FIRST Post: Hollywood Nobody

It is November
1st, time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the
button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her
latest book's FIRST chapter!

This month's feature author is:

LISA SAMSON

and her book:

Hollywood
Nobody

Th1nk Books (August 30, 2007)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books,
including the Christy Award-winning Songbird. Apples of
Gold was her first novel for teens. Visit Lisa at http://www.hollywoodnobody.com/

These days, she's working on Quaker Summer, volunteering at
Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive
of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright
awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one
thing, it's never dull around there.

Other
Novels by Lisa:
Straight
Up, ,
Club
Sandwich, Songbird,
Tiger
Lillie, The
Church Ladies, Women's
Intuition: A Novel, Songbird,
The
Living End

AND
NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Hollywood Nobody: April 1


Happy April Fool’s Day! What better day to start a blog about Hollywood
than today?

Okay, I’ve been around film sets my whole life. Indie films, yeah, and
that’s all I’m saying about it here for anonymity’s sake. But trust me,
I’ve had my share of embarrassing moments. Like outgrowing Tom Cruise
by the age of twelve — in more ways than one, with the way he’s gotten
crazier than thong underwear and low-rise jeans. Thankfully that
fashion disaster has run for cover.

Underwear showing? Not a good
idea.

Fact: I don’t know of a single girl who doesn’t wish
the show-itall boxer-shorts phenomenon would go away as well. Guys, we
just don’t want to see your underwear. Truthfully, we believe that there
is a direct correlation between how much underwear you show and how
much you’ve got upstairs, if you know what I mean.

I’ve seen the stars at their best and at their worst. And believe me,
the worst is really, really bad. Big clue: you’d look just as pretty as
they do if you went to such lengths. As you might guess, some of them
are really nice and some of them are total jerks, and there’s a lot of
blah in-betweeners. Like real life, pretty much, only the extremes are
more extreme sometimes. I mean honestly, how many people under twenty do
you know who have had more than one plastic surgery?

So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little hard on these folks. But
if it was all sunshine and cheerleading, I doubt you’d read this blog
for long, right?

Today’s Rant: Straightening irons. We’ve had enough of
them, Little Stars, okay? It was bad on Helen Hunt at the Oscars,
worse on Demi, yet worse on Madonna, and it’s still ridiculous. Especially
on those women who are trying to hold onto their youth like Gollum
holds onto that ring. Ladies, there’s a reason for keeping your hair at or
above your shoulders once you hit forty, and ever after. Think Annette
Bening. Now she’s got it going on. And can’t you just see why Warren
Beatty settled down for her? Love her! According to The Early
Show this morning, curls are back, and Little Me ain’t going to tell why
I’m so glad about that!

Today’s Kudo: Aretha Franklin. Big, bold, beautiful,
and the best. Her image is her excellence. Man, that woman can sing! She
has a prayer chain too. I’m not very religious myself, but you got to
respect people who back up what they say they believe. Unless it’s male
Scientologists and "silent birth." Yeah, right. Easy for them to say.

Today’s News: I saw a young actor last summer at a
Shakespeare festival in New England. Seth Haas. Seth Hot is more like it.
I heard a rumor he’s reading scripts for consideration. Yes, he’s that
hot. Check him out here. Tell all your friends about him. And look here
on Hollywood Nobody for the first, the hottest news on this hottie.
Girls, he’s only nineteen! Fair game for at least a decade-and-a-half
span of ages.

I don’t know about you, but following the antics of new teen rock star
Violette Dillinger is something I’m looking forward to. Her first
album, released to much hype, hit Billboard’s no. 12 spot its third week
out. And don’t you love her hit single "Love Comes Knocking on My Door"?
This is going to be fun. A new celeb. Uncharted territory. Will
Violette, who seems grounded and talented, be like her predecessors and fall
into the "great defiling show-business machine" only to be spit out as a
half-naked bimbo? We’ll see, won’t we? Keep your fingers crossed that
the real artist survives.

Today’s Quote: "Being thought of as ‘a beautiful
woman’ has spared me nothing in life. No heartache, no trouble. Beauty is
essentially meaningless." Halle Berry

Later!


Friday, April 2

I knew it was coming soon. We’d been camped out in the middle of a
cornfield, mind you, for two weeks. That poke on my shoulder in the middle
of the night means only one thing. Time to move on.

"What, Charley?"

"Let’s head ’em on out, Scotty. We’ve got to be at a shoot in North
Carolina tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got food to prepare, so you have to
drive."

"I’m still only fifteen."

"It’s okay. You’re a good driver, baby."

My mom, Charley Dawn, doesn’t understand that laws exist for a reason,
say, keeping large vehicles out of the hands of children. But
as a food stylist, she fakes things all the time.

Her boundaries are blurred. What can I say?

Charley looks like she succumbed to the peer pressure of plastic
surgery, but she hasn’t. I know this because I’m with her almost all the
time. I think it’s the bleached-blond fountain of long hair she’s worn ever
since I can remember. Or maybe the hand-dyed sarongs and shirts from
Africa, India, or Bangladesh add to the overall appearance of youth. I
have no idea. But it really makes me mad when anybody mistakes us as
sisters.

I mean, come on! She had me when she was forty!

My theory: a lot of people are running around with bad eyesight and
just don’t know it.

I throw the covers to my left. If I sling them to my right, they’d land
on the dinette in our "home," to use the term in a fashion less
meaningful than a Hollywood "I do." I grew up in this old Travco RV I call
the Y.

As in Y do I have to live in this mobile home?

Y do I have to have such an oddball food stylist for a mother?

Y must we travel all year long? Y will we never live anyplace long
enough for me to go to the real Y and take aerobics, yoga, Pilates or —
shoot — run around the track for a while, maybe swim laps in the pool?

And Y oh Y must Charley be a vegan?

More on that later.

And Y do I know more about Hollywood than I should, or even want to?
Everybody’s an actor in Hollywood, and I mean that literally. Sometimes I
wonder if any of them even know who they are deep down in that corner
room nobody else is allowed into.

But I wonder the same thing about myself.

"You’re not asking me to drive while you’re in the kitchen trailer, are
you, Charley?"

"No. I can cook in here. And it’s a pretty flat drive. I’ll be fine."

I’m not actually worried about her. I’m thinking about how many charges
the cops can slap on me.

Driving without a license.

Driving without a seat belt on the passenger.

Speeding, because knowing Charley, we’re late already.

Driving without registration. Charley figured out years ago how to lift
current stickers off of license plates. She loves "sticking it to the
man." Or so she says.

I kid you not.

Oh, the travails of a teenager with an old hippie for a mother. Charley
is oblivious as usual as I continue my recollection of past
infractions thankfully undetected by the state troopers:

Driving while someone’s in the
trailer. It’s a great trailer, don’t get me wrong, a mini industrial
kitchen we rigged up a couple of years ago to make her job easier.
Six-range burner, A/C, and an exhaust fan that sucks up more air than Joan
Rivers schmoozing on the red carpet. But it’s illegal for her to go
cooking while we’re in motion.

"All right. Can I at least get dressed?"

"Why? You’re always in your pj’s anyway."

"Great, Mom."

"It’s Charley, baby. You know how I feel about social hierarchy."

"But didn’t you just give me an order to drive without a license? What
if I say no?"

She reaches into the kitchen cupboard without comment and tips down a
bottle of cooking oil. Charley’s as tall as a twelve-year-old.

"I mean, let’s be real, Charley. You do, in the ultimate end
of things, call the shots."

I reach back for my glasses on the small shelf I installed in the side
of the loft. It holds whatever book I’m reading and my journal. I love
my glasses, horn-rimmed "cat glasses" as Charley calls them. Vintage
1961. Makes me want to do the twist and wear penny loafers.

"Can I at least pull my hair back?"

She huffs. "Oh, all right, Scotty! Why do you have to be so difficult?"

Charley has no clue as to how difficult teenagers can actually be. Here
I am, schooling myself on the road, no wild friends. No friends at
all, actually, because I hate Internet friendships. I mean, how lame,
right? No boyfriend, no drugs. No alcohol either, unless you count cold
syrup, because the Y gets so cold during the winter and Charley’s a huge
conservationist. (Big surprise there.) I should be thankful, though. At
least she stopped wearing leather fringe a couple of years ago.

