THE SKELETON SONG, returning to Amazon Exclusively

Friday, August 22, 2014

I bet you're waiting for the next excerpt of 23 1/2 Hours to Live! Never fear, it's coming out tonight.

However, I wanted to let you know that THE SKELETON SONG will be returning to an Amazon exclusive book by this weekend. Heroes & Vallenez is also slotted to return to 'zon exclusivity next month as well when it gets an updated cover, and the sequel Psychics & Vallenez is released. Right now, all my full length novels will remain available at all their current outlets. Only the novellas are moving, however that could change in the far future.


Super Secret Late Night EXCERPT of 23 1/2 Hours to Live (A NA Romance)

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

23 1/2 Hours to Live is a New Adult Romance coming very very soon. Click the cover to add it to your Goodreads TBR list! (No, it's not coming out in December... I SWEAR!) It's currently away being edited, so this bit could contain typos, and mundane writer drama like that. Not that the book isn't absolutely filled with a completely different kind of writer drama!


“Tomorrow, I’ll be dead and… would you kiss me?”

Nine words kept bouncing around inside my head, trying to find a way out. Meanwhile, I was one graffiti-covered door away from the hottest guy I had ever even considered dating—a guy who may or may not be dying, like tomorrow.

I had left town with a stranger without telling a soul, but that didn't worry me. I didn't mind that this total barf-worthy bathroom hadn’t been cleaned since like, ever. No, the biggest deal in my whole tragic life was that all my underwear was as all as ugly and dull as I was. I had one thong to my name, and it was soaking wet, for the worst reason possible: an argument in a Denny’s parking lot plus a November rainstorm.

You know, it’s kind of a long story. Maybe I should start over.

If someone wrote a book about my life, no one would ever publish it... let alone read it. Up until two hours ago, critics would have been stumped, trying to describe my trifling existence with sharp words and poor ratings. ‘Twenty-something college dropout works in bookstore. Dreams of being an author, but thanks to a sudden dash of real life is too afraid to try. Likes dogs. Two stars.’

And up until five hours ago I knew exactly where you could find me tomorrow: at Price’s Used Books on 32nd Street. Sounds like a great address, but it's in a ratty strip mall hidden behind a Walgreen's, sandwiched between a long-closed video rental joint and a new neon-encrusted vape shop. I would have been at Price's tomorrow, just like last night and most nights of the last two years. I was content, mostly, encased in a sarcophagus of books. The walls were yellowed, the pages were yellowed, the carpet was yellowed, the thermostat was stuck on Broil, and my beat-up old blue Ford was the only car in the parking lot. The heater had kicked on again, threatening to turn the whole damn place to cinder. I had already stripped down to a black cami, and my bare legs had begun to grow slick with sweat under a very modest pencil skirt. My dirty blonde hair looked more of dirt than of blonde twisted in a messy knot, loose tendrils sticking tight to the back of my neck like thick scars.

I am sure I looked like a ghost of an edgy librarian as I wandered the aisles of the store. All I needed was a fog machine and some kids to scare as I glanced through rows and rows of books.

You would be surprised at how hard it can be, to find something to read in a bookstore. I was just about to leaf through my favorite Abbbi Glines novel when the bell of the door gave its usual half-ass clink, but in the unoccupied space it was a sudden and terrible as a clap of thunder.

Dropping the book by my bare feet, I became conscious of how I was dressed. Though, I was sure at the time it was just a regular. The men who came in looking for Michael Crighton and other old military-themed paperbacks would likely ogle my boobs and make a half-dozen crass jokes—though honestly they always ogled and made sexist comments—and probably would continue to do so even if I decided to wear sweats every day. Trust me, I’d thought about it, but I didn’t want to sweat to death.

Or kindly Miss Fuller, who pretended to only be interested in wholesome Christian Fiction and owned more Regency Romance than Harlequin. She would probably just tell my mother about how I dressed for work. Or worse, blurt it out at in the hallways in church. Not that I had bothered to attend in a few, four years.

And if it was my boss Mike—

It was none of those people.

It was no one I had ever seen at all.

It was a boy—a man really, with dark shredded blue jeans. They did not have holes, but the jeans had large patches where it looked as though they had been carelessly dragged across dirty cement. Perhaps from the back of a loud black motorcycle.

I hated to typecast the characters of the bookstore, but this guy was nothing like the people who came here. He wore a red, long sleeve T-shirt, which was thankfully devoid of any road rash. It did, however, stick to his shoulders and flat stomach like it was wet. Like he had been out for a stroll in the November yuck, instead of coming into a bookstore to bother me.

