My good friend Mary sent me the heads-up about this one: Olivia Cunning has a new series she’s launching. The series is called Sinners on Tour. The band at the heart of the series is called Sinners. Each member will have his own book.

The first book is called Backstage Pass.

Of course I want to read (and review) this one. Perfect for me, no?

What more do I need to say? Other than darn it, I need more time to write! (and yes, I’m drafting this while my arm is bad. Like you can’t tell?)

So I’m seeing all over the blogosphere (well, this isn’t the only place I’ve seen it) that today’s World Cat Day.

Around my house, every day is World Cat Day. I am cat furniture. I am the ears that get yelled in every morning at 5:30 AM. I am the one who schleps to PetSmart in search of Dental Diet (which has been discontinued! The cat better not hunger strike. That’s all I gotta say…)

But most important, I am CAT FURNITURE.

And I love every second of it. Except those 5:30 AM yowls in my right ear, but hey, it can’t all be paradise.

Go kiss a cat, will ya?

If you’re new here, these characters can be found in all three of my books, The Demo Tapes (Year 1 and Year 2) and Trevor’s Song, the new, full-length novel starting the toasted marshmallow featured below. There are no spoilers in the following piece.

Noooo. Hotel pools were no longer good enough for the Great Mitchell Voss, it seemed. Nope. The fucker had to be outside, in the sunshine, where it was warm and where the sun would glisten off his fucking suntanned skin and make all the housewives swoon with longing at the way the golden tan contrasted with the loser’s silver-blonde hair.

Of course, there was a plus to this outdoor pool they were walking into: Charlie had promised them up and down no one would bat an eye at them. This pool was part of some blueblood health club, where any idiot could come ogle the pro athletes and the local TV people and everyone else who didn’t deign to be bugged by the adoring yokels who don’t know when to give a person some space.

They probably wouldn’t get anyone to play in the water with, Trevor figured. Places like this, no one did anything but swim laps and work on their tans. The people here were pampered. They preened.

They’d never let the likes of ShapeShifter invade them again.

They hadn’t even gotten into the place, and Trevor knew how it’d end. With the four of them walking out, laughing over a good time — and every other poor sod in the joint trying to figure out what had just happened to them. Oh, some of the women would be all intrigued, biting their lower lips and considering taking old Trevor up on his attentions. If only they weren’t married. If only they didn’t have the kids, or the stretch marks, or the guts…

Yeah. Nothing would come of that, either. Talk about a waste of a day’s good flirting.

Except… once they got there, count on Mitchell to fuck up the script. To pull off his shirt and make his hair cascade out behind him like some fucking romance novel cover model. If the band tanked, the asshole sure had another career waiting — so long as someone airbrushed his face real good. Then again, the girls seemed to like that cleft chin and those blue-green eyes well enough.

By the time Mitchell swan dived off the diving board the first time, every one of those pampered moms, their bodies too taut to have birthed babies and look so good without the benefit of plastic work along the way, their kids snot-nosed despite the good, chlorinated water to rinse it off. Yeah, every last person at that pool was sighing and wishing Mitchell would come talk to them. Even the grandma, her skin leathery from too many days out by this pool and her hair one of the fakest oranges Trevor had ever seen. Yeah, even her.

They’d be invited back, no doubt about it.

Trevor wasn’t sure if he should be grateful to Mitchell — burning every bridge you came to got old every now and then — or hate the bastard for the way the big idiot could make every single person on the planet eat out of the palm of his hand.

Maybe he’d settle for doing both.

**
Once again, I’ll be linking this piece up at a bunch of places. The Weekend Writer’s Retreat. Friday Flash. Writer’s Island.

Shh. I actually returned from Cub Scout camp on Saturday. What have I been doing since then?

Not writing. Much. I have an outtake ready to go that I’ll include as a Friday Flash. Or maybe I’ll write to this week’s Wordless Wednesday… I don’t know yet. Maybe both. Maybe there will be more fiction around here again.

With three weeks and a day left until school starts, it’s time to wring the rest of the fun out of summer. I may be erratic here. I may not be.

