Marissa Honeycutt Releases Master of My Body

 

Master of My Body Blurb:

Sabrina Mansfield is compelled to be a professional ballerina for reasons she can’t explain. Ballet grounds her, completes her like no other activity, and attending dance camp in Boston is more than a dream come true. Her summer is full of amazing experiences, dancing, and laughter.

 

She didn’t expect to fall in love…

 

When Christopher “Chase” Ralston graduates at the top of his class from West Point, his only aspiration is to follow in his late father’s footsteps and join the elite Green Berets. He expects to spend his summer leave visiting with family and friends before heading off for training.

 

Love is the last thing on his mind, but a glimpse of a young woman has him questioning his desire to remain single.

 

Banished because he dared to become more than human, Vamar Thilduri has been waiting, plotting his revenge against Kronos, the father of the Immortals, for two thousand years.

 

Nothing and no one will stand in the way of what he wants.

 

And he wants Sabrina.

 

 

Book Links Books2Read: books2read.com/MasterOfMyBody

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072V1FWLZ

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B072V1FWLZ

Amazon DE: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B072V1FWLZ

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B072V1FWLZ

Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B072V1FWLZ

iBooks: http://apple.co/2tNdlC1

Nook: http://bit.ly/2vgIHif

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2tiUCuJ

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/2uVw50z

 

 

Book Trailer

https://vimeo.com/marissahoneycutt/masterofmybody

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35490623-master-of-my-body

 

 

About Marissa: 

 

“If Stephen King got together with Tom Clancy and wrote an erotica book…,”
…is how Marissa describes her books when asked. She doesn’t seek to write any particular genre, style, or length, only following her gut instincts and the lead of her characters. The Life of Anna crosses many genre lines including erotica, suspense, psychological thriller, horror, political conspiracy, paranormal, and romance. Marissa’s story of Anna began with a dream about being kidnapped with Adam Savage from Mythbusters (Yes, really). Over the next year and a half, it morphed into the story that is now known as “The Life of Anna.” She has also published Distorted Hope, which is based on her kidnapped dream. Abandoned Grace was published last year as a side story to The Life of Anna.
Marissa stays busy running her household, fending off two adorable kittens, and interacting with her readers on social media. She is a self-proclaimed geek and is striving to learn the basics of graphic design. She is also actively pursuing a more natural lifestyle, which includes essential oils, natural cleaning products, and whole, organic foods. Marissa’s addictions include the Science and History Channels, anything chocolate mint, vintage books, cute kitty cats, and laughter.

 

 

 

Pursue Mr. Sands in Cosmopolitan Magazine!

 

I’m very excited to announce that a brand new Mr. Sands story is in the UK online version of Cosmopolitan Magazine today in the LOVE & SEX section! For those of you who have been “in pursuit of Mr. Sands” with my blog short snippets of him and Elise North, the PI who is being paid by Magda Gardener to pursue him, I hope you’ll pursue them right on over to Cosmo and enjoy the read. While the title is the same, In pursuit of Mr. Sands, the content entirely new.

 

I’m even more excited that Cosmo has taken this story because it’s only slightly more than a month before Blindsided, the second novel in the Medusa’s Consortium series comes out. (29 September) If you’ve been following those sketches, then you know that Mr. Sands is a Medusa’s Consortium story. While I have had several snippets on my blog, I have viewed those stories, and the one appearing in Cosmo today, as an artist might view sketches on her sketchpad in preparation to do a painting or a sculpture. Elise and Mr. Sands are a work in progress, and their story has come to me
in bits and pieces, including the encounter you will find in Cosmo today. All of these snippets and sketches are leading to a novella, or possibly even a novel, in the Consortium series. I’m chuffed to bits that I’ve been able to get a little of their story on Cosmo for everyone to read, so please do go on over to Cosmo’s LOVE & Sex section and read the latest Mr. Sands sketch. I think you’ll like it.

 

Permission to Write Badly

 

(From the Archives)

I’ve done NaNoWriMo often enough now and finished it that I know the value of giving myself permission to write badly. Permission to write badly is permission to FINISH a project and not get bogged down in the first four chapters. Right now I’m working on the rewrite of Piloting Fury, last November’s NaNoWriMo project, and my first ever scifi. I don’t mind saying I’m rather proud of it, but I wouldn’t have finished the first draft if I hadn’t given myself permission to just loosen my collar and let the words flow. Below is a post I wrote several years ago that seems very relevant every time I begin a final draft. Permission to write badly is always the reason I have a final draft to finish.

 

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the process of writing lately and what makes it work. Why is it that sometimes it flows and other times it just doesn’t? The first time I realised I might be able to exert some control over that flow, that I might be able to do more than sit in front of a keyboard and hope the Muse would take pity on me, was when I read Natalie Goldberg’s classic book, Writing Down the Bones. There I discovered the timed writing. It’s simple really. You write non-stop for a given amount of time. You write against the clock, and you don’t stop writing until time runs out. No matter what! You write whatever comes without fretting over whether it’ll be good. And when you’re done, some of the end result – even a good bit of the end result – might be crap. But mixed in with that crap might just be the seeds of something wonderful.