Beautiful boys were hard work, and outside of fiction they were usually assholes. Still, I had to dig deep to be able to despise him, so I worked my face into the best frown I could manage just to eclipse the look of shock I was sure had just been set on my lips. I had just got my arms across my chest, goosebumps prickling my unclothed arms, before he noticed me and smiled.

“Hey,” he said, like we were the best freaking friends. “Nice rack.”

I would like to think my mouth did not hang open like an idiot, but I am in denial about a lot of things in my life.

“No, seriously,” he told me, but I don’t believe him. “Shakespear, Sendak, Bradbury, Hemingway. Some of my favorite dudes and all on the same display. It’s awesome. None of those books even match!”

None of them matched. I had said that exact same thing to Phil—the guy who owned the bookstore, and I hadn’t been talking about the array of different volumes and covers. But Phil just looked at me with his usual tired indifference and said, “They’re all dead.” I repeated Phil's words now.

“Come again?” Redshirt arched a perfect eyebrow, and I really wanted to ask him not to do that. Only I knew it was better not to prove I was insane.

I could hear the voice of my father, warning me it was better to look like a fool than to open my mouth and remove all doubt.

But I knew I was going to remove all doubt anyway.

“The authors who wrote them,” my voice sounded smooth—which was good because I felt just as goosebumpy on the inside as I was on the out. “The authors who wrote them, they’re all dead.”

The heater stuttered to a halt, but my traitorous heart refused to do the same. The damage had been done, I had long ago passed the threshold of glistening and had leaped over to the side of sweating like a pig.

“Are you sure?” he asked, but his voice had taken on an off far away sound. It was hot, but I really wanted him to leave so I could write books about him. Books where he wasn’t an asshole. Books that I would hide under my bed for the next… oh, seventy or so years. You know, until I died and couldn’t be embarrassed anymore.

“Yeah,” I snapped, “sure.”

Sure, I was about to think of a whole damn series of books about the hot, sensitive guy, who was into ridiculously sexy librarians. I mean…I have to keep up with the theme I had built up. If I wrote about my own mundane self, no one would give a crap.

“Really?” He scoffed, and he slung his arms across his red chest, mocking me.

MOCKING ME.

By the time I dropped my arms to my side, I didn’t have to work so hard at hating him.

“So I assume you’ve seen the bodies? Because writers, sweetheart, writers are villains. I don’t know about you, but I never ever believe a villain is dead until I see the body.” He dropped his arms, too, and there was a smile behind his brown eyes.

“Oh, we are not—” I stopped and corrected myself. “Writers aren’t villains.”

“What’s your name?” he asked, but I just chewed my cheek and admired his leather shoes. I didn’t really want to be on a first-name basis with some moron who thought writers were the bad guys. As usual, what I wanted, and what happened were two starkly different things. In this case because—

“Kaylee!” He shouted, “Sorry, almost couldn't read your name tag, what, with all the stars and… stuff…”

He stopped at stuff.

I had clipped the stupid tag all awkward on one thin spaghetti strap. I had also covered most of it in blue and silver star stickers, but he didn’t need to know why.

“John Greene fan?” he asked, and his stupid eyebrow went at it again!

Also, yes. I am a huge John Greene fan, but that wasn’t it.

“Anyway, like I was saying. Authors are the absolutely worst sort of villains.” He says it like it’s a dare, and like he dares people to do dumb things all the time.

“That is such a stupid thing to say,” I told him. Straight out.

I wished I could just walk away. I, Kaylee Hall, am a firm advocate for the traditional flight response to confrontation. Sadly, I worked here and couldn’t just leave. It didn’t mean I couldn’t daydream of tossing him right out of the door.

“How so?” he asked, and I think right away it couldn’t be that hard. He couldn’t possibly weigh that much… and then I realized he couldn’t really be responding to the soap opera in my head. Writers are villains, that was probably his whole argument. He probably wasn’t going to explain anything.

I started to form a rebuttal in my head, but I knew it was useless. It was just like the high school debate team. There was no beating the jerks whose daddies were State Senators. It didn’t matter what I said, because dudes like him won at life. I worked part-time in a thrift store for books. I hadn’t won at high school, and I definitely hadn’t won at college.

You know what, I really shouldn’t go there.

“Writers are villians. Presidents?” he says, positioning himself so he can lean against the second-hand rag mags, “People of power? They may push buttons and launch bombs, but not without the might of the people behind them. Not without armies. Not without ammunition and guns. But writers? They wave pens and ruin lives. They break hearts with punctuation marks. They could be merciful. Saint-like. But they aren’t.”

My heart stopped right there next to the display of dead guys. Apparently it wasn’t good enough my life was dull, it had to be wrong too. Was this guy for real?

“Who are you?” I asked him.