One thing that’s certain, it’s time to start ramping up the talk about Trevor’s Song. It’s out there, guys, waiting for you. Trevor himself is. You can bring him into your home and have you SEEN that cover? Totally hawt. Maybe hotter than Trevor himself. You need a copy. And remember, I’ll sell you a copy cheaper than Lulu will. (should I really be advertising that? Sure. Why not?)

Which means… you want me, Mitchell, Trevor, or even Kerri to stop by your place for an interview or guest blog? Let’s talk dates. My calendar for September’s starting to fill up. You know I love to visit and make new friends. Let’s hook up and play.

More to come. Maybe it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be once school starts. Who knows? That’s the fun of summer vacation. (at least for now)

Those of you who don’t follow me on Facebook* probably don’t know I’m headed for my favorite time of year: a few days spent in the woods with my son and a bunch of other kids and parents who take a few days to be kids all over again. Yep, it’s Cub Scout camp, and it’s my LAST ONE.

I AM contemplating borrowing a friend’s kid next year…

I’m telling YOU this because it means I’m going to be out of town for the rest of the week. We come back Saturday afternoon, but who knows when I’ll have caught up on my sleep. I am leaving you, and not scheduling a darn thing. Not even the awesome fiction I’m about to write. (Half-naked Mitchell? Oh, yeah, baby!)

And if I’m not thinking of you, don’t hold it against me. I’ve got BB guns to shoot, arrows to let loose a lake to swim and fish in, and a Boy Scout camp to (ulp) hike to!

*that link will take you to my fan page. You should hang there and interact with me!

She was jailbait. Pure and simple. She was a worm, dangling on a hook, enticing the fish to jump and take a bite, get hooked, and that’d be it.

But dammit, Lido couldn’t stay away from her. Ysabella Hernandez. Only the daughter of one of the city’s mob bosses. Gorgeously blonde, with innocent blue eyes that loved to dance with laughter.

Everyone loved her. Even the gay guys lusted for her.

When it came to someone like Ysabella Hernandez, though, only one man would ever have her. Gabriel.

She’d been promised to him young, an alliance between families. Like the obedient child she’d been raised to be, she didn’t look twice at another guy. Ever. She was going to be Gabriel’s, and that was all there was to it.

That’s why Lido didn’t know why she would be downstairs every day when he delivered the flowers for his father. Why she’d always say hi and ask how he was.

“Just delivering the flowers,” he said to her that one particular day.

“Surely you do more than that?”

Lido jumped as her father entered the front hall. “Our flowers,” he said, his voice so icy, Lido was convinced he was about to be turned into gourmet fish bait. Mr. Hernandez did that sort of thing — and for lesser offenses than talking to his daughter.

“Yes, sir,” he said, tearing his eyes from Ysabella. Before she left his field of vision, he noticed the way she bit back a smile. He couldn’t react. For one, if he blew this account for his dad, he’d be worse than fish bait. For another, he’d sooner never return to this house than turn himself into one of Mr. Hernandez’ victims.

Even if it meant never seeing Ysabella again.

“You’re lucky your father grows the best flowers in a three-hundred mile radius,” Ysabella’s father said, his face turning dark.

Lido nodded, trying not to be rude as he stared at the darkening face. But he’d never seen a face turn black before. He should have been scared, he knew.

It wasn’t his smartest move.

Ysabella came to his rescue. “Dad, my day’s not complete if I don’t say hi to Lido. You’re the one who says a woman’s job is to make any visitor feel special and welcome.”

Behind her back, right at the edge of Lido’s peripheral vision, he saw the hand gesture she made. Telling him she was blowing smoke up her dad’s scary ass.

Still, Lido swallowed audibly. “I just deliver the flowers, Mr. Hernandez. That’s my business. It’s all I care about. Doing my dad proud.”

Mr. Hernandez nodded, as if satisfied by what he was hearing. Lido didn’t believe he really was. Rather, the man was calculating, weighing, figuring. When the best time to snatch Lido would be. How much concrete would be needed to make sure he didn’t float.

“I need to be going,” Lido said into the silence. “I have other deliveries to make and a schedule to keep to. Always nice to see you again, Mr. Hernandez. Miss Hernandez.”

As Ysabella held the door for him, she mouthed, “Meet me in the park at nine tonight.”

Maybe a smart man would have listened, but Lido wasn’t necessarily a smart man. Not when it came to Ysabella Hernandez.

