Monday, May 14, 2018

Squeeeeeee! Guess what's coming out soon??

Beaches, boyfriends, and danger... summer is certainly hot! Grab hold tight as these eight authors wow you with stories from sweet to sizzling! After all, every day can have some summer fun!



Breaking Girl Code, by Brooke Moss

Aubrey is having the perfect night out, with the perfect guy, on a perfect summer night. The problem is... Preston's not her date. His real date is her B.F.F., and she's passed out in the backseat.



Sunday, May 6, 2018

Have you read Charlotte and Vincent's story?

Still haven't read The Carny? It was my second traditionally published work, and one of my favorite stories/cast of characters I've ever written. I adore Charlotte and Vin, and hope you will, too....

Check out the excerpt below, and see if you'd like to give The Carny a shot:



Kasey gasped playfully. “You’re a tramp. I love it.” She patted the now fussing baby on the back. “I’ve got to go change him, and make a bottle. Be back in a minute.”
            “Okay. I’ll get some cotton candy.” I could hear the obnoxious rock and roll music being cranked near the rides, and my feet longed to head in that direction. 
            “Ha! You’re gonna go look for your imaginary boyfriend.” Micah shifted and passed gas. “Oh, crud. I’ve gotta go. Meet me by the tilt-a-whirl.” She winked before scuttling off.
            Rolling my eyes, I walked past the noisy, bright menagerie of rigged games and contests. Whack-a-mole, ring toss, balloon darts, wiffleball race. Each booth boasted oversized stuffed animals, hats, and tee shirts, and a bored looking carnie with bad skin and dirt under his fingernails. Their voices, trained to ring high above the throb of screams and music, called out false promises of big winnings and guaranteed prizes. 
            I saw the rides ahead, and felt the all-too familiar flurry of birds in my stomach. I’d done this very walk so many times, yet the anticipation never seemed to fade. I searched faces in the crowd. There were African American, Caucasian, Hispanic, and I spotted a Native American here and there, but my stomach sank when I passed two, four, and then six rides without spotting the face I’d had engraved in my mind for ten years. None of them had the same chiseled cheekbones; the same startlingly white grin; or the same deep black eyes that reflected my face back at me.
            What would I say if I ever actually spotted Vin? I thought to myself as I watched a kid clutch his stomach as he exited the Super Round Up. Hi, we actually kissed when I was a teenager, and I’ve been stalking you ever since. Wanna hang out?
            Okay, that was out. 
            I guess I could try Kasey’s advice…
            Hey! Remember me? You kissed me when I was just a kid. Ha! I know, right? Say, we should go get a drink. Maybe do some dancing.
            Ugh. Totally not my style. First off, I wasn’t a big drinker. And dancing? Ha. While both of my sisters had flourished in childhood dance classes, I’d been the human equivalent of a big, dumb Labrador in a tutu. No rhythm, no skill, and certainly not enough moves to win over the affections of any man.
            I shook my head and swatted at a wayward lock of hair floating on the salty, crab-scented air. There was no point in planning out what I would say to Vin if I finally saw him. In the years I’d been strolling around carnivals for stalking purposes, I’d not once caught a glimpse of him. Would I even recognize him if I did?
The years had changed me. My face was less cherubic and more heart shaped than it was when I was a teenager. I had the beginnings of some wrinkles in the corners of my eyes, and my braces were gone. Even if I did manage to recognize Vin, would heeven recognize me?
We’d only known each other for a total of seven minutes. He’d probably long since forgotten me. Scolding myself for being such a silly, pathetic girl, I wrapped my arms around myself and turned towards the familiar tilt-a-whirl, where, as always, seventies rock music blared amongst the squeal of kids.
“Charlotte Davenport.”
The voice sent a shiver up my spine and down my legs. It was the very voice I’d been daydreaming about since the age of eighteen. It sounded as smooth and sweet as I remembered, and my entire body halted at the sound, just as it had when his warm hands touched me.
Slowly I turned around, my skirt swirling around my ankles silently. 
There stood Vincent Young.

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Excerpt time!!

The woods are about to warm up...all because Molly's best friend's dying wish was to force her and her ex-husband back together....



