Samantha for Livingston Hall Publishers~! Congratulations!
I will email Samantha directly. If she cannot be reached, a new recipient will be awarded within three days! Thank you Google Friend and Network Blog followers! :D
In honor of my fantastic followers I will use random.org to choose one lucky recipient to receive an e- copy of both The Pearl Savage and Death Whispers. I will announce the winner tomorrow~! Thanks so much for following me~ :D
Please leave your email and name in the comment section. One extra point awarded for following both our blogs: Tamara Rose Blodgett and Michelle I. Brooks. Thanks for your participation! A winner will be picked by random.org. on August 12, 2011 and gifted a Smashwords coupon.
TIME IS RUNNING OUT … THE DARK THAT’S BEEN CHASING SYD FOR MANY LIFETIMES HAS FINALLY CAUGHT UP WITH HER … Sydney Roberdeau lost her parents as a young girl. Waiting for her life to start and the freedom that will come with her eighteenth birthday, Syd spends much of her time haunting the local cemetery. It is there, stretched out among the dead, that she feels most alive, most at home. Until one rainy night when Beau, Sarah and T.J. crash her ghostly sanctuary, appearing out of nowhere, turning her already inside-out world one degree past upside down. Syd must now revisit past lives, dressing in the bodies of her previous selves … bone dressing. Her only chance to outrun the evil breathing down her neck is to face her own worst nightmares and her strongest desires. But if she can’t stay out of trouble in this life, how can she possibly fix mistakes from past lives? And just how many lives has she lived, loved and lost? What is Syd exactly, and what will she risk for the life of a man she doesn’t remember, the man she spent a lifetime with, the man she loves? Everything … including her very own life? Bone Dressing, the first in a series of seven books, will carry Syd and Beau on an adventure that transcends life itself.
Michelle's Thoughts; author of the Bone Dressing series
What do I like most about writing? Wow. That’s a tough one. I love it all – but I guess that’s not playing fair, too much not an answer to really count as an answer.
Okay. So, think, think, think, Michelle. What is it that drives me to write? Hmmm … I suppose it could be the connection I feel to the world around me. And no, I don’t mean the idiot honking his horn, or the guy you know had to have choked down a whole glass full of green chunky milk this morning, or even just those poor, lost, miserable souls who can’t stop staring at the concrete long enough to say, “Good morning.”
No, I’m talking about the breath of the world, that part that is, the part that’s alive and has been for a billion years. When I sit down to write, it starts at the tips of my fingers and toes. Huh, even my nose … a whispered tickle, a tiny little tingly feeling. And after a few minutes that tingling slips inside my skin and slowly pours through my body as comfortably as stepping into a deliciously warm hot tub at the end of a day that was forty-eight hours too long. Stripping away all the grime clinging desperately to my soul, it leaves me all clean and shiny on the outside and I know if I had Superman’s vision, on the inside I’d be glowing like Haley’s comet on a night without a moon.
But, then again, maybe what turns me on so much about writing is the feeling of creation as I break my pencil scribbling like a mad woman on my notepad, or drum out an ancient tribal beat as I click away on the keys at my computer. Everything, what I eat, drink, say, do, decide, decline, hate, enjoy and love affects what I write … fundamentally and profoundly. A similar act to that of reproduction. The creation of a singular being, one ultimately dependent upon me for its very being … conception through birth … and at least part-way through life. The only problem with that idea is that I don’t so much feel like the owner of what I write, but rather simply the means by which it is written. Which is, in fact, pretty much how I feel about being a parent, actually. It’s as if, once the universe tickles its way inside my head, the words that spill out of me come from a place infinitely deeper than my body has depth, from an eternal ocean of love and life and the million stories that risk the light of day trying to capture them and serve them up for we mere mortals to devour.
Still, at other times, I must admit, writing gives me more a feeling of destruction. Of annihilation. Those would be the times when my characters are fighting or fretting or simply simmering in their own karmic baths.
Or perhaps it’s the healing sensation that pours over me and through me as I write. Somehow by giving life to my characters, by letting them laugh and love and scream out in rage, my own emotions slip out as well and stretch their toes. Case in point, recently I was in tears writing a blog post for my Bone Dressing series from Queen’s and Jack’s perspective. It’s nothing that will be in the books, but delves into their feelings of love, and loss, for Syd. And yet now I’m back at work on Bone Dressing: The Dreaming, knee deep in Syd’s crazy, mixed-up feelings for Beau and completely overboard (literally!) into the blood, and bones, of her next past life.
But, no. In fact, none of these are what I love most about writing. What moves me, what thrills me about what I do, is the adventure. Words are powerful. Whether they be spoken, or silent, written on slabs of stone or scrawled on a dinner napkin. We are a species that … at times … communicates with one another. And every word, spoken or otherwise, is magnified over time. Much like when I was younger, and would toss a pebble into a pond …circles of ripples, ever expanding and concentric would spread outward in the water, feeding on their own energy, ultimately affecting everything around them. The human word tends to be a highly underestimated entity. Together they can give us wings and take us to places we never imagined we could go, or they can bring us to our knees, shatter our heart and scar the soul. I lose myself in the words when I write. It’s an aphrodisiac … and I’m in love. For now, The Dreaming is my bed pillow … and it’s calling me …
Michelle was born in the pre-dawn hours of a crisp February morning in 1966 in a little one-bedroom apartment behind the Alabama Theater in Montrose in the heart of Houston. She first saw the world as Brian Westworth Brooks until her grandmother informed Michelle’s mother that the number of protruding body parts had been drastically miscalculated, that her grandchild was a she, not a he. As it turned out, Michelle’s mother had been much too busy counting fingers and toes to bother with other jiggly bits. So, Brian Westworth became Wendy Lynn, another fine name which served Michelle well for all of two days. Upon signing the birth certificate, Michelle’s father surreptitiously changed her name one last time, ultimately introducing the world to Michelle Irene Brooks, one little girl big enough to have already lived the lives of three.
While being totally Texan and living in or near Montrose the majority of her life, Michelle has traveled the world and lived a life rich with love, laughter, heartache and adventure. She came into the world seeing it through different eyes and carries with her to this day a rich, unique perspective of the life breathing all around her and within her.