Today, I get to be the stop on the Authors Are Rockstars tour. Even better, I get to host one of my favorite authors ever! :) Who is it, you ask? Corrine *freaking* Jackson, I not-so-gently reply!
We're going to start off with a few not-good-enough-but-will-work reasons why Corrine Jackson is amazing, showcase her (3) books, and then.. we get to share with you the rough draft of a novel she is considering finishing! *faints* *eats a cookie* *reads "Touched" again* *faints again*
Why do I think she's awesome?
Well, you see, sometimes you read a book and you just want to hug it, but you're soo afraid of bending such a piece of art that you have to settle for a mind hug and all of a sudden you start talking about it and you feel like you sound crazy and you're not using correct punctuation and you don't care because you have so many feelings that you just need to vent and you know you should stop but the awesomeness was more than you could take and your mind is officially blown and..
*breathes deeply* I remember finishing this book and thinking about all the other books I had read leading up to "Touched". I remember thinking that that was the first book I'd ever read that had an author who wasn't afraid. She didn't keep us away from Asher and Remy, she gave us what she knew we wanted knowing that it was so amazing that she didn't have to do that. Tease us. Normally I read a book and can't stop until the focus is off of the couple, but the focus very rarely left them and I couldn't put it down because of that. Because I knew that I'd get to see them again soon. It left me breathlessly staring at a piece of paper with my thumb ready to flip to the next one.
Why is she awesome? Why are you reading this? No one knows. You just are, and she just is.
Find If I Lie on Goodreads. Purchase If I Lie on Amazon.
A powerful debut novel about the gray space between truth and perception.
Quinn’s done the unthinkable: she kissed a guy who is not Carey, her boyfriend. And she got caught. Being branded a cheater would be bad enough, but Quinn is deemed a traitor, and shunned by all of her friends. Because Carey’s not just any guy—he’s serving in Afghanistan and revered by everyone in their small, military town.
Quinn could clear her name, but that would mean revealing secrets that she’s vowed to keep—secrets that aren’t hers to share. And when Carey goes MIA, Quinn must decide how far she’ll go to protect her boyfriend…and her promise.
Find Touched (Sense Thieves #1)
on Goodreads. Purchase it on Amazon.
Remy O’Malley heals people with touch—but every injury she cures becomes her own. Living in a household with an abusive stepfather, she has healed untold numbers of broken bones, burns,and bruises. And then one night her stepfather goes too far.
Being sent to live with her estranged father offers a clean start and she is eager to take it. Enter Asher Blackwell. Once a Protector of Healers, Asher sacrificed his senses to become immortal. Only by killing a Healer can a Protector recover their human senses. Falling in love is against the rules between these two enemies. Because Remy has the power to make Protectors human again, and when they find out, they’ll be coming for her—if Asher doesn’t kill her first.
This is Book One in the Touched trilogy.
Find Pushed (Sense Thieves #2) on Goodreads. Pre-order it on Amazon.
She didn’t know how far she’d go—until she was pushed.
Remy O’Malley was just learning to harness her uncanny healing power when she discovered the other, darker half of her bloodline. Now she lives trapped between two worlds, uneasy among her fellow
Healers—and relentlessly hunted by the Protectors.
Forced to conceal her dual identity, and the presence of her Protector boyfriend Asher Blackwell, Remy encounters a shadow community of Healers who will put her loyalties to the test.
Pushed to the limit, with the lives of those she loves most on the line, Remy must decide whether to choose sides in a centuries-old war—or make the ultimate sacrifice and go to a place from which she may never return…
ALSO: Add Ignited (Sense Thieves #3) on Goodreads here.
Below is the beginning of a novel that Corrine may or may not finish. If you like it, please let her know in the comments that you're supporting this project!:)
Sometimes you start a novel, unsure where it’s going or if it will actually be something. After I wrote If I Lie, one of those "could be something" ideas came to me, and Miranda was born. I thought it would be fun to show a rough draft of the opening from her story. I’m not sure if I’ll finish writing this novel, but it’s been a year and a half since I wrote the first few chapters and it’s still calling to me. It has a girl with a lot of attitude, a boy who likes that about her, a charming older brother, and a small town full of scandalous secrets. Something about Miranda won’t let me go. If you like what you read, let me know, and I just may finish it!
Mom poisons everything.
I swear flowers die when they see her coming. Nothing lives, or at least lives well, in her vicinity.
"You have to take Miranda," she says. She’s on the phone in the other room, but since we live in a motel that means she’s in the bathroom. Hello, echo chamber. Not that she cares if I hear her. It’s not like we have any secrets from each other.
"I’m not asking, Oliver," she continues in a more strident voice. "I have my reasons."
Yeah, I bet that’s going over just super with my brother. He’s twenty and only escaped from us three years ago. The last thing he’s going to want is to be saddled with his sixteen year-old half-sister. I mean, we like each other okay over the phone, but the last time we saw each other, he was tweaked out on meth and I was pissed because he’d stolen my birthday money to get high. Money he’s never returned, despite getting clean, which I like to remind him of often.