I slide down from the loft, gather my circus hair into a ponytail, and
slip into the driver’s seat. Charley reupholstered it last year with
rainbow fabric. I asked her where the unicorns were and she just rolled
her eyes. "Okay, let’s go. How long is it going to take?"

"Oh." She looks down, picks up a red pepper and hides behind it.

I turn on her. "You didn’t Google Map it?"

"You’re the computer person, not me." She peers above the stem. "I’m
sorry?" She shrugs. Man, I hate it when she’s so cute. "Really sorry?"

"Charley, we’re in Wilmore, Kentucky. As in Ken-Tuck-EEE . As in the
middle of nowhere." I climb out of my seat. "What part of North Carolina
are we going to? It’s a wide state."

"Toledo Island. Something like that. Near Ocracoke Island. Does that
sound familiar?"

"The Outer Banks?"

"Are they in North Carolina?"

Are you kidding me?

"Let me log on. This is crazy, Charley. I don’t know why you do this to
me all the time."

"Sorry." She says it so Valley Girl-like. I really thought I’d be above
TME: Teenage Mom Embarrassment. But no. Now, most kids don’t have
mothers who dress like Stevie Nicks and took a little too much LSD back in
the DAY. It doesn’t take ESP to realize who the adult in this setup is.
And she had me, PDQ, out of the bonds of holy matrimony I might add,
when she was forty (yes, I already told you that, but it’s still just as
true), and that’s
OLD to be caught in such an inconvenient situation, don’t you think?
The woman had no excuse for such behavior, FYI.

My theory: Charley’s a widow and it’s too painful to talk about my
father. I mean, it’s plausible, right?

The problem is, I can remember back to when I was at least four, and I
definitely do not remember a man in the picture. Except for Jeremy.
More on him later too.

I flip up my laptop. I have a great satellite Internet setup in the Y.
I rigged it myself because I’m a lonely geek with nothing better to do
with her time than figure out this kind of stuff. I type in the info
and wait for the directions. Satellite is slower than DSL, but it’s
better than nothing.

"Charley! It’s seventeen hours away!" I scan the list of twists and
turns between here and there. "We have to take a ferry to Ocracoke, and
then Toledo Island’s off of there."

"Groovy!"

"Groovy died with platform shoes and midis."

"Whatever, Scotty." Only she says it all sunny. She’s a morning person.

"That phrase should be dead."

Honestly, I’m not big on lingo. I’ve never been good at it, which is
fine by me. Who am I going to impress with cool-speak anyway? Uma
Thurman? Yeah, right. "Okay, let’s go."

"We can go as long as possible and break camp on the way, you know?"
Charley.

I climb back into the rainbow chair, throw the Y into drive, pull the
brake, and we’re moving on down the road.

Again.

Sample from Hollywood Nobody
/ ISBN: 1-60006-091-9
Copyright © 2006 NavPress Publishing. All rights reserved. To order
copies of this resource, come back to www.navpress.com.

The Return Blog Tour

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

THE RETURN
(Navpress Publishing Group July 13, 2007)

by
Austin Boyd

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Austin Boyd writes from his experience as a decorated Navy pilot, spacecraft engineer and an astronaut candidate finalist. Austin lives with his wife Cindy and four children in America’s “Rocket City”--Huntsville, Alabama, where he directs business development for a large NASA and defense contractor. His creative talents include inspirational fiction and poetry, finely crafted reproduction colonial furniture, archery and long distance cycling. He serves his community as an advocate for a crisis pregnancy center and as a motivational speaker in the area of lifestyle evangelism.

THE RETURN is part of the Mars Hill Classified Series with The Evidence and The Proof

ABOUT THE BOOK:

IS SEEING BELIEVING?
Six years after completing a manned mission to the Red Planet, Admiral John Wells is set to make another journey to Mars. But this time his crew is not alone, as John's team encounters a secret colony comprised of individuals pursuing John Raines' strange religion, the "Father Race."

While John begins to uncover a web of lies on Mars, his wife and daughter are struggling for survival on earth. Now John must survive his dangerous mission and find a way back home, even as a shocking plan begins to unfold millions of miles away on earth.

Austin Boyd is back with his third thrilling novel in the Mars Hill Classified series, full of high-tech intrigue, memorable characters, and adventure that transports readers to another world.

From the Back Cover:

With nothing left for him on Earth, Rear Admiral John Wells didn't hesitate to lead a third NASA team to Mars, but he never dreamed that one day they'd look out their laboratory module into the lights of a slow-moving vehicle not their own. In the third installment of the Mars Hill Classified series, life on Mars becomes increasingly more unpredictable as the past collides with the future and nothing, not even the dead, is as it seems.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, the fate of hundreds, including John Wells' family--presumed dead these last six years--rests precariously in the hands of Malcolm Raines, self-proclaimed Guardian of the Mother Seed and Principal Cleric of Saint Michael's Remnant, and his insidious plans for the Father Race.

Wells will find himself in a race against time and all odds to expose the truth: about Mars, about Malcolm Raines, and, if he's very brave, about himself.

"Austin Boyd is one of the brightest new voices in Christian fiction. His long association with the space program lends authenticity as he reveals the turmoil in the minds and hearts of those who are willing to risk everything by making that journey. In The Return, we learn that both human emotions and God's presence reach far beyond the pull of Earth's gravity."
--Richard L Mabry, author of The Tender Scar

Illuminated Blog Tour

This week, theChristian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

Illuminated(Thomas Nelson August 7, 2007)by

Matt Bronleewe

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Matt Bronleewe is a recognized producer, songwriter and author. The former member of the band Jars of Clay, has earned numerous awards producing and co-writing albums that have sold a combined total of over 20 million copies. His songs have recently been recorded by Disney pop sensations Aly & AJ, American Idol finalist Kimberley Locke, and more. Bronleewe has worked with Grammy Award-winning artists such as Michael W. Smith, International pop singer Natalie Imbruglia and Heroes star Hayden Panettiere.

Born in Dallas, Texas, Bronleewe was raised on a farm in Kansas, where he lived until he left for college in 1992. At Greenville College in Illinois, Bronleewe formed the band Jars of Clay with his dorm roommate and two neighbors, and the group soon found success. Though Bronleewe opted to leave Jars of Clay early on to pursue an academic career, he soon found himself in Nashville, co-writing, producing, and playing music professionally.

To add to his list of accomplishments, Bronleewe has expanded his love of story telling beyond music into authorship. He is currently penning a 5 book series for Thomas Nelson Fiction. Illuminated, in stores now, begins the adventurous series about rare manuscripts and the mysteries within.

Bronleewe currently resides in Brentwood, Tenn., with his wife and three children. He continues to write and produce music, and he also volunteers through his church to help disadvantaged youth in the community. Bronleewe enjoys reading, taste-testing good food and watching sports, as well as indulging his interests in art, architecture, design and science.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

IT'S BEEN 500 YEARS IN THE MAKING...PREPARE TO BE ILLUMINATED...
August Adams has failed his family before. He's sacrificed relationships in pursuit of adventure, fame, and money. Now the very lives of those he loves depend on his ability to decipher a centuries-old puzzle encrypted in the colorful hand-painted illuminations that adorn three rare Gutenberg Bibles.

It's a secret that could yield unimaginable wealth, undermine two major religions, and change the course of Western civilization. Two ruthless, ancient organizations are willing to do anything to get their hands on it. And August has the span of one transatlantic flight to figure it out.

If he fails, those he holds most dear will die. If he succeeds, he'll destroy a national treasure.

The clock ticks, the suspense mounts, and the body count rises as August pits his knowledge and his love for his family against the clock, secret societies, and even Johannes Gutenberg himself.