***
DMH stands for Deadly Metal Hatchet, a small, up-and-coming band who sometimes populates these pages. This piece is set before the band; this situation with Ysabella is the eventual reason why Lido joins the guys and tries to get out of town.

This was inspired by this week’s Three Word Wednesday prompt, and I’m including it as a #FridayFlash piece, and posting it at Weekend Writer’s Retreat, too. That’s a lot of bang for one buck!

Be sure to stop in and read my interview over at The Editorial Department!

1. It’s out! Go buy it.

2. Here’s a 15% off coupon code for the print version at Lulu: BEACHREAD305

3. Of course, it’s not autographed… you’ll have to buy a copy direct from me for that to happen.

4. Since the Lulu price is so high, I’ll cut you a break if you order direct from me.

5. Need it in digital? I recommend Smashwords.

6. Smashwords can do you up with whatever format you require. Even Kindle. (Me, I read in e-pub)

7. AND you can use the code for 50% off. (only until the end of the month)

8. If you need the companion books, The Demo Tapes (Year 1 and Year 2), they are FREE until the end of July.

9. You guys have waited a long time for this book. Too long.

10. I appreciate your patience.

11. Buy it. Read it. Review it. Talk to your friends about it.

12. Vive la Trevolution!

13. And before you ask, yes, there’s a sequel in the works. When you get to the end of Trevor’s Song, you’ll see why I mention it now… Go read!

Yes, I am coveting a cookbook.

But… of course it isn’t ANY OLD cookbook.

Nope. It’s a cookbook written by Steve “Buckshot” Seabury, and it’s called… Mosh Potatoes – Recipes, Anecdotes And Mayhem From The Heavyweights Of Heavy Metal.

Among some of the contributors are said to be: LAMB OF GOD, the guys in TYPE O NEGATIVE (sob), GUNS N’ ROSES, ANTHRAX, MEGADETH, OVERKILL, TESTAMENT, QUEENSRŸCHE, BISON B.C., STEEL PANTHER, MUDVAYNE, LIFE OF AGONY, DREAM THEATER

Here’s the press release I saw. Beware the annoying Bing pop-ups. Here’s an interview with Buckshot (and why they didn’t just come right to me, I don’t know…).

Hopefully, I’ll have a review for you one day…

More takes my hands
All gentle.

I get ready.
Brace myself.
Know what’s coming.
I think.

“RP,” she says,
“I love us.
Love us being together.”

But?

“That joke?
The one you and Hambone?”

Yeah, I know the joke.
Was a good one.
Had the whole crew howling.

Except,
I’m guessing,
More.

“RP,” she says,
“It was vulgar.
Beneath you.
All that praise you got?
A waste of breath.”

Ouch.

I pull my hands away.
Try to jam them in
my back pockets.

There’s stuff in them.
A sharpie.
Random plastic wrappers.
A straw.
More garbage.
A candy bar that’s melted.
It’s squishy against
my
fingertip.

I know she’s right.
Knew it at the time.
But that didn’t stop me
from doing it.

Worst of all,
it may not stop me
next time.

***
Yep, some Three Word Wednesday, some Weekend Writer’s Retreat, and it’s a stretch, but maybe some reunion going on here, too (finger and candy bar, RP and More — in a sense), thanks to the Writer’s Island. You decide. And check out some other writers, too, if you’ve got the time.

1. Both versions of Trevor’s Song are now on sale!

2. Buy the digital versions (that means e-book versions) at Smashwords, where the novel’s half-off and the Demo Tapes are free. Use the coupon codes you see listed, if five bucks is too rich for your blood…

3. Buy the print version at Lulu. Or direct from me.

4. I’ll be selling it direct for cheaper, once you factor in the shipping charges. I can explain why privately, if you’re curious.

5. I’m available for interviews and guest blog posts.

6. I’ve got a bunch waiting to be written, though. Summertime’s slowed me down.

7. Yesterday was the pool. Today’s a quiet day. Tomorrow’s the Science Center. And I’m too whipped in the evenings to do much writing. Ouch.