I couldn’t believe my mind had shocked my remaining organs back into working order.

Did I dream you into existence?

“I’m Jackson Bennett. Mind if I ask you a question Kaylee?"

The good news is, I managed to nod without falling to pieces. No need to tell him after his last speech he could ask me almost anything because my brain was total mush. Anything but where we kept the manga, or porn, because that was the only thing the young hot guys did ask for.

“Great, but don’t answer until you consider all the facts first,” he said.

“Okay.” If I sounded skeptical, it was because I was skeptical.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be dead and… would you kiss me?”



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Angela Answers August 2014: Writing, Books, and Other Terrible Things

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Last month I celebrated my five year Twitter anniversary. Seriously. Five years ago I had all the time in the world to respond to every DM, email, Facebook message, and Goodreads comment. Of course, back then no one cared. These days I tremble at the thought of my Twitter inbox, I haven't checked my Facebook messages on my author page in months, and I had, as of this morning, 13,958 unread emails.

Many of my direct messages are requests to like various Facebook pages and buy books--I delete those. I do not auto DM and I do not like receiving them--the exception is a nice thank you--no strings attached. I still don't do it, but I won't publicly shame you for it either. The non offending messages tend to come in the form of questions. Lots and lots of questions. I'd love to be able to answer ever single one of them, but I'd probably have to give up writing, and like...showering. Smelly authors are not happy people, so here today I wrote a blog of Answers to some of the most asked, and most random questions. I made the questions jumbo sized, so non-writers can easily find the questions that pertain to them and can skip the rest.



Share with your friends. Click here to ask your own question. Put Angela Answers in the subject. Otherwise it will go in the toxic waste pile with the other things I'm avoiding.


Facebook Q: Will you finish writing my book for me? I've tried, but I just can't get the ending.

Answer: While I feel humbled you would trust your book baby to me, alas, I have time for zero extra projects. Sadly, in addition to serious scheduling conflicts I can't read any non-published manuscripts from people who are not with my publisher Green Envy Press. Not because I am a snob, but because we live in a crazy world and I don't want to have to defend myself or an author who publishes with me, from someone claiming we stole book ideas from them.

There are very few exceptions to this rule, and those are only made for people I have worked with in the past. Please don't ask for an exception, those people already know who they are...I think.

Twitter Q: How do I publish a novel?

Answer: I love Twitter, and I have worked really hard at making myself approachable there. I want to have relationships on social media, and I don't just use it as an info dump. But because of that, I tend to have many people new to the business ask me very basic, see nonspecific, questions as they don't know where else to turn. I always feel really bad when I don't have time to help these people. I'll be honest, it used to annoy me. I used to huff and think, you can use Twitter why can't you use Google? But now I understand there is simply too much information to get a handle without some guidance from someone you trust. Since you are trusting me I tend to get a very warm feeling in my insides.

Deciding what publishing path is right for you is a big step. For some people the path seems to choose you. For other people the decision is not so easy. Since the person didn't specify, I don't know if they were asking for traditional or indie (self publishing). So I am going to give a very basic, quick-step guide to both.

Steps to Traditional Publishing:
Write a fantastic book>>>put it down/or have other people read it>>edit, edit, edit>>>put it down/have other people read it>>edit, edit, edit>>>research appropriate agents/ publishers>>>read their rules and requirements>>write a fantastic query letter and send with any other requirements >>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>> WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>>WAIT>>> Repeat OR GET LUCKY

Now, I could help you with your query letter, telling you which agents I think are awesome (hint they are ALL on Twitter) but let's be honest:


Steps to Indie or Self Publish:
So yeah, once upon a time I was really good at query letters and stuff like that. I once wrote a synopsis that a popular agent said was the best one they had ever read--seriously--a synopsis! I am almost embarrassed at the stuff I spent time getting good at five years ago.

I want to preface this by telling you, I do not hate and wish ill legacy publishers and the people who publish with them. I think traditional publishers and indies are perfect for each other, and I think people are starting to figure that out too. At least judging by the indie authors that are being snatched up recently.

That being said, I feel more qualified to give advice on indie publishing, because I run a publishing co-op; and that is where my success comes from. SO here you go!

Write a fantastic book>>>put it down/or have other people read it>>edit, edit, edit>>>put it down/have other people read it>>edit, edit, edit>>>acquire cover, editing, formatting, and for the LOVE OF GOD don't do this all yourself unless you know someone who is going to be really honest with you.>>Arrange marketing>>>HIT THE PUBLISH BUTTON>>market>>>WRITE ANOTHER BOOK.