When the warmth of his tongue grazed the space behind my ear, then danced down my neck to my collar bone, my eyes rolled into the back of my head. “I missed you, too.”
Jamie released my knee, grasped my hips, and slowly walked me backward to the rickety wood cabin door. With measured slowness, he reached past my hip and flipped the lock on the door. “Do you want me to stop?”
I met his eyes, unblinking. “No.”
We landed against the door with a thump. Slivers of wood prickled my back through my thin t-shirt, so I arched my back to press myself against him for comfort. He brought his lips back to mine, feverishly taking what was his, what had always been his—stopping long enough to roll my shirt up and over my head. With a groan of approval, I returned the favor, ridding Jamie of his sweaty t-shirt before bringing my mouth to his neck, and savoring in the familiar flavor of his skin.
With an effortless swoop, he grabbed my backside, lifting me up so my legs hooked behind his back, then whirled me around to the nearest bunk. After pressing me between his body and one of the tall bed posts, he pulled apart just far enough to smile at me crookedly. He was out of breath, and I felt goose bumps rise across his chest. “I want you, Molly. More than I ever have before.”
I gazed at him. My lips were swollen and I could feel the blood rushing through them. My body literally ached for him, but the image of Mackayla flickered in my mind. I stopped our kiss the night before because of his girlfriend, now I was on the precipice of making love to him, but…
“I can’t,” I whispered. Every nerve ending in my body screamed in torment.
His green eyes widened. “What? I thought you…”
I shook my head, tangling my fingers in the back of his mussed hair. “You’re dating someone. You’re sleeping with someone. I won’t go to bed with you, when you’re—”
“I’m not sleeping with Mackayla.” He turned his head so that he could press a kiss to the palm of my hand. “We haven’t had sex.”
His lips on my palm sent shockwaves up my arm. “What? Why?”
“I couldn’t.” He pressed a kiss to my mouth, warm and lingering. “She tried, invited me in after the last few dates, but I couldn’t.” He faced me, his eyelids heavy, his expression wanting. “I still love my wife.”
I let my head fall back, looking up to the ceiling. “Thank God.”
Together we tumbled onto the lumpy old mattress on the lower bunk, Jamie’s weight pressing against the thin wool blanket enticingly. He slid the straps of my bra down my shoulders, while watching me with sudden patience. “I’ve dreamed about this so many times over the last eighteen months. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything so bad in my life.”
I reached for him. “Then don’t stop,” I told him, arching toward him to find his mouth once more. “Don’t ever stop.”

So he didn’t.


Click here to grab YOUR copy of About That Summer today!

Facelift.

So.........you win some, you lose some.



And my October 2017 release was a flop.

It makes me sad, because it was 2.5 years in the making, and I poured my heart and soul into that story. I adore the characters, I adore the storyline. I adore the motley crew of friends, I adore the setting. All of it. TOTALLY ADORE IT. But alas....nobody is biting.

This is how the writing biz is. Sometimes you write a winner, sometimes you write a loser. Sometimes you write a loser, and everybody and their dog buy a copy, and other times you write a winner, but give it a weird name that readers find off-putting and confusing, and then you slap a cover on it that looks good to you, but translates to more of a YA read, when it actually isn't and...

A turd in the punchbowl that is my career.


You have yourself a flop.

The author game is hard. D*mn hard, whether you have an agent or not, whether or not you're traditionally published or not, all of it is hard, and nobody can tell whether or not a book is going to be well received.

Lucky for you guys, I am not one to give up easily. Because I love these characters, and because I love the storyline, and because I love the setting, and because I love the motley crew of friends, I am not giving up.........I'm just giving my book-baby a facelift.

New cover: more focused on the sexy contemporary romance. CHECK.

New title: something more conducive with the adult romance genre and easier to remember and search. CHECK.

Here is the result of said re-vamp. What do you think? We'll see if it equals an uptick in sales. It's an experiment in marketing.....let me introduce you to: About That Summer. (Every Summer Has a Story, book 1)



Wish me luck, friends!

xoxo
Brooke

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Bad habit.

I've got a bad habit. And I've been well aware of this bad habit for at least a decade, maybe two, okay, maybe three...



And for some reason, I just cannot seem to drop it.

It's nothing disgusting. I don't eat my own scabs, or sleep with a hair dryer running underneath my pillow. (No, seriously, I've seen a show on TV about both those scenarios!) But I do continuously, and habitually put myself into the same scenario over, and over, and over again, and I literally never break the cycle, and because of that...I continue to hurt myself with this bad habit again and again and again.

It's a problem.



I have a habit of investing more into people than they invest in me. Friends, coworkers, casual acquaintances, family members, colleagues, neighbors, etc.......it doesn't seem to matter what our relationship is based on, I always, always throw myself 100%, head over heels in...

Only to find out that the other person is only partially invested. Or, worse yet, not invested at all.