8. I need to get over that, and fast. The Tour de France is in full swing, and it’s wonderful to write in front of.

9. I’m pulling for Andy Schleck, I think. But I have other favorite cyclists, too.

10. Check out their thighs! Wow. Things of beauty, these pro bikers’ legs.

11. Watching the Tour makes me want to go out and bike, but I’m still sidelined by an arm injury. Every time I set eyes on my road bike, I pout.

12. I think the cat has a kidney stone. Or maybe a UT infection. Or both.

13. That’s about it… stay cool, everyone!

Deadbeat

All you guys who haven’t bought my book yet. Feel free to fix that.

Print
Digital (that’s an e-book, you deadbeat. Any fucking format your heart desires.)
or from Susan, who’ll only charge you like nineteen bucks if you’re in the States or Canada, which is cheaper than Lulu’s got it for. (Amazon ain’t got it yet. Deadbeat.) AND Susan will throw in an autograph for you. Hers? Mine? Order my book and see for yourself.

Since it’s been quiet over here, I’m posting my weekly mail call (a merge of In My Mailbox and Mailbox Monday) here instead of at Rocks ‘n Reads.

I only got one book, but it’s a doozy (when don’t I get a doozy, though? You guys know me. I adore books). My friend drey sent me her ARC copy of Joshilyn Jackson’s newest book, Backseat Saints.

I haven’t read anything by Ms. Jackson since gods in Alabama, which I thought was a brilliant book. From what I’m hearing of Backseat Saints, this won’t disappoint (neither will the intervening books, but I need to get my hands on them before I can judge properly).

So that’s it. One book. My attempts to tame the TBR mountains continue…

(News of Trevor’s Song in print to come, along with the cover art. In the meantime, you e-book readers should head over to Smashwords and pick up a copy in your preferred format. Half-off this month as part of the Summer Sale!)

If you saw my Facebook status last night (If Any Idiot can self-publish a book, I clearly need to change my name), you may be able to figure out I’m hung up on getting you guys the print version of Trevor’s Song.

BUT you who like e-books are in luck. It’s now available for sale at Smashwords (oh, how I love them!), and since it’s the Summer Sale, I’ve discounted it. No, not down to free, like The Demo Tapes are, but half off. Which is a whopping $2.50.

Go. Spread the word. You’ve waited a LONG time for this.

And as soon as I get the ISBN up and running (if you are planning on keeping the book on your shelf and don’t care about an ISBN, I believe you can pick it up at Lulu right now), I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, if you’d like to get an autographed copy of the book direct from me, holler. I need to know how many copies to order… It’ll be $12.99 plus shipping.

Okay, so Lori and I have been chatting for a bit now about doing something to feature her book, The Last River Child. She even had two copies sent to me so I could read one — and I did! A bit ago.

It seems this summer slowdown of mine hit well before the summer started.

Still, author Lori Bloomfield hasn’t released a new book, so we’ll call The Last River Child a Featured New Release. Which means that in addition to giving away both copies of this book (I dare you to tell me which I read. ’cause… I can’t tell. Yep, I’m THIS gentle on my books.), I asked Lori THE question:

What song makes you think of your book?

Her answer?

After much thought about what song reminds me of my book I am going to go with “Stolen Child” by Loreena McKennitt. Wow, I feel like I’m on a game show, or something. It was a fun question to roll around my mind. Really, I was searching for a song that created a certain mood and I think this fits the bill.

Know what? This song is THE BEST representation of the book. If this book were a song, it’d be this one. Nicely done, Lori!

Here’s the book’s blurb:

In the summer of 1900, a meteorite lands on the day of Peg Staynor’s baptism, barely missing the small church in rural Ontario. This, along with Peg’s almost colorless eyes, is enough to resurrect a local superstition that will haunt Peg and her family for years. Many believe Peg to be a river child, taken over by an evil spirit from the Magurvey River that winds its way through the town. Feared and shunned throughout her childhood, Peg is blamed for every misfortune, from drought to ailing livestock. When her mother, her fiercest protector, dies suddenly on the same day WWI is declared, young Peg must face not only the mistrust of the villagers, but of her father. His grief has driven him to take solace in drink and old superstition, leaving Peg with only her head-strong older sister, Sarah, for support. It will take the terrible reality of World War I to shake off the grip of old world beliefs. As the town’s young men begin to return mentally and physically damaged, or not return at all, the sheltered atmosphere of the town is broken. A bright flame of change will sweep through everyone’s lives, leading Peg into the future.