I flop sideways on the bed, and tip my head back, letting my hair spill over the edge of the mattress, as I eye the room from an upside-down perspective.
I can’t blame Oliver for ditching us. He had to in order to find some type of normal life that didn’t include traipsing across the country on a never-ending tour of the night clubs my mother sings at. When I leave my mother for good, I’m going to throw a huge ass party. I’ll invite anyone she’s ever pissed on, which is a tragically long list. If you took a walk down Stella Grey’s memory lane, you’d have to pick your way over the carcasses of people she’d tossed aside like broken wind-up toys. My party will make the New Year’s Eve bash at Times Square look like someone’s backyard kegger.
Whatever Oliver’s telling Mom, she’s not happy. I can hear her pacing on the cheap linoleum floor in the bathroom, three short steps in one direction and then back again. She rarely raises her voice; she doesn’t have to. Speaking or singing, my mother sounds like she is one of those tortured, old souls. With a single note, she can stun people into silence. I liken her effect to that of Voldemort using a Silencio charm. She hates it when I tell her that, though. The woman has no freaking sense of humor.
Finally she says to my brother, "I’m putting her on a bus to Elsinore in the morning. I know you’ll be there at the station to pick her up."
I hear the slap of her phone closing, and then the water running. I twine a light brown braid around a finger and chew on the end, tasting the rubber of the band. Waiting. I’m always waiting on her, whether it’s in a bar, a motel, or our car. If there was an Olympic medal in waiting, I’d rock the gold.
The bathroom door finally opens. My mother looks beautiful but disheveled. More than a little nervous and a lot out of control. That scares me more than anything. Worse, her dyed and permed red curls don’t hang down her back in a perfectly arranged chaos like they normally do. She’s pulled the whole mass back into a braid, despite hating that hairstyle with a vengeance. She says braids are too restrained, too I’m-somebody’s-minivan-driving-suburban-mother.
That may be why I wear a braid so often. More than one when I want to irritate her. Today four or five small braids hang haphazardly through the long hair I’ve mostly left down. We’ve had a rough couple of days.
My mother pauses when sees me laying there, staring at her. She can’t quite shed her nerves now the way she does when she takes the stage. I notice how tense she is, as if any moment she’s going to launch out of a starting gate on a race to somewhere far away from here. Then she clears her throat, and that image disappears as she puts on normal like a Sunday dress.
"Give me a break, Miranda," she says. "Must you kick the bedspread to the floor in every hotel room we stay in? And stop chewing on your hair."
She picks up the ugly blue-and-mauve patterned bedspread some disturbed interior decorator thought was a good idea and tosses it on the end of the bed. As soon as she walks by, I shove it to the floor again and shudder.
"Who knows what shit is growing on that thing?" I tell her. "They never wash them, you know."
"So you’ve told me at every motel we’ve ever stayed in."
I hear her moving about the room, but I can’t see her from my upside-down position, facing the opposite direction. I don’t want to think about her, or why we’re in this particular motel outside Detroit on this particular night.
I focus on a black spot on the wall near the bathroom door that I suspect is black mold. Don’t people get asthma and allergies from living in moldy rooms? I inhale and exhale normally. So far, so good. I’m not wheezing like those people in the medication commercials on TV where the side effects of the miracle drugs always sound worse than what they’re supposed to be curing.
Then again, maybe I shouldn’t breathe that crap into my lungs. I tug my hair over my face like a mask, covering my nose and mouth.
"You can pout all you like," my mother says. "It won’t change anything."
The mattress shifts as she sits near my bare feet on the other side of the bed. I concentrate on the mold. I’m not sure why I thought I could escape her in this room.
"Miranda, I’m doing this for you," she pleads. She’s using her manipulative voice, the one she usually saves for men and future employers. I hate how it twists everything inside me. She continues. "What happened in Chicago with Vince… All of this is for you."
Sure, it is.
A vision of two nights ago slithers under the door that I slammed shut to keep the memory out. Vince sneaking up on me while I played my guitar and my mother sneaking up on both of us, white-faced with rage. The trembling starts in my fingers and rolls from that epicenter to the rest of my body. My mother reaches over to stroke one of my braids.
To hell with that. So. Not. Going. There.
"You believe me, don’t you, baby? I need you to believe me."
"Yeah, Mom," I whisper, not because I do, but because she poisons everything, and I don’t want to see my mother that angry ever again.
******END OF CORRINE'S STORY*****
I am so stoked that Corrine chose to share this with us!! I'll buy anything she writes. Oh, and you can find my *short* review of "Touched" here.
I hope you guys will check this author out!
I'll leave you with her bio/author links from her Goodreads author page! :)
in Haxtun, CO, The United States