"...this rare breed of suspense thriller combines mysterious hidden clues, secret societies, buried treasure, double agents, and the Knights Templar...if you turned National Treasure into international treasure, traded DaVinci codes for Gutenberg Bibles, married it to Indiana Jones, and added the pacing of 24 you'd be in the neighborhood of Illuminated...on a scale of one to 10, this one goes to 11."
-Aspiring Retail Magazine

Crimson Eve Blog Tour

This week, theChristian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

CRIMSON EVE(Zondervan October 30, 2007)
by

Brandilyn Collins

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Brandilyn Collins is a best-selling novelist known for her trademark Seatbelt Suspense™. These harrowing crime thrillers have earned her the tagline “Don’t forget to b r e a t h e…® ” She’s so well known in the industry there’s actually a club for her non-readers. That’s right. The Big Honkin’ Chickens Club (BHCC) members are proud of the fact that they’re too wimpy to read Brandilyn’s intense fiction. Now and then one of them tries. Bribing works pretty well. (Just ask Deb Raney.) Somehow they live to tell the tale.

Brandilyn writes for Zondervan, the Christian division of HarperCollins Publishers, and is currently at work on her 17th book. Her first book, A Question of Innocence, was a true crime published by Avon in 1995. Its promotion landed her on local and national TV and radio, including the Phil Donahue and Leeza talk shows.

She’s also known for her distinctive book on fiction-writing techniques, Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors (John Wiley & Sons), and often teaches at writers conferences. Brandilyn blogs at Forensics and Faith.

Visit her website to read the first chapters of all her books.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Carla stared at the gun and David Thornby—or whatever his name was. Her mind split in two, one side pleading this was some sick joke, the other screaming it was all too real.

“Please. You must have the wrong person. There’s no reason for someone to want me dead. I don’t have any enemies.”

“Then you’d best rethink your friends.”

Realtor Carla Radling shows an “English gentleman” a lakeside estate—and finds herself facing a gun. Who has hired this assassin to kill her, and why?

Forced on the run, Carla must uncover the scathing secrets of her past. Secrets that could destroy some very powerful people...

Brandilyn Collins fans and reviewers are saying Crimson Eve is her best book yet:

“Collins tops herself by creating a suspenseful nonstop thrill ride … Truly the best Christian Fiction suspense title so far this year.”
– Library Journal, starred review


“Crimson Eve is Collins at her very best. It left me feeling as if I’d climbed Mount Everest without oxygen … I didn’t think Brandilyn could outdo herself after reading Coral Moon. She did.”
–TitleTrakk.com

“I’ve never edited a more tightly crafted, deftly woven, compellingly written book.” –a Crimson Eve editor, with 20 years experience

“This is your best book! I could not stop reading!” – one of many readers with similar responses

Read about Violet Dawn and Coral Moon, books one and two in the Kanner Lake series.

Nobody by Creston Mapes Blog Tour

This week, theChristian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

NOBODY

(Multnomah Fiction September 11, 2007)

by

Creston Mapes

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Creston Mapes is a talented storyteller whose first two novels, Dark Star and Full Tilt, made him a finalist in the American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year awards and the Inspirational Readers Choice awards. Creston has written for major corporations, colleges, and ministries, including Coca-Cola, TNT Sports, Oracle, Focus on the Family, and In Touch Ministries. Committed to his craft and his family, Creston makes his home in Georgia with his wife, Patty, and their four children.

He's been married for twenty-one years to the girl he first loved way back in fourth grade. They have three lovely girls and a boy in a very close-knit family, spending a lot of time together - watching old classic movies, going on outings, and taking in various school and community events and activities. Creston loves to go for morning walks with his dog, read, paint watercolors, meet friends for coffee and Bible study, watch hockey, take his wife on dates, and spend time in God's Word.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Not everything that happens in Vegas has to stay in Vegas!

They said, “He’s a nobody.”
They were dead wrong.

When reporter Hudson Ambrose hears an early morning call on his police scanner about an injured person at a bus stop on Las Vegas Boulevard, he rushes to the scene to get the scoop.
His world is blown off its axis when he discovers a murdered homeless man with a bankbook in his pocket showing a balance of almost one million dollars. Should he wait for the police, knowing the case will get lost in reams of red tape, or swipe the bankbook and take the investigation–and perhaps a chunk of the money–into his own hands?

With sirens bearing down on the scene, Hudson makes an impulse decision that whisks him on a frantic search for answers, not only about the mysterious dead man, but about the lost soul lurking within himself.

Uncovering bizarre links between a plane crash, a Las Vegas pit boss, a dirty cop, and a widowed Atlanta business mogul, Hudson is forced to find out: who was Chester Holte, what was he doing on the streets, and why are his homeless friends convinced he was an angel in disguise?

“Nobody was absolutely riveting from the opening scene to the final page. With compelling characters, a plot that surprised me at every turn, and a subtle, yet profound message that moved me to tears, this book goes straight to the top of my highly recommended list.”
- Deborah Raney, author of Remember to Forget and Within This Circle

“A taut, entertaining novel of mystery, intrigue, and spiritual truth. Creston Mapes delivers a winner in Nobody.”
- James Scott Bell, bestselling author of No Legal Grounds and Try Dying

“Nobody had me fascinated from the first paragraph and kept the surprises coming to the very end. Somehow, as the pages flew by, it also managed to convey a beautiful picture of faith the size of a mustard seed. From now on I’ll read anything by Creston Mapes the instant it hits the shelves.”
- Athol Dickson, Christy Award—winning author of River Rising and The Cure

The Trophy Wives Club Book Tour

This week, the

Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

THE TROPHY WIVES CLUB

Avon Inspire (September 4, 2007)
by

Kristin Billerbeck

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Kristin Billerbeck was born in Redwood City, California. She went to San Jose State University and majored in Advertising, then worked at the Fairmont Hotel in PR, a small ad agency as an account exec, and then,
she was thrust into the exciting world of shopping mall marketing. She got married, had four kids, and started writing romance novels until she found her passion: Chick Lit. She is a CBA bestselling author and two-time winner of the ACFW Book of the Year. Featured in the New York Times and USA Today, Kristin has appeared on the Today Show for her pioneering role in Christian chick lit.

Her last three books were:

Split Ends: Sometimes the End is Really the Beginning (April 17, 2007)

She's Out of Control (Ashley Stockingdale Series #1) (Nov 13, 2007)

Calm, Cool & Adjusted (Spa Girls Series #3) (Oct 1, 2006)

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Haley Cutler is the consummate trophy wife. Perhaps "was" is the more accurate term. Haley married Prince Charming when she was only twenty years old – back in the day when highlights came from an afternoon at the beach, not three hours in the salon.

When Jay first turned his eye to Haley, she was putty in his slender, graceful hands. No one ever treated her like she was important, and on the arm of Jay Cutler, she became someone people listened to and admired. Unfortunately, after seven years of marriage, her Prince Charming seems to belong to the Henry the XIII line of royalty. When Haley loses Jay, she not only loses her husband, she loses her identity.

With her first independent decision, Haley leaves LA and moves home to Northern California. Feeling freedom just within her grasp, Haley learns that her settlement payments must go through one of Jay's financial advisors, Hamilton Lowe. Haley believes he's nothing more than a spy. And the feelings of distrust are mutual. Yet somehow, Hamilton finds himself handing over the monthly checks in person, and Haley can't deny that there's a kind of tenderness and protectiveness in Hamilton that she's never experienced in a man before.

But before Haley can even consider another relationship, she must learn to accept her inherent worth, and what it is to be loved for who she is, not what's on the outside.

FIRST Tour - Demon: A Memoir

It is October 1st,
time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the
button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her
latest book's FIRST chapter!

This month's feature author is:

TOSCA LEE

and her book:


Demon: A
Memoir

(NavPress, 2007)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Tosca Lee received her BA in English and International
Relations from Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. She has
also studied at Oxford University.

As a Leadership Consultant, Tosca works with managers and leaders of
organizations throughout the Pan-Pacific region, Europe, and the U.S.

Tosca is a former Mrs. Nebraska-America 1996, Mrs. Nebraska-United States 1998 and
first runner-up to Mrs. United States and has been lauded nationally for her efforts to
fight breast cancer.

In her spare time, Tosca enjoys cooking, studying history and theology,
and traveling. She currently resides in Nebraska with her Shar Pei,
Attila.