So. To win one of the two copies… just leave me a comment, telling me WHY you want to read it. What strikes your fancy? Being sincere when you say you want to read it ’cause you trust my taste and judgment won’t get you bonus points but WILL make my day.

I’ll send at least one copy around the world, and keep the other one for you US or Canadian friends. But if I pick two North Americans, so be it. I’ll pick the winners in the usual way — random kid power! And… I’ll give you ten days to enter. That makes July 16.

Oh, yeah. If you don’t leave me a way to contact you, your entry doesn’t count.

And for the disclaimer garbage: Lori had her publisher send me both copies. Actually, she asked that one be sent, and so one was. Twice. In two envelopes, even. So that’s why I decided to give this charming book away — be warned; it lingers. That’s all I got out of it, really. Nothing financial. Just a good read, and darn it, but that’s good enough for me.

Mitchell walked into the catering room and tossed the magazine on the table in front of Daniel.

The drummer paused, a burger halfway to his mouth. “What’s this?”

Mitchell chuckled. “Just read it. Wait ’till you’re done or you’ll wind up with dinner all over it, though.”

“I’m warned?”

“You’re warned.”

Daniel watched Mitchell walk over to the catering buffet and start dictating to the staff. When it came to his food, this wasn’t entirely Mitchell being a dick for the sake of being a dick. The guy really did want his burger fresh off the grill and the bun lightly toasted. The only reason no one mutinied and told him to suck it up was because he’d wait while they cooked it properly. He never complained, even on the nights when it took longer than it should have.

Shaking his head at Mitchell’s quirks, Daniel turned the magazine so it was right-side up. The cover story had been written by their buddy Kermit Ladd, the world’s most pretentious reporter. The guy lived to inject himself into the story.

The victim this time had been Sonny Levy. No real surprise there; the guy was hot stuff. Everyone wanted a piece of him — and the guy was responding. Not in the usual way, sucking up to the press and declaring them to be his new best friends. Nope. Sonny was the latest guy on the fast-track to burning out before he got another day older. In short, Sonny was an OD waiting to happen.

Daniel looked the article over.

“Your ever-inquisitive intrepid reporter, Kermit Ladd, was brave enough to face the hassle that getting near Sonny Levy has become. He’s been a wealth of gossip of late, and that meant there was only one man up to sorting through it all.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. Yeah, it was typical Kermit. That was the problem: he was tired of seeing it. It was old-hat by now and boring as shit.

Until it got good, mid-way down the first column. “Watching Levy on stage makes one realize the man’s pain is there for the world to see. And what pain it is. The man is clearly so deeply in the closet, he suffers the delusion that his fans can’t see it. If it were up to Sonny Levy, there would be belief around the world that no gay man moves the way he does. Not to mention the crocheted shawls he likes to wrap around himself.

“Any human being who needs to keep himself this far into the closet would wind up an addict. There is not an addiction expert on the planet who would disagree with yours truly.”

Shaking his head, Daniel closed the magazine. Mitchell hadn’t been kidding; it was worthy of spewing dinner on — although Daniel wasn’t sure if it would be disgust or utter amusement. Kermit was reaching on this one. He’d be lucky if Sonny Levy’s people didn’t sue him for it.

He mentioned that to Mitchell, who brought his plate over. It was piled high with potato chips, so many that the burger was buried. He, of course, had a second plate piled equally as high with salad, probably tossed fresh while he waited for the burger to cook. And between his fingers, dangling precariously, was a bottle of Italian salad dressing.

“Better he’s fucking up with Sonny than us. Fucker may not even notice what Kermit wrote. If it was us…” Mitchell shook his head and swished some of the potato chips out of his way. “He wouldn’t write his mom a letter ever again.”

“Think there’s any truth to it?” Daniel asked, holding his breath. He knew the answer. Of course he did. The whole world did.

“Absolutely,” Mitchell said and took a bite of his burger.

Daniel wasn’t sure which was the bigger tragedy. That Sonny was such a mess, or that Kermit had grown some balls and decided to share that mess with the world.

