunk cookies.

I determined that, to get to the crux of how behaviors are changed around something as substantial, universal, and essential as eating, I’d go into hard-core research mode. I’d put on more than a thinking cap, darn it—I’d put on a hard hat, because I had to be willing to go deep underground to find how behavioral transformation can successfully take place. I hoped I’d discover some epiphanies in my research, not only for myself but for all the people I encounter who, like me, have struggled with the behavioral ABCs of eating.

I’d read the stats: the US diet and weight-loss industry was worth 71 billion dollars, with the alternative-therapies industry coming in at around the same and the addiction-behavior therapy industry raking in 40 billion. Obviously, I wasn’t alone: all this rigmarole constituted a whole culture crying out for ways to get a grip on its food behaviors. I wanted to understand, from the leaders who’d been able to impactfully support healing in this area, what the process of remediating self- sabotaging behaviors might look like, and what someone who is truly ready for transformation in this capacity can expect.

About the Author

Isabel Chiara, creator of “The Life Actualization Process,” has been a guide, mentor, and leader throughout her entire life. Over the last thirty years, she has honed her expertise in extensive studies and practices of transformational energy modalities. As a professional intuitive guide, Isabel activates unlimited potential for her clients, helping them to ignite their most liberated, passionate and empowered life path, full of prosperity, miracles, and magic. For more information about Isabel’s “Life Actualization” processes, as well as her previous top-selling book, Eat Your Words, visit her website below!

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Laugh Cry Rewind Release Blitz #rabtbooktours

 

Nonfiction/Memoir

To Be Published: September 28, 2022

Publisher: J Press Books

Growing up in 1970s and 80s suburban Houston, Judy Haveson is funny, sarcastic, and fiercely loyal, especially to her family, friends, and big sister, Celia. When she suffers a series of unimaginable traumatic events, her seemingly idyllic childhood comes to a halt, changing her life forever.

In Laugh Cry Rewind, Judy takes readers on her journey of self-discovery, sharing funny, touching, and heartbreaking stories from her childhood all the way to the birth of her son. Her experiences serve as a reminder that while life is not always fair, ultimately, the choice to surrender or keep on living is ours. Her message to others who have experienced loss or tragedy is this: stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Let life go on, and good things will be waiting for you on the other side of the pain.

About the Author

Judy Haveson is a proud Texan who will never lose her southern charm or accent and uses both when the situation absolutely calls for it. Her one-time dream of becoming a journalist was shattered when a professor suggested she pick a new major due to her penchant for obsessive conversation. He claimed she’d be an editor’s nightmare because she wrote as she spoke and never stopped talking. This led her to a career in public relations. Judy’s fixation with reading books and stories about other people’s lives inspired her to write her debut memoir. She currently lives in The Hamptons with her husband, Adam, son, Jack, and beloved Yorkie, Toby.

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New Adult Romance

Release Date: September 27, 2022

Publisher: Moving Words Publishing

 

Stage name. Secret plans. Real love.

Escaping the shadow of my famous rockstar step-father… and the paparazzi, is how I find myself microphone-in-hand at a bar off campus wearing a disguise and my heart on my sleeve.

I just want to sing. I need melodies like I need air to breathe. Music isn’t just some hobby: it’s my everything. And from the moment Wil steps on that stage next to me, I know my life won’t ever be the same.

Our connection is instant. We want each other almost as much as we want the money. He’s in the States on scholarship, and I’m trying to make my way in the industry. We forge an alliance, not knowing the secrets we both keep.

Even tangled in a duet of lies, we make sense . . . we blend. Together, we could have it all. Or lose our hearts.

Excerpt

“No. He’s not my boyfriend. Who has time for that?” Why am I telling him I’m single? Need to focus. “I hired him to play the guitar for me.” I raise my splinted fingers and shove them in front of Wil’s face. “See?”

“Well, that clears that.”

If I expected sympathy from this dude, I didn’t get it.

“I don’t do the girlfriend thing either. Not planning on starting it now.” He licks his lips like I might be his next meal. “Jeremiah might have difficulty standing up, so playing an instrument is bloody unlikely.”

“Dammit.” I know the guy is right.

We both turn to regard the hoodie-clad Jeremiah, currently staring into his half-empty beer glass as if the golden liquid has the answers to every mystery in life.

“What did you say your name was?” Wil’s molten stare focuses on my eyes then my mouth, as if he were ready to catch whatever tumbles out next. And I wish I were here for fun. Hot, kiss-worthy fun.

“El. El Vella.” My voice sounds raspier than normal.

His eyes flash back to mine. Something switches in them. He re-surveys me, and his demeanor changes. The relaxed flirty vibe drops as fast as the last note of Dad’s latest hit. He loses his smile, the fire in his eyes gone, and for reasons I can’t understand, I miss it already.

Wil leans in like he’s going to kiss me, his fiery breath tickling my ear instead. Is this his signature move? Is he going to ask me out? Would I say yes? Goosebumps run down my arms, and my heart rises to my throat.

“I know who you are.”

About the Author

Willa Drew is not one, but two writers of fun, flirty fiction full of feels.

Lovers of emotional scenes (don’t tell anyone: someone always cries as we write them), dramatic scenarios (don’t blame us, the characters insisted) and the best the world has to offer like eclairs and butter tarts (don’t ask us to share, but we’ll point you to the recipes).

Our young adult and new adult romances have every flavor. Angst? Check.

Secrets? Of course. Risk taking? You bet. Expect slow burns, heart flutters, soul mates, first loves, and swoon worthy kisses.

 

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