Visit her at her website and
her blog.

AND
NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter One

It was raining the night he found me. Traffic had slowed on
Massachusetts Avenue, and the wan light of streetlamps reflected off the pavement.
I was hurrying on without an umbrella, distracted by the chirp of a
text message on my phone, trying to shield its illuminated face from rain
and the drizzle off storefront awnings. There had been a mistake in my
schedule, an appointment that I didn’t recognize and that I had stayed
late at the office for — until six forty-five — just in case. Our
office manager was texting me from home now to say she had no idea who it
was with, that the appointment must have belonged on Phil’s calendar,
that she was sorry for the mistake and to have a good night.

I flipped the phone shut, shoved it in my bag. I was worn out by this
week already, and it was only Tuesday. The days were getting shorter,
the sun setting by six o’clock. It put me on edge, gnawed at me, as
though I had better get somewhere warm and cheerful or, barring all else,
home before it got any darker. But I was unwilling to face the empty
apartment, the dirty dishes and unopened mail on the counter. So I lowered
my head against the rain and walked another two blocks past my turnoff
until I came to the Bosnian Café. A strap of bells on the door
announced my entrance with a ringing slap.

I liked the worn appeal of the Bosnian Café with its olfactory embrace
of grilled chicken and gyro meat that enveloped me upon every arrival
and clung to me long after leaving. That night, in the premature
darkness and rain, the café seemed especially homey with its yellowing
countertops, chipped mirrors, and grimy ketchup bottles. Cardboard shamrocks,
remnants of a forgotten Saint Patrick’s Day, draped the passthrough
into the kitchen, faded around their die-cut edges. A string of Christmas
lights lined the front window, every third bulb out. On the wall above
the register, a framed photo of the café’s owner with a local pageant
queen, and another with a retired Red Sox player, had never been dusted.
But no one, including me, seemed to mind.

I stood in the entry waiting for Esad, the owner, to notice me. But it
was not the bald man who welcomed me.

It was the dark-haired stranger.

I was surveying the other tables, looking for inspiration — chicken or
steak, gyro or salad — when he beckoned. I hesitated, wondering if I
should recognize him, this man sitting by himself — but no, I did not
know him. He impatiently waved again, and I glanced over my shoulder, but
there was no one standing in the entryway but me. And then the man at
the table stood up and strode directly to me.

“You’re late,” he said, clasping my shoulder and smiling. He was tall,
tanned, with curling hair and a slightly hooked nose that did nothing
to detract from his enviable Mediterranean looks. His eyes glittered
beneath well-formed brows. His teeth were very white.

“I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong person,” I said. He chuckled.

“Not at all! I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time. An
eternity, you might say. Please, come sit down. I took the liberty of ordering
for you.” His voice reminded me of fine cognac, the Hors d’Age men
drink aboard their yachts as they cut their Cohíbas.

“You have the wrong person. I don’t know you,” I insisted, even as he
steered me toward the table. I didn’t want to embarrass him; he already
seemed elegantly out of place here in what, for all practical purposes,
was a joint. But he would feel like an elegant fool in another minute,
especially if his real appointment — interview, date, whatever —
walked in and saw him sitting here with me.

“But I know you, Clay.”

I started at the sound of my name, spoken by him with a mixture of
familiarity and strange interest, and then I studied him more closely — the
squareness of his jaw, the smoothness of his cheek, his utter
self-possession — wondering if I had indeed met him before. But I hadn’t, I was
certain of it now.

One of Esad’s nephews arrived with a chicken sandwich and two cups of
coffee. “Please,” the stranger said, motioning to a vinyl-covered chair.
Numbly, stupidly, I sat.

“You work down the street at Brooks and Hanover,” he said when the
younger man had gone. He seated himself adjacent to me, his chair angled
toward mine. He crossed his legs, plucked invisible lint off the fine
wool of his trousers. “You’re an editor.”

Several thoughts went through my head in that moment, none of them
savory: first, that this was some finance or insurance rep who — just like
the pile of loan offers on my counter at home — was trying to
capitalize on my recent divorce. Or, that this was some aggressive literary
agent trying to play suave.

Most likely, though, he was a writer.

Every editor has stories to tell: zealous writers pushing manuscripts
on them during their kid’s softball game, passing sheaves of italicized
print across pews at church, or trying to pick them up in bars,
casually mentioning between lubricated flirtations that they write stories on
the side and just happen to have a manuscript in the car. I had lost
count of the dry cleaners, dental hygienists, and plumbers who, upon
hearing what I did for a living, had felt compelled to gift me with their
short stories and children’s books, their novels-in-progress and rhyming
poetry.

“Look, whoever you are — ”

“Lucian.”

I meant to tell him that I was sure we didn’t publish whatever it was
he wanted me to read, that there were industryaccepted ways to get his
work to us if we did, that he could visit the website and check out the
guidelines. I also meant to get up and walk away, to look for Esad or
his nephew and put an order in — to go. But I didn’t say or do any of
these things, because what he said next stopped me cold.

“I know you’re searching, Clay. I know you’re wondering what these
late, dark nights are for. You have that seasonal disease, that modern
ailment, don’t you? SAD, they call it. But it isn’t the disorder — you
should know that. It isn’t even your divorce. That’s not what’s bothering
you. Not really.”

I was no longer hungry. I pushed away the chicken sandwich
he had ordered and said with quiet warning, “I don’t know who you are,
but this isn’t funny.”

He went on as though he hadn’t heard me, saying with what seemed great
feeling, “It’s that you don’t know what it’s all for: the hours and
days, working on the weekends, the belief that you’ll eventually get
caught up and on that ultimate day something will happen. That
everything will make sense or you’ll at least have time to figure it out.
You’re a good man, Clay, but what has that won you? You’re alone,
growing no younger, drifting toward some unknown but inevitable end in this
life. And where is the meaning in that?”

I sat very still. I felt exposed, laid open, as though I had emptied my
mind onto the table like the contents of a pocket. I could not meet
his gaze. Nearby, a couple — both of their heads dripping dirty blond
dreadlocks — mulled over menus as the woman dandled an infant on her lap.
Beyond them, a thickset woman paged through People, and a
young man in scrubs plodded in a sleep-deprived daze through an anemic
salad. I wondered if any of them had noticed my uncanny situation, the
strange hijacking taking place here. But they were mired in their menus,
distractions, and stupor. At the back counter, a student tapped at the
keypad of his phone, sending messages into the ether.

“I realize how this feels, and I apologize,” Lucian said, folding long
fingers together on his knee. His nails were smooth and neatly
manicured. He wore an expensivelooking watch, the second hand of which seemed
to hesitate before hiccupping on, as though time had somehow slowed in
the sallow light of the diner. “I could have done this differently, but
I don’t think I would have had your attention.”

“What are you, some kind of Jehovah’s Witness?” I said. It was the only
thing that made sense. His spiel could have hit close to anyone. I
felt conned, angry, but most of all embarrassed by my emotional response.

His laughter was abrupt and, I thought, slightly manic. “Oh my,” he
said, wiping the corners of his eyes. I pushed back my chair.

His merriment died so suddenly that were it not for the sound of it
still echoing in my ears, I might have thought I had imagined it. “I’m
going to tell you everything,” he said, leaning toward me so that I could
see the tiny furrows around the corners of his mouth, the creases
beneath his narrowed eyes. A strange glow emanated from the edge of his
irises like the halo of a solar eclipse. “I’m going to tell you my story.
I’ve great hope for you, in whom I will create the repository of my tale
— my memoir, if you will. I believe it will be of great interest to
you. And you’re going to write it down and publish it.”

Now I barked a stunted laugh. “No, I’m not. I don’t care if you’re J.
D. Salinger.”

Again he went on as though I’d said nothing. “I understand they’re all
the rage these days, memoirs. Publishing houses pay huge sums for the
ghostwritten, self-revelatory accounts of celebrities all the time. But
trust me; they’ve never acquired a story like mine.”