At the time I felt like I’d been asked to write with my left hand. Even writing for five minutes seemed like a daunting task when I made my first attempts. But Natalie Goldberg knew what she was talking about. I was amazed at what came out of the abyss between my ears! It was only after I read Writing Down the Bones that I began to write real stories. So why did one book make such a difference?

I finally had something I lacked in the past, something very important. I had permission to write badly. Every writer needs permission to write badly. Later Julia Cameron, in her book, The Artist Way, called those off-the-cuff, devil-may-care writings morning pages, and she prescribed three morning pages every day – written without forethought; written in haste. From a fiction writer’s perspective, she didn’t give them the weight that Natalie Goldberg did. They were only a part of a plan to open the reader to the artist within. To her, they were more about venting, sort of a daily house-cleaning for the brain. In addition to morning pages, Cameron insisted that every creative person should give themselves what she called an artist date once a week. An artist date was a date with oneself away from writing.

I can’t count the number of times I stood myself up for my artist dates. I would have broken up with me long ago if I were actually dating me. But then I realised that an artist date didn’t have to be dinner and dancing or shopping or even visiting a museum. An artist date was a change of pace. It could even be ironing or weeding the garden. In fact the whole point of the artist date was to create space in which I could disengage the internal editor and give myself permission to write badly.

 

 

So many of us are under the impression that every word we write must be precious and worth its weight in gold. What I’ve learned since I discovered the pleasure of writing badly is that on the first draft, every word is most definitely not precious. On the first draft, every word is a crazy frivolous experiment. Every word is a chance to test the waters, to play in the mud, to let my hair loose and run dancing and screaming through the literary streets. Every word is a game and an adventure. Every word is eating ice cream with sprinkles for the main course. Every word is shit; every word is compost, and every word is the ground out of which the next draft will grow. I never know what’ll work until I try it. I never know what my unconscious will come up with while I’m writing like a wild crazy person, grabbing words and cramming them in and rushing on to the next ones – just after I’ve pulled the weeds in the garden. Without that bold and daring first draft, without opening the floodgates and letting the words spill onto the page, there’s nothing to work with when the next draft comes. And when the next draft comes, the words do get precious. Every single one becomes weighty and irritable and reluctant to fit anywhere but the place it belongs, the place where I feel it just below my sternum like the point of an accusing finger.

But by the time I get to the second draft, by the time I get to that place where every word has to be perfect, I’m up for it. I’m ready to slow down and feel what every word means. I’m ready to find all the nuance and all the cracks and crevices of meaning in between the words. I’m ready for it because I’ve been playing up until now, and I’ve been allowing the words to play. And now, recess is over!

The longer I write, the more I realise what else, besides Natalie Goldberg’s timed writings and Julia Cameron’s reluctant artist dates, get me there. And what gets me there is often totally being somewhere else, somewhere other than writing. Sometimes it’s playing the piano badly, or sweating at the gym, or weeding the veg patch. Sometimes it’s walking through the woodland not thinking about anything, Sometimes it’s reading something frivolous. Sometimes it’s reading something profound. All the space that taking time not to write opens up inside me makes room for that wild ride of the first draft. And when that first draft is finished, I have what I need to pick and choose, to sort through and sift, to change and rearrange until I find the best way to tell my tale. But up until then, it’s child’s play. It’s dancing naked. It’s shameless abandon and multiple verbal orgasms.

Writing badly? Permission granted.

 

New Release! Random on Tour: Las Vegas by Julia Kent (@jkentauthor) #romantic #romance #contemporary #comedy

Release date: August 15, 2017

Genre: Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance

Description:

Now, you know my mama’s a gambler (sweeper, whatever….), so I guess I got to blame her for a little of this.

When the band got invited to do a big gig here in Las Vegas, I was so excited. Really excited. And when we got here, I was dazzled.

A little too dazzled. I blame the lights and the money and does Vegas pump a scent through the entire town that makes you think you’re a winner, or what?

Because I gambled all our money away. And by “our,” I mean the band’s money. All of it. Every dang cent.

Only no one knows. They’d kill me. So I have to find a way to make all that money back.

I have an idea. I got a good body and a smart mind.

(Quit laughing).

I can do this. I can fix this.

Really.

It’s just gonna get a little weird for a while.

Random on Tour: Las Vegas is the 9th book in Julia Kent’s New York Times bestselling Random series. When the band performs in Vegas, anything goes – including Darla’s dignity and all of the band’s savings. When a savior appears, though, there’s a trade-off for being rescued. A big one. How far is Darla willing to go?

Oh, please. It’