Found in the wild in San Antonio, TX, The Trouble With Fate, a new novel by Leigh Evans.
The clever log line says, “Meet Hedi Peacock. She’s half Fae. Half Were. And all Trouble…”
I took Hedi home.
I couldn’t put the book down. Hedi’s adventures kept me up all weekend!
New York Times best-selling author Darynda Jones says, “What a delicious read! Chock-full of fun twists and sexy diversions, one of them named Robson. Leigh Evans is definitely one to watch. Get this book! You will not be disappointed!”
I’ve fallen into a parallel universe. A detailed what-if-of-a-world complete with time travel, murder, and true love. Six-hundred and ninety-five pages later, I can’t crawl out. It’s as if the vortex of Al’s Dinner and the machine full of sharp teeth inside the Texas School Book Depository have kidnapped me. Stephen King’s words are holding me hostage until I finish the remaining hundred and forty-seven pages.
Dishes collect in the sink. My family complains of hunger. The dog scratches at the door.
“Mom. Are you listening?”
“Just a sec. Let me finish this page.”
I’m a different reader since I started this write-like-I mean-it gig. I used to fall into books. Many books. The backs of cereal boxes. Technical guides. Now, I’m diagnostic. Cautious. On vacation–when I wasn’t writing–I skipped into the old pattern. I read because it was there. Do other writers find themselves separated from words after they collect a few million of their own?