“Look,” I said, a new edge in my voice, “You’re no celebrity I
recognize, and I’m no ghostwriter. So I’m going to get myself some dinner and
be nice enough to forget this ever happened.” But as I started to rise,
he grabbed me by the arm. His fingers, biting through the sleeve of my
coat, were exceedingly strong, unnaturally warm, and far too intimate.

“But you won’t forget,” he said, the strange light of
fanaticism in his eyes. His mouth seemed to work independently of their stare,
as though it came from another face altogether. “You will recall
everything — every word I say. Long after you have forgotten, in fact, the
name of this café, the way I summoned you to this table, the first prick
of your mortal curiosity about me. Long after you have forgotten, in
fact, the most basic details of your life. You will remember, and you
will curse or bless this day.”

I felt ill. Something about the way he said mortal . . . In
that instant, reality, strung out like an elastic band, snapped. This was
no writer.

“Yes. You see,” he said quietly. “You know. We can share now, between
us, the secret of what I am.”

And the words came, unbidden, to my mind: Fallen. Dark
Spirit.

Demon.

The trembling that began in my stomach threatened to seize up my
diaphragm. But then he released me and sat back. “Now. Here is Mr. Esad,
wondering why you haven’t touched your sandwich.” And indeed, here came the
bald man, coffeepot in hand, smiling at the stranger as though he were
more of a regular than I. I stared between them as they made their
pleasantries, the sound of their banter at sick odds with what my visceral
sense told me was true, what no one else seemed to notice: that I was
sitting here with something incomprehensively evil.

When Esad left, Lucian took a thin napkin from the dispenser and set it
beside my coffee cup. The gesture struck me as aberrantly mundane. He
sighed.

“I feel your trepidation, that sense that you ought to get up and leave
immediately. And under normal circumstances, I would say that you are
right. But listen to me now when I tell you you’re safe. Be at ease.
Here. I’ll lean forward like this, in your human way. When that couple
over there sees my little smile, this conspiratorial look, they’ll think
we’re sharing a succulent bit of gossip.”

I wasn’t at ease. Not at all. My heart had become a pounding liability
in my chest.

“Why?” I managed, wishing I were even now in the emptiness of my
apartment, staring at the world through the bleak window of my TV.

Lucian leaned even closer, his hand splayed across the top of the table
so that I could see the blue veins along the back of it. His voice
dropped below a whisper, but I had no difficulty hearing him. “Because my
story is very closely connected to yours. We’re not so different after
all, you and I. We both want purpose, meaning, to see the bigger
picture. I can give you that.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“On the contrary,” he said, sliding the napkin dispenser away, as
though it were a barrier between us. “I know everything about you. Your
childhood house on Ridgeview Drive. The tackle box you kept your football
cards in. The night you tried to sneak out after homecoming to meet
Lindsey Bennett. You broke your wrist climbing out of the window.”

I stared.

“I know of your father’s passing — you were fifteen. About the merlot
you miss since giving up drinking, the way you dip your hamburgers in
blue cheese dressing — your friend Piotr taught you that in college. That
you’ve been telling yourself you ought to get away somewhere — Mexico,
perhaps. That you think it’s the seasonal disorder bothering you,
though it’s not — ”

“Stop!” I threw up my hands, wanting him to leave at once, equally
afraid that he might and that I would be stuck knowing that there was this
person — this thing — watching me. Knowing everything.

His voice gentled. “Let me assure you you’re not the only one; I could
list myriad facts about anyone. Name someone. How about Sheila?” He
smirked. “Let’s just say she didn’t return your essage from home, and her
husband thinks she’s working late. Esad? Living in war-torn Bosnia was
no small feat. He — ” He cocked his head, and there came now a faint
buzzing like an invisible swarm of mosquitoes. I instinctively jerked
away.

“What was that?” I demanded, unable to pinpoint where the sound had
come from.

“Ah. A concentration camp!” He looked surprised. “I didn’t know that.
Did you know that? And as for your ex — ” He tilted his head again.

“No! Please, don’t.” I lowered my head into my hand, dug my fingers
into my scalp. Five months after the divorce, the wound still split open
at the mere mention of her.

“You see?” he whispered, his head ducked down so that he stared
intently up into my face. “I can tell you everything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve made a pastime of studying case histories, of following them
through from beginning to end. You fascinate me in the same way that
beetles with their uncanny instinct for dung rolling used to fascinate you. I
know more about you than your family. Than your ex. Than you know
about yourself, I daresay.”

Something — some by-product of fear — rose up within me as anger at
last. “If you are what you say, aren’t you here to make some kind of deal
for my soul? To tempt me? Why did you order me coffee, then? Why not a
glass of merlot or a Crown and Coke?” My voice had risen, but I didn’t
care; I felt my anger with relief.

Lucian regarded me calmly. “Please. How trite. Besides, they don’t
serve liquor here.” But then his calm fell away, and he was staring — not
at me but past me, toward the clock on the wall. “But there,” he
pointed. His finger seemed exceedingly long. “See how the hour advances
without us!” He leapt to his feet, and I realized with alarm that he meant to
leave.

“What — you can’t just go now that you’ve — ”

“I’ve come to you at great risk,” he hissed, the sound sibilant, as
though he had whispered in my ear though he stood three feet away. And
then he strode to the glass door and pushed out into the darkness,
disappearing beyond the reflected interior of the café like a shadow into a
mirror. The strap of bells fell against the door with a flat metal clink,
and my own stunned reflection stared back.

Rain pelted my eyes, slipped in wet tracks through my hair against my
scalp, ran in rivulets down my nape to mingle with the sweat against my
back. It had gotten colder, almost freezing, but I was sweating inside
the sodden collar of my shirt as I hurried down Norfolk, my bag
slapping against my hip, my legs cramped and wooden, nightmare slow.

The abrupt warmth inside my apartment building threatened to suffocate
me as I stumbled up the stairs. My ears pintingled to painful life as I
fumbled with my keys. Inside my apartment at last, I fell back against
the door, head throbbing and lungs heaving in the still air. I stayed
like that, my coat dripping onto the carpet, for several long moments.
Then a mad whim struck me.

With numb fingers, I retrieved the laptop from my bag and set it up on
the kitchen table. With my coat still on, I dropped down onto a wooden
chair, staring at the screen as it yawned to life. I logged into the
company server, opened my calendar.

There — my six-thirty appointment. It was simply noted:
L.

Sample from Demon / ISBN
1-60006-123-0
Copyright © 2006 NavPress Publishing.

All rights reserved.
To order copies of this resource, come
back to www.navpress.com.

Blessed Assurance Blog Tour

This week, theChristian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

BLESSED ASSURANCEAvon Inspire (October 1, 2007)by

Lyn Cote

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Lyn Cote's journey to becoming a published author was a long one - she started her first book when her daughter was 13 months old and her first novel was published when her daughter was about to enter high school. But Lyn was writing for a market that hadn't taken shape yet - the inspirational fiction market.

In 1996, Lyn Cote's first inspirational historical manuscript was a finalist in the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Contest. This became her first historical novel, Whispers Of Love, in her BLESSED ASSURANCE series.

Most recently, Chloe, the first novel in Lyn's "Women of Ivy Manor" historical series was a 2006 RWA Rita Award finalist for Best Inspirational, as well as a finalist for the Holt Medallion and the National REaders Choice Contest.

Lyn also writes contemporary romance and romantic suspense. She lives in the lovely northwoods of Wisconsin with her husband and three cats. Aside from writing, she also likes to knit, crochet, read, and do lunch with friends.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Now available for the first time in one edition--All three novels from Lyn Cote's beloved Blessed Assurance series

In Whispers of Love, Civil War widow Jessie Wagstaff must fend for herself and her son. When a stranger, Lee Smith, befriends Jessie's son, even though she recognizes nine-year-old Linc's need for a father figure, she's reluctant to let a new man into their life. When the Great Chicago Fire blazes, every heart is pushed to its limits.

In Lost In His Love, Jessie's son Linc, a social activist and reporter, charms his way through the upper class of San Francisco to build much-needed support for his fight against child labor. His main target is Cecilia Jackson, a beautiful heiress who doesn't recognize the crucial part she plays in this dangerous exploitation. As the secrets of her family's dark past are exposed, Cecilia must revive her own wounded spirit and find the strength to lean on the never-failing love of Christ. But when the 1906 earthquake hits, everyone's faith will be put to the test.