It's like a platonic version of He's Just Not That Into You happening on a constant loop in my life, and I cannot seem to figure out how to turn off the feed, get off the roller coaster, disembark the plane, jump off of the crazy train, or simply just establish and maintain normal relationship boundaries. Because POOF. Someone else comes into my life and I am all, hi, hi, hi, will you like me, you're funny, can we be friends, oh, you like the Real Housewives (or insert any odd, random topic of conversation here) too, cool, we should be friends, oh, you think I'm great, good, me too, I think you're awesome, so we should be lifelong friends and get matching BFF tattoos, and never, ever stop being the closest friends ever!



So then we become friends, or somewhat close--usually closer on my end than theirs, lets just be honest--and despite how much I threaten myself with bodily harm if I do it, I always spill my guts to someone, telling them my life story, sharing my worst stories, sharing my hopes and dreams, and going above and beyond for them--despite knowing darn well they likely wouldn't do the same in return.

And then, some time later, it hits me: I have created a very one-sided friendship that is worth it's weight in gold to me, but to the other person? They're very meh. I am disposable. I could come or go, and either way, they'd be fine. It's not that they hate me, they just don't really like me as much as I like them. And while that's not evil or torturous or illegal....it sucks for me. It hurts. And I keep finding myself in that situation over and over and over again. That I am disposable and easily discarded. Unworthy.

I hate it. Like, I really hate it.



And yet, I'm doing it to myself. What the actual frick is that??

Over the years, I've learned to tackle it with a preemptive strike. If I'm getting rejected, I'll reject them first. If I sense a rejection on the horizon, I'll walk away first. Still sucks, but at least I'm in control of the suckage. Certainly doesn't ease how painful it can be, though.

I straight up don't know how to stop setting myself up for failure all the time. Every time I meet someone new, or reignite an old friendship, or reunite with a relative I no longer communicate with, I promise myself: this is it. This time I am NOT going to tell them everything. I am not going to let them into my life. I am not going to trust them with all of me, straight out the gate.

And then I find myself like this just a short time later:



Followed very quickly with this:



Yeah. Sucks to be me. Again.

I have to learn how to improve my poker face, and to keep my cards to myself. Crap, I need to figure out how to have a poker face, and then I can learn how to keep my cards to myself. I need to learn how to remain a mystery to people. Let them find me cold and aloof. Better that than warm and weak. Let their questions go unanswered, and their texts unreturned. Why am I constantly giving, giving, giving, only to get ticked off when I get so very little back??

It's my problem, not theirs. I'm the one giving the milk away for free. I need to learn to be a much more aloof cow.



Unfortunately it's likely easier to retrain a cow, than to rewire my heart and brain. Seems like it's time to be done, though. This last blow was like that final punch that damaged Rocky's brain in Rocky Balboa. I have cavum septum pellucidum of the soul.



Ok, I don't. But I do have to take myself out of the ring from now on, metaphorically speaking. It's time to take better care of myself.

xoxo
Brooke

Monday, April 9, 2018

I'm moving home soon.

And I'm pretty much ready to pee my pants about it.

It's been a very long three years in South Korea, and while this experience has afforded us some amazing experiences, I am really, really ready to get back to my home country.



I want to go into a grocery store and easily find the foods I want and can easily cook with.



I want to understand what is being said to me and about me.



I want to befriend foreigners who live near me, help them however I can, and show them the love and compassion that was (and sometimes wasn't) shown to me.



I want to no longer be surrounded by sexist pigs who, while living in a very modern country, still behave like it's 1957, and that my place is at home, raising brilliant children, and agreeing with everything a neanderthal with a penis says. Yes, Korean men, I'm talking about 'choo.



I want to go back to church and be surrounded by a large crowd of fellow humans who believe the same things as me, and will support and sustain me.



I want to see movies with no subtitles. In fact, I don't think I'll EVER watch another subtitled movie again. Sorry, film industry.



I don't want to live amongst expats who consider themselves worldly, more sophisticated, and wiser than the average bear. (Psssst....you're not. You're a hot mess like the rest of us, except you have more stamps in your stupid passports.)



I want to take my dogs to a dog park, or better yet, a YARD, and let them run around off leash.



I want to be able to smile at people my dogs unknowingly bark or growl at and be able to effectively explain that they're not rabid. They're just blind and deaf and stupid, but harmless.



I want to be able to go into a doctors office and ask for help, and effectively articulate what is wrong, what I've tried already, what doesn't work, what my health history is, and what my needs are... and not be told to see a psychologist. (Korean doctors don't like to be questioned. If you ask too many questions, they refer you to a psychologist.)

Literally not kidding.

I want to go to the beach and swim with other people who aren't afraid of the sun.



I want to go camping and get dirty in the woods.



I want to go back to working in the lunchroom at my kid's old school. I freaking loved that job.



I want to live in an American apartment with a pool and grass outside, instead of cement and no pools because Koreans are afraid of water (in addition to sun.)