Social media should probably go in there somewhere, and marketing? There is more to that than would fit in this blog post or ten others. I am actually going to publish a book marketing series for authors, the first of which, Twitter for Authors and Other Introverts, comes out later this year.

Twitter Q: When does your next book come out?

Answer: Funny question. I have had a lot of issues publishing books this year, moving cross country and mad phobias have kept me from moving forward on the next book I had planned to release. OCD has made it so I have had a hard time just skipping to the next book after that. (They are all written.) HOWEVER, I decided to move forward with the release of 23 1/2 Hours to Live, my first released NA Romance--and it is coming out later this month. More on that soon!

Goodreads Q: How many books have you sold?

Answer: What's weird is, I don't even know. I didn't start keeping good track until this year. It's in the thousands.

Twitter Q: How can I get as many Twitter followers as you?

Answer: Create good content, engage, and come up with creative ways to find new people you can relate too.

Facebook Q: How do I write books?

Answer: If you ask the roughly 5% of people who leave me absolutely scathing reviews, they would tell you I have no freaking idea and you shouldn't ask me. ;) My official answer is, one word at a time. I have been told many of my books read like poetry. For me, every syllable has a feeling attached to it, like music. Every word should be important even if it's just to cut, or burn, or strike. Every word should be the right word to make people feel, to spark something in a person one way or another way.

But if you are wanting to walk me through how to plot or come up with characters, you may as well ask me how do I bleed. I just do. Stories come to my mind completed, as they are, flaws and all.

OK I have 2 prizes I HAVE GOT to mail out this weekend, (I'm sorry) so I am going to have an awesome and short giveaway. For what? Well it's kind of a surprise! I am going to take a Flat Rate Box and shove it full of everything I need to survive the weekend. Minus food...maybe. I am willing to send it to anywhere in the US and it's territories, bases, etc.



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Friend Alert! SNAPSHOTS Relaunch!

Monday, July 28, 2014

 photo SnapshotsRelaunchBlitz.jpg

Welcome to the SNAPSHOTS relaunch blitz!


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Add to your Goodreads shelf
Buy on Amazon | Smashwords
It's said the eyes are the windows to the soul, but that's a lie. They are snapshots of a time yet to come–the future of the person to which they belong.

Cyclop Blaine stands out in a crowd with his pale skin and mismatched eyes, but it’s his ability to see the future that really sets him apart. The unusual gift makes him an invaluable asset to Tyler, his adoptive father and leader of the Victory Street Gang. It also means Cyclop must hide what he can do from others. Once, a man he knew only as Master controlled him, using him for experiments. Cyclop has no desire to return to that life.

But he may have no choice. A man claiming ownership over him haunts his dreams and waking moments, leaving him no choice but to go back to the past he thought he had escaped. Cyclop must face this man, along with his past, if he wants to reveal his own future.

About the Author

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Patricia Lynne never set out to become a writer. In fact, she never considered it an option during high school and college. But some stories are meant to be told and this one chose her. Patricia lives with her husband in Michigan, hopes one day to have what will resemble a small petting zoo and has a fondness for dying her hair the colors of the rainbow.

Follow Patricia on Twitter | Goodreads | Google+ | Author Blog

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Even Weird Al has an opinion on The Oxford Comma

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Looking for a serious blog post about my next releases? Check back Thursday night. Until then laugh out loud at Weird Al's Word Crimes--but for the love of God, no one check to see if I have committed any in this blog post ;)


COVER REVEAL! Pigments of My Imagination Second Edition + GIVEAWAY

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

I had always intended the original cover of Pigments of My Imagination to be a special edition cover--and the day finally came to change it. Here's the new one, what do you think?

The new paperback will  be available in a couple of weeks, replacing the HUGE special edition book. You can win one! Enter below for your chance at paperbacks and a $25 Amazon gift card.


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BOOKS ARE FOR FREAKS! Friday the 13th Ebook Sale!

Friday, June 13, 2014

So many awesome FREE and .99 ebooks--more than I can fit on one page! Check them out, then scroll to the bottom and enter the fab giveaways!
 
THE SALE IS OVER, THANKS FOR COMING
CHECK BACK SOON FOR THE NEXT ONE!
 
Did you win?
 
Raffle Copter was totally giving me fits on my phone last night.
 
The winner of the $65 Amazon Gift Card is Collen King
 
The winner of the ebook lot is Jenna DeVillier
 
I am super sorry if I misspelled your name, I did it by memory. Normally I'd just announce the winners through the widget but because the winner wasn't loading when I hit the button I originally selected like 40 winners by accident. I kept the first two, as that was what I was looking for. LOL

a Rafflecopter giveaway Want to trade in a pile of books you don't read for new fangled ebooks? Amazon has a way to do that.
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