In Echoes of Mercy, Meg Wagstaff challenges the racial barriers of 1920s New Orleans in order to prove that her childhood friend did not commit murder. The stubborn lawyer prosecuting the case, Gabriel St. Clair, is an authentic Southern gentleman who makes the mistake of underestimating Meg, both her tenacity and her charm. Despite their many differences, sparks begin to fly. But when Meg discovers the truth, will Gabe be able to protect her from those who can't afford to have justice prevail?

"A beautiful tale of love, forgiveness, and acceptance."
~CBA Marketplace

Remembered Blog Tour

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

REMEMBERED(Fountain Creek Chronicles, Book 3)

(Bethany House, 2007)


by

Tamera Alexander

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Tamera Alexander is a bestselling novelist whose deeply drawn characters, thought provoking plots, and poignant prose resonate with readers. Alexander’s books have won multiple awards, including Romance Writers of America’s 2007 RITA® for Best Inspirational Romance, the 2007 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, 2007 Bookseller’s Best, and Library Journal’s Top Christian Fiction of 2006.

Her books have received acclaim from Library Journal, True West Magazine and Historical Novels Review, and Rekindled debuted on the CBA fiction bestseller list. She has a professional background in business management and conference coordination. A leader of women's ministries for over twelve years, she is currently active in music ministry, facilitating small groups, and mentoring other women. A graduate of Harding University, Tamera lives with her husband and their two teenagers in Greeley, Colorado.

Her other two books in the Fountain Creek Chronicles are Rekindled (Book 1) and Revealed (Book 2)

To celebrate the release of Remembered, as well as the 3-volume boxed set of Fountain Creek Chronicles (Rekindled, Revealed, and Remembered), Tamera is currently giving away boxed sets in a contest on her website. Check out the contest at http://www.tameraalexander.com/ .

From a Distance, the first book in Tamera’s next historical series (Timber Ridge Reflections) releases in spring 2008.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Though loss is often marked
in a single moment,
letting go of someone you love
can take a lifetime...

The threat of war--and a final request--send Véronique Girard from France to a distant and uninviting country. In the Colorado Territory, she searches for the man who has held her heart since childhood--her father. Pierre Girard left Paris for the Americas to seek his fortune in fur trading, vowing to send for his wife and daughter. But twenty-five years have passed and his vow remains unfulfilled. Sifting through shards of broken promises, Véronique embarks on a dangerous search for a man she scarcely remembers.

His grief finally healed, Jack Brennan is moving on with life. After years of guiding families west, he is now working as a freighter to the mining towns surrounding Willow Springs. What he doesn't count on is an unexpected traveling companion on his trips up into the mountains, and how one woman's search will cause havoc with his plans... and his life.

"Alexander again delivers a most amazing story. The characters are more than words on the page; they become real people. Though there are French words sprinkled throughout the story, they enhance the emotions rather than distract the reader." --Romantic Times

"...a rich historical romance by possibly the best new writer in this subgenre." --Library Journal

"Alexander has done it again with Remembered, third in the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES. She's fashioned characters that are as rich and deep as the mountains and valleys they explore throughout the pages, coloring the story as adeptly as the heroine does her canvas. I was drawn immediately into the ages-old heartaches of both of the main characters, understanding at once Veronique's reticence to make a place for herself in the unknown wilds of America and Jack's uncompromising love for this land that he’s cut a swath through time and again. They both have a series of mountains to overcome in the search for Veronique’s father, but I enjoyed watching their faith and appreciation grow with each turn of the page. And woven adeptly through it all is the encompassing truth of the Lord's sovereignty—that sometimes He takes away, and sometimes He gives us what we need, not what we're looking for.

Anyone's who's read the other Fountain Creek books won't want to miss this one, but it easily stands alone. The characters will take you by the hand and lead you heart-first into their stories, and by the time they release you at the end, you'll feel as though you've taken up residence just across the Creek from them, as surely as they have in your heart." --Roseanna White, christianreviewofbooks.com

"Remembered, the third book in the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES, takes us back to Willow Creek and revisits beloved characters from the previous two books in the series, Rekindled and Revealed. Tamera Alexander has the remarkable ability to create places, and characters who endear themselves to us, even those just briefly mentioned. If I had lived in the late 1800s, I would love to have met these people and would surely have been inspired by the way they lived out their faith.
Remembered is a delightful read, well-researched and well-written. I expect to see great things from this author in the future." --Lindsey Freitas, bookloons.com

"Remembered is an absolutely wonderful continuation of the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES." --Amanda Schafer, armchairinterviews.com

The Ex Files Blog Tour

This week, theChristian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing The Ex Files (Touchstone June 19, 2007) by Victoria Christopher Murray.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Victoria Christopher Murray always knew she would become an author, even as she was taking quite an unlikely path to that destination. A native of Queens, New York, Victoria first left New York to attend Hampton Institute in Virginia where she majored in Communication Disorders. After graduating from Hampton, Victoria attended New York University where she received her MBA.

Victoria spent ten years in Corporate America before she decided to test her entrepreneurial spirit. She opened a Financial Services Agency for Aegon, USA where she managed the number one division for nine consecutive years. However, Victoria never lost the dream to write and when the “bug” hit her again in 1997, she answered the call.

Victoria originally self published Temptation. “I wanted to write a book as entertaining and compelling as any of the books on the market, put God in the middle, and have the book still be a page-turner. I wasn’t writing to any particular genre – I didn’t even know Christian fiction existed. I just wanted to write about people I knew and characters I could relate to.”

In 2000, Time Warner published Temptation. Temptation made numerous best sellers list across the nation and remained on the Essence bestsellers list for nine consecutive months. In 2001, Temptation was nominated for an NAACP Image Award in Outstanding Literature.

Since Temptation, Victoria has written four other novels: JOY, Truth Be Told, Grown Folks Business, and A Sin and a Shame. All of her novels have continued to be Essence bestsellers; her last three each reaching #1. In addition, Victoria has received numerous awards including the Golden Pen Award for Best Inspirational Fiction and in 2006, she was awarded the Phyllis Wheatley Trailblazer Award for being the pioneer in African American Christian Fiction.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

The Ex Files:

A Novel About Four Women and Faith...

There are four ways a woman can handle heartbreak. She can fall apart, seek revenge, turn cold, or move on. The Ex Files is the story of these four women:

When Kendall Stewart finds her husband and her sister in bed together, she vows to never let anyone get that close again. But when she is faced with saving the life of the woman who destroyed hers, will she be able to forgive?

When an NBA superstar tells his mistress, Asia Ingrum, that he's decided to honor his marriage vows, her shock quickly gives way to revenge...but her decision may come back to haunt their five-year-old daughter.

Every night Vanessa Martin wonders why her husband committed suicide. Even worse, she contemplates joining him in eternity. Will Vanessa be able to gather the strength to live again?Sheridan Hart is finally finding her way after a lie destroyed her seventeen-year marriage. Her new love is ready to get married, but will she commit to this younger man or is her ex-husband taking up too much space in her heart?

When their pastor asks Kendall, Asia, Vanessa, and Sheridan to meet weekly for prayer, they can't imagine they will have anything in common. But then a devastating tragedy strikes and these strangers are forced to reexamine their choices. Will they find true friendship, or will prayer -- and their union -- fail them?

Life, Libby and the Pursuit of Happiness Blog Tour

This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing LIFE, LIBBY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS (Harvest House Publishers March 1, 2007) by Hope Lyda.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Hope Lyda has always wanted to write. Ever since she was a young tyke with a spiral notebook in hand, she had the urge to fill it. Sadly, Peggy Meets the Midgets did not cause Hope to be deemed a child prodigy, so she continued her path of education. She was grade-obsessed but also truly enjoyed sharing laughs with her circle of creative friends.

Hope attended the University of Oregon and graduated with a double major in Journalism: Advertising and Telecommunications and Film. With aspirations to write screenplays or teleplays, she of course ended up doing public relations for non-profits until she entered the publishing field in which she has worked for 10 years.