Some Three Word Wednesday fun for you, that’s also linked up at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat. And, hey! Kermit is always for himself, so that fits the Sunday Scribbling prompt, too! I’ve been busy with the kids so far this summer and have written next to nothing. Have no fear, though, what time I DO have despite those rugrats is being spent on Trevor’s Song. News of that to come as soon as I get a moment to breathe. Ahh, if they’d only put Wi-Fi in at the pool!

Yep, boys and girls, it’s time for the Summer Sale over at Smashwords. Which means that once again, I’ve put the two Demo Tapes anthologies on sale — you can get them for free!

Seriously. Free.

Just like I did during Read an E-Book Week. I’m doing it again ’cause I made a lot of new converts to the Trevolution. And with Trevor’s Song finally about to come out (if I ever finish the formatting for Smashwords, and put the ISBN graphic on the back cover of the print version), this is the perfect time to help spread the word.

Here’s the link:
And here’s the Coupon: SW100.

Share the coupon. Spread the love. You know Trevor would!

If you read my review of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist over at Rocks ‘n Reads, you’ll see the story of how I came to read this book last week.

I was looking over my Netflix queue a day or two later and I realized that Nick and Norah, the movie, wasn’t going to be available for instant watching much longer. In fact, I had something like a day left. So, I interrupted a fine evening outside in the dark, watching the clouds go by, to come inside and fire up the Instant Viewing. Good thing; I had mere hours left before it was gone.

Let me say first off that there are very few movies I like better than the book. Joyce Maynard’s To Die For is possibly the only book that wasn’t as good as the movie. No, not because of Nicole Kidman or Matt Dillon. Because of the power of the visual at the very end. (Saying anything more will spoil it. Just go watch the flick, will ya?)

Now, Nick and Norah had some very good visuals to endear the movie to me. The sight of Nick’s old, beat-up Yugo. And New York itself, looking every bit as good as it did when I roamed it on similar nights (never as long and, regrettably, never with a potential love interest of my own) during my own college youth.

But… the book is a million times better. Not just because we get to hear Nick and Norah’s internal monologues, but because many of the changes made by the writers were poor.

Okay, the whole bit about Nick’s Yugo being mixed up for a taxi was funny. And yes, I howled out loud when the enraptured (ahem) couple actually paid him for the lift.

But the change in the subplot involving Caroline? Like I didn’t see the cell phone being dropped a mile away… it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even realistic that once she picked it up, it worked.

And the gum? Oh, man. That never lost its ick factor (and if that means I’m old, don’t tell me!).

You may not believe this, but I hated the scenes in Electric Lady Studios. It stretched disbelief that Hendrix’s guitar is sitting there so casually, on a guitar stand and not mounted to be preserved (although, having never been in Electric Lady, it very well could be). But for Norah to tell Nick to go and put it on and try it out? And then to take it into the studio and make music with it? She’s just met this guy, for crying out loud. There are all these trust issues between them, and she hands him a guitar worth millions?

And the tape recording their little tryst on the couch… same thing as with Caroline and the phone. It took away from the beauty of the story, which was these two kids learning to let go, to rise above, and to reach for the possibilities of what lies ahead.

Which means I really missed the book’s scene in the Marriott. There was so much more to that scene than to its replacement, the one in Electric Lady. (Not to mention the subtext introduced by the scene happening in the building Daddy owns and is famous for.) It was a real moment of growth for Norah. We lost all of that, only to be given that horrible sight of the soundboard, recording away. That, too, introduced themes and ideas that don’t belong in this story of newfound love.

One last rant: Nick had a cruel streak to him that, in the book, had belonged to Norah’s boyfriend. It didn’t work for Nick to call Norah frigid. In fact, it made me want her to slug him and walk away, playlist suddenly and inalterably finite.

A lot of the reviews of the book mention the issue of the language. You guys know the word FUCK doesn’t bother me in the least. It didn’t bother me in the book. To me, it helped create atmosphere and authenticity. The sad part is that these critics (as many do with Fat Kid Rules the World, which you know is one of my all-time favorite books) are allowing something so simple to obscure their view of a truly beautiful story.

Stick to the book, folks.

Oh, just go over to LA Stylist Mom. She found ’em.

If I had these, I’d wear them non-stop. With wool socks to mitigate that sweaty feet factor.