I want to buy a real hamburger that hasn't been fancied up to the point of ridiculousness.



I want to be surrounded by normal, average, middle class people who aren't utterly dripping in pretentiousness.

I am so excited to go home. It's been a long three years.

xoxo
Brooke












Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Square peg, round hole.

Since moving abroad I have discovered something about myself, that I never realized would bother me as much as it does.



Am I the only person who gets annoyed-bordering-on-angry when they see people do this??

Okay, before you send me hate mail, let me explain: I am American. And not just that, but I am from rural America. I was raised around farms and fields and dirt and land, and nobody, and I mean nobody I grew up with, or was raised around, did this when they saw each other:


Usually we did this:



Or this:



And sometimes, when we really like each other, and haven't seen each other in a while we do this:



But we literally never do this where I'm from:



And I find it pretentious as h*ll.

I understand that this is a standard greeting in Europe, or even in bigger, more refined places in the United States, but for me, the country girl, it is weird and, dare I say it, fake, fake, fake!

Let me explain.

When I moved abroad, I was thrust into a city (where my husband's company placed us) that is new, shiny, and extremely expensive. Most people who live here (though admittedly not all--again, no hate mail please...you know who you are) live here for one reason and one reason only: status. This is where you come to live if you are young(ish) and have money to spend, and you want everyone who knows you to know how wealthy and successful you are.


People drive Ferarri's across the street to pick up their kids from school. Women wear furs when it's 65 degrees outside. Families buy or rent expansive, high rise apartments because the building holds an air of prestige. When people get together, there is a level of behavior expected that I was completely unfamiliar with. I mean, sure, I know better than to pee in the sink, or blow my nose on a cloth napkin, but the idea of rubbing elbows was lost on me. I would go to events and tick people off, because I waved and said, "Hello!" rather than embraced them for one of those fake cheek kissy things that people do for no understandable reason.

I mean, seriously. I've met women who openly detest each other, cannot stand being around each other, cannot tolerate the sound of each other's voice...who will stand up, offer a lean-in hug (not an actual embrace, because we don't want to wrinkle the Prada) and then air-kiss both of each other's cheeks.

Um....what?

This is me, every time I see it.

I'm of the mindset that: if you don't particularly like someone, and you don't particularly know someone, and you don't particularly want to be touching them..........why should you?

But still, I find myself here in this odd expat situation where it is expected that I greet people "properly," and I interact with them, regardless of whether or not I actually like them, or even want to, for that matter. There are expats here from countries in Africa, Europe, and all over Asia, and I understand, and accept, that in some of their many cultures, it is standard greeting procedure to hug and air-kiss each other's cheeks. But what really baffles me, is when I see snobbish American's doing it.

Why?



If you don't like someone, and don't know them, and don't really want to be touched by them, then why should you be? AND...taking my point even further...if I don't want to participate in the fake cheek-kiss thing, then why is that a poor reflection on me, or my culture, or my upbringing, or my manners?

Just because I don't want to pretend to kiss someone doesn't mean my parents didn't raise me right. My mother taught me to say please and thank you, to let an older person take my seat, to hold doors for someone, to help someone who is struggling, to eat with the correct utensils, and to never put my elbows on the table. I was also told that if I don't want someone to touch my body, I don't have to let them, and that smiling at someone and saying hello is every bit as polite and kind as air-kissing them, and that I am not required to adopt the practices of other people, in order to be seen as a well-behaved, polite woman.

My mother, whenever we went outside of our house.

Over the last few years, I have come to three conclusion about the cheek-kiss thing: 1.) Unless you are from a country other than America, kissing both cheeks of someone--especially someone you don't particularly like--makes you seem fake, fake, fake. 2.) Kissing someone on the cheek is not indicatory of good manners--as proven by the women in this silly little city I live in. Their ability to be fake just furthers my theory that pretentious people will do anything for appearances, but behind closed doors, they're hot little messes, just like the rest of us. And 3.) My lack of social etiquette, or pretentious social etiquette, more accurately, is not because I wasn't raised right. I have manners, and I use them, more often than most of the people surrounding me--I just don't like being fake. Period.

Next time someone tries to lean in for a fake-cheek-air-kiss thingy, I am going to do this:


If you want to greet me "politely," do this:



Or this:



Or even this: (I swear waves are the underestimated greeting.)



Because whether or not I am from rural America, I know what real vs. fake is. And this...



IS FAKE. (Especially if you're American.)

But for the record, if Tom Hiddleston were in town, I would slap a fat one right on his kisser. No fake cheek kisses for me. I'd go right for the golden ticket, yes sir.

xoxo
Brooke