Her passions are quiet ones—she loves a good read, an afternoon of free thinking time, writing, journaling, road trips, travel, and pondering life from her back yard pergola. She loiters in bookstores frequently, though has never been arrested for such. Her big hope is to encourage others to embrace their dreams and understand their faith journeys through the practice of journaling and the art of creative living. She hopes to also inspire such things through the themes in her fiction including Hip to Be Square and Altar Call. (There are also visions of a nice Casita with a hammock in Mexico—but one thing at a time.)

When not living in her head, she resides with her husband, Marc, in the Pacific Northwest.

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Libby Hawthorne makes exotic trip itineraries but never leaves Seattle. She’d like to attend church but winds up at a bookstore. She longs for love—but who has the time? Delayed happiness has been worth it, because she’s about to get her dream promotion...

Or not.

So now what?

When a corporate merger leaves her demoted and disillusioned, Libby realizes she needs to start living authentically...and soon. But just as she tries to uncover her purposed life, her cruel and unusual boss, Cecilia, demands that Libby hide Seattle’s most famous homegrown rock star in order to keep her new, bad job. For the first time in years, Libby doesn’t have a step by step plan to guide her. She must trust her faith and her heart. But what is she supposed to do with her growing admiration for Blaine Slater, a new VP from Chicago, or the surprising kindness of the rock star living incognito in her Seattle apartment? Through the humorous twist and turns, Libby uncovers a big life truth—the detours we are afraid of might just be the perfect path to happiness.

Sushi For One Blog Tour

This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Sushi for One? (Zondervan, September 1, 2007) by CAMY TANG.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Camy Tang is a member of CFBA and is a loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick-lit. She grew up in Hawaii, but now lives in San Jose, California, with her engineer husband and rambunctious poi-dog. In a previous life she was a biologist researcher, but these days she is surgically attached to her computer, writing full-time. In her spare time, she is a staff worker for her church youth group, and she leads one of the worship teams for Sunday service.

Sushi for One? (Sushi Series, Book One is her first novel. Her second, Only Uni (Sushi Series, Book Two) comes out in February 2008!

To celebrate the launch of her debut novel, she's got a huge contest going on. Camy is giving away baskets of Christian novels and an iPod Nano! Only her newsletter YahooGroup subscribers are eligible to enter, so join today.

For more information about the contest, visit her website.

Contest ends October 31, 2007!

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Lex Sakai’s family, big, nosy, and marriage-minded, is ruled by a crafty grandmother. When her cousin Mariko gets married, Lex will become the OLDEST SINGLE COUSIN in the clan, a loathed position by all single female family members.

Lex has not dated for years.

Grandma homes in on this fact and demands, bribes, and threatens Lex to bring a boyfriend (not just a date) to her cousin’s wedding.

Lex does not want to date ... not since that terrible incident a few years back ... but, Grandma doesn't give her that choice.

Lex's options are slim because she has used her Bible study class on Ephesians to compile a huge list of traits for the PERFECT man (and the more she dates, the more she adds to the list).

The one man she keeps running into (and is completely attracted to) doesn’t seem to have a single quality on her list. It’s only when the always-in-control Lex loses control and lets God take over that all the pieces of this hilarious romance finally fall into place.

FIRST Day Tour: Sushi for One

It is September
1st, time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the
button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her
latest book's FIRST chapter!

This
month's feature author is:

CAMY
TANG

and her book:

Sushi for
One?

(Zondervan, September 1,
2007)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Camy Tang is a member of FIRST and is
a loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick-lit. She grew up in
Hawaii, but now lives in San Jose, California, with her engineer husband
and rambunctious poi-dog. In a previous life she was a biologist
researcher, but these days she is surgically attached to her computer, writing
full-time. In her spare time, she is a staff worker for her church
youth group, and she leads one of the worship teams for Sunday service.

Sushi for
One? (Sushi Series, Book One is her first novel. Her second, Only Uni (Sushi
Series, Book Two) comes out in February 2008!

Visit her at her website.

AND
NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Chapter 1

Eat and leave. That’s all she had to do.

If Grandma didn’t kill her first for being late.

Lex Sakai raced through the open doorway to the Chinese restaurant and
was immediately immersed in conversation, babies’ wails, clashing
perfumes, and stale sesame oil. She tripped over the threshold and almost
turned her ankle. Stupid pumps. Man, she hated wearing heels.

Her cousin Chester sat behind a small table next to the open doorway.

“Hey Chester.”

“Oooh, you’re late. Grandma isn’t going to be happy. Sign over here.”
He gestured to the guestbook that was almost drowned in the pink lace
glued to the edges.

“What do I do with this?” Lex dropped the Babies R Us box on the table.

Chester grabbed the box and flipped it behind him with the air of a man
who’d been doing this for too long and wanted out from behind the
frilly welcome table.

Lex understood how he felt. So many of their cousins were having
babies, and there were several mixed Chinese-Japanese marriages in the
family. Therefore, most cousins opted for these huge—not to mention
tiring—traditional Chinese Red Egg and Ginger parties to “present” their
newborns, even though the majority of the family was Japanese American.

Lex bent to scrawl her name in the guestbook. Her new sheath dress
sliced into her abs, while the fabric strained across her back muscles.
Trish had convinced her to buy the dress, and it actually gave her sporty
silhouette some curves, but its fitted design prevented movement. She
should’ve worn her old loosefitting dress instead. She finished signing
the book and looked back to Chester. “How’s the food?” The only thing
worthwhile about these noisy events. Lex would rather be at the beach.

“They haven’t even started serving.”

“Great. That’ll put Grandma in a good mood.”

Chester grimaced, then gestured toward the far corner where there was a
scarlet-draped wall and a huge gold dragon wall-hanging. “Grandma’s
over there.”

“Thanks.” Yeah, Chester knew the drill, same as Lex. She had to go over
to say hello as soon as she got to the party— before Grandma saw her,
anyway—or Grandma would be peeved and stick Lex on her “Ignore List”
until after Christmas.

Lex turned, then stopped. Poor Chester. He looked completely
forlorn—not to mention too bulky—behind that silly table. Of all her cousins, he
always had a smile and a joke for her. “Do you want to go sit down? I
can man the table for you for a while. As long as you don’t forget to
bring me some food.” She winked at him.

Chester flashed his toothy grin, and the weary lines around his face
expanded into his normal laugh lines. “I appreciate that, but don’t worry
about me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. My sister’s going to bring me something—she’s got all the kids
at her table, so she’ll have plenty for me. But thanks, Lex.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

Lex wiggled in between the round tables and inadvertently jammed her
toe into the protruding metal leg of a chair. To accommodate the hefty
size of Lex’s extended family, the restaurant had loaded the room with
tables and chairs so it resembled a game of Tetris. Once bodies sat in
the chairs, a chopstick could barely squeeze through. And while Lex
prided herself on her athletic 18-percent body fat, she wasn’t a chopstick.

The Chinese waiters picked that exact moment to start serving the food.

Clad in black pants and white button-down shirts, they filed from
behind the ornate screen covering the doorway to the kitchen, huge round
platters held high above their heads. They slid through the crowded room
like salmon—how the heck did they do that?—while it took all the effort
Lex had to push her way through the five inches between an aunty and
uncle’s
chairs. Like birds of prey, the waiters descended on her as if they
knew she couldn’t escape.

Lex dodged one skinny waiter with plates of fatty pork and thumb-sized
braised octopus. Another waiter almost gouged her eye out with his
platter. She ducked and shoved at chairs, earning scathing glances from
various uncles and aunties.

Finally, Lex exploded from the sea of tables into the open area by the
dragon wall-hanging. She felt like she’d escaped from quicksand.
Grandma stood and swayed in front of the horrifying golden dragon, holding
her newest great-granddaughter, the star of the party. The baby’s face
glowed as red as the fabric covering the wall. Probably scared of the
dragon’s green buggy eyes only twelve inches away. Strange, Grandma seemed
to be favoring her right hip.

“Hi, Grandma.”

“Lex! Hi sweetie. You’re a little late.”