Now, go buy some books so I can afford them, will ya?

Although I haven’t answered a Booking Through Thursday question in awhile (some have been over at Rocks ‘n Reads, if you don’t have my quiet little book blog on your feed reader yet), the weekly prompt still shows up in my own reader.

I had to laugh at this week’s question:

Do you read book reviews? Do you let them change your mind about reading/not reading a particular book?

If you head over to my friend Florinda and her 3 R’s Blog, you’ll see that I wrote a guest blog post that went live just today. It’s about how important it is to us authors that people review our books. I’m not talking about the authors who’ll send out e-mail to everyone in their address books, asking for a review, either. I’m talking about the difference an ordinary person can make to an author’s sales.

So… yes, I DO read reviews and let myself be swayed by them. And believe me, thanks to Win a Book, I now read a LOT of reviews. I even read the reviews in my GoodReads updates feed.

Look. My wishlist is now over 2100 books long. My TBR mountains consist of probably close to 540 books (down ten from my last estimate!). While I believe in the power of serendipity to help me find those books on my wishlist and to get to read them, I still can use a little help in choosing what to read.

Okay, ready for the story behind this one?

Thanks to Win a Book, I met Rebecca Chastain, who runs Number One Novels. Every week or so, Rebecca interviews a debut author and gives a few copies of the debut novel away. It’s a great site; Rebecca has fantastic taste in books. Yes, this is a hint!

One week, I actually entered — and won. The book was Rebecca Cantrell’s A Trace of Smoke, which I thought my book club might like (I’m going to pass it around among us, in fact. Once my desk spits it back out). I read it. I Tweeted about it …and attracted Rebecca Cantrell, the author of A Trace of Smoke (I know! Lots of Rebeccas around here. No wonder I just named a character that!). We got to chatting, as authors do.

Yesterday, A Night of Long Knives, the sequel to A Trace of Smoke, was released. So I HAD to ask Rebecca my favorite question: what song makes you think of your book?

Here’s what she had to say:

Song of a German Mother, lyrics by Bertolt Brecht, music by Kurt Weill, sung by Lotte Lenya. I only have the English version (from the Lenya Sings Weill album).

It’s a political song that sums up the horror that would engulf Germany. At first the mother is proud that her son is doing something, part of something, but then she realizes that the brown shirt she bought him (storm trooper uniform) will be his winding sheet, because he has been killed. I feel sad every time I listen to it.

I can’t find this particular version of the song on YouTube. Here’s some Lotte Lenya, singing a Kurt Weill song. What a very period voice she has!

I couldn’t find the song itself, either — at least, not a terribly audible one. Holler if you’re more successful than I am… and in the meantime, pick up the book!

Here’s the cover blurb:

Journalist Hannah Vogel has vowed to never again set foot in her homeland of Germany while the Nazis are still in power. She has good reason: three years ago in 1931, she kidnapped her son, Anton, from the man claiming to be his father–Ernst Rohm, head of the Nazis’ SA. A powerful man not to be trifled with, Hannah knows that Rohm will never stop searching for them.

Hannah is asked to write about a zeppelin journey from South America to Switzerland, but Switzerland turns out to be too close. The zeppelin is diverted to Munich, where Hannah and Anton are kidnapped and, to Hannah’s horror, separated.

It’s unlucky timing for Rohm, however. Hitler has ordered the execution of Rohm and hundreds of his storm troopers and is determined to wipe out any remaining traces of his name. The Night of the Long Knives has begun.

When Rohm is killed before Hannah can ascertain Anton’s whereabouts, she desperately enlists all of her remaining sources and friends to locate Anton before the Nazis do. And the Gestapo is closing in…

Thrilling and powerful, A Night of Long Knives breathtakingly recreates a shattered and betrayed city as it plunges into darkness.

And, if you missed it above, the buy link for A Night of Long Knives. And for good measure, since you’ll want to start at the beginning and pick up both of these books, here’s the link for A Trace of Smoke.

Don’t miss these. There are more under contract, too!

(As always, I’m an affiliate at Powell’s, so if you click through and buy stuff, I’ll get a few pennies. If those pennies ever add up, I’ll turn them into goodies for you guys. No direct profit for me on this deal!)