Translation: You’d better have a good excuse.

Lex thought about lying, but aside from the fact that she couldn’t lie
to save her life, Grandma’s eyes were keener than a sniper’s. “I’m
sorry. I was playing grass volleyball and lost track of time.”

The carefully lined red lips curved down. “You play sports too much.
How are you going to attract a man when you’re always sweating?”

Like she was now? Thank goodness for the fruity body spritz she had
marinated herself in before she got out of her car.

“That’s a pretty dress, Lex. New, isn’t it?”

How did she do that? With as many grandchildren as she had, Grandma
never failed to notice clothes, whereas Lex barely registered that she
wasn’t naked. “Thanks. Trish picked it out.”

“It’s so much nicer than that ugly floppy thing you wore to your
cousin’s wedding.”

Lex gritted her teeth. Respect your grandmother. Do not open your
mouth about something like showing up in a polkadotted bikini.

“Actually, Lex, I’m glad you look so ladylike this time. I have a
friend’s son I want you to meet—”

Oh, no. Not again. “Does he speak English?”

Grandma drew herself to her full height, which looked a little silly
because Lex still towered over her. “Of course he does.”

“Employed?”

“Yes. Lex, your attitude—”

“Christian?”

“Now why should that make a difference?”

Lex widened innocent eyes. “Religious differences account for a lot of
divorces.”

“I’m not asking you to marry him, just to meet him.”

Liar. “I appreciate how much you care about me, but I’ll find
my own dates, thanks.” Lex smiled like she held a knife blade in her
teeth. When Grandma got pushy like this, Lex had more backbone than the
other cousins.

“I wouldn’t be so concerned, but you don’t date at all—”

Not going there. “Is this Chester’s niece?” Lex’s voice rose
an octave as she tickled the baby’s Pillsbury-Doughboy stomach. The baby
screamed on. “Hey there, cutie, you’re so big, betcha having fun, is
Grandma showing you off, well, you just look pretty as a picture, are
you enjoying your Red Egg and Ginger party? Okay, Grandma, I have to sit
down. Bye.”

Before Grandma could say another word, Lex whisked away into the throng
of milling relatives. Phase one, accomplished. Grandmother engaged.
Retreat commencing before more nagging words like “dating” and “marriage”
sullied the air.

Next to find her cousins—and best friends—Trish, Venus, and Jenn, who
were saving a seat for her. She headed toward the back where all the
other unmarried cousins sat as far away from Grandma as physically
possible.

Their table was scrunched into the corner against towering stacks of
unused chairs—like the restaurant could even hold more chairs. “Lex!”
Trish flapped her raised hand so hard, Lex expected it to fly off at any
moment. Next to her, Venus lounged, as gorgeous as always and looking
bored, while Jennifer sat quietly on her other side, twirling a lock of
her long straight hair. On either side of them …

“Hey, where’s my seat?”

Venus’s wide almond eyes sent a sincere apology. “We failed you, babe.
We had a seat saved next to Jenn, but then . . .” She pointed to where
the back of a portly aunty’s chair had rammed up against their table.
“We had to remove the chair, and by then, the rest were filled.”

“Traitors. You should have shoved somebody under the table.”

Venus grinned evilly. “You’d fit under there, Lex.”

Trish whapped Venus in the arm. “Be nice.”

A few of the other cousins looked at them strangely, but they got that
a lot. The four of them became close when they shared an apartment
during college, but even more so when they all became Christian. No one
else understood their flaws, foibles, and faith.

Lex had to find someplace to sit. At the very least, she wanted to
snarf some overpriced, high calorie, high cholesterol food at this
torturous party.

She scanned the sea of black heads, gray heads, dyed heads, small
children’s heads with upside-down ricebowl haircuts, and teenager heads with
highlighting and funky colors.

There. A table with an empty chair. Her cousin Bobby, his wife, his
mother-in-law, and his brood. Six—count ’em, six— little people under the
age of five.

Lex didn’t object to kids. She liked them. She enjoyed coaching her
girls’ volleyball club team. But these were Bobby’s kids. The 911
operators knew them by name. The local cops drew straws on who would have to go
to their house when they got a call.

However, it might not be so bad to sit with Bobby and family. Kids ate
less than adults, meaning more food for Lex.

“Hi, Bobby. This seat taken?”

“No, go ahead and sit.” Bobby’s moon-face nodded toward the empty
chair.

Lex smiled at his nervous wife, who wrestled with an infant making
intermittent screeching noises. “Is that …” Oh great. Boxed yourself in
now. Name a name, any name. “Uh … Kyle?”

The beleaguered mom’s smile darted in and out of her grimace as she
tried to keep the flailing baby from squirming into a face-plant on the
floor. “Yes, this is Kylie. Can you believe she’s so big?” One of her
sons lifted a fork. “No, sweetheart, put the food down—!”

The deep-fried missile sailed across the table, trailing a tail of
vegetables and sticky sauce. Lex had protected her face from volleyballs
slammed at eighty miles an hour, but she’d never dodged multi-shots of
food. She swatted away a flying net of lemony shredded lettuce, but a
bullet of sauce-soaked fried chicken nailed her right in the chest.

Yuck. Well, good thing she could wash—oops, no, she hadn’t worn her
normal cotton dress. This was the new silk one. The one with the price tag
that made her gasp, but also made her look like she actually had a
waist instead of a plank for a torso. The dress with the “dry-clean only”
tag.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Lex. Bad boy. Look what you did.” Bobby’s wife leaned
across the table with a napkin held out, still clutching her baby whose
foot was dragging through the chow mein platter.

The little boy sitting next to Lex shouted in laughter. Which wouldn’t
have been so bad if he hadn’t had a mouth full of chewed bok choy in
garlic sauce.

Regurgitated cabbage rained on Lex’s chest, dampening the sunny lemon
chicken. The child pointed at the pattern on her dress and squealed as
if he had created a Vermeer. The other children laughed with him.

“Hey boys! That’s not nice.” Bobby glared at his sons, but otherwise
didn’t stop shoveling salt-and-pepper shrimp into his mouth.

Lex scrubbed at the mess, but the slimy sauces refused to transfer from
her dress onto the polyester napkin, instead clinging to the blue silk
like mucus. Oh man, disgustamundo. Lex’s stomach gurgled. Why was
every other part of her athlete’s body strong except for her stomach?

She needed to clean herself up. Lex wrestled herself out of the chair
and bumped an older man sitting behind her. “Sorry.” The violent motion
made the nausea swell, then recede. Don’t be silly. Stop being a
wimp. But her already sensitive stomach had dropped the call with
her head.

Breathe. In. Out. No, not through your nose. Don’t look at that
boy’s drippy nose. Turn away from the drooling baby.

She needed fresh air in her face. She didn’t care how rude it was, she
was leaving now.

“There you are, Lex.”

What in the world was Grandma doing at the far end of the restaurant?
This was supposed to be a safe haven. Why would Grandma take a rare
venture from the other side where the “more important” family members sat?

“My goodness, Lex! What happened to you?”

“I sat next to Bobby’s kids.”

Grandma’s powdered face scrunched into a grimace. “Here, let me go to
the restroom with you.” The bright eyes strayed again to the mess on the
front of her dress. She gasped.

Oh, no, what else? “What is it?” Lex asked.

“You never wear nice clothes. You always wear that hideous black
thing.”

“We’ve already been over this—”

“I never noticed that you have no bosom. No wonder you can’t get a
guy.”

Lex’s jaw felt like a loose hinge. The breath stuck in her chest until
she forced a painful cough. “Grandma!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lex could see heads swivel. Grandma’s
voice carried better than a soccer commentator at the World Cup.

Grandma bent closer to peer at Lex’s chest. Lex jumped backward, but
the chair behind her wouldn’t let her move very far.

Grandma straightened with a frighteningly excited look on her face. “I
know what I’ll do.”

God, now would be a good time for a waiter to brain her with a
serving platter.

Grandmother gave a gleeful smile and clapped her hands. “Yes, it’s
perfect. I’ll pay for breast implants for you!”

© Camy Tang
Used by permission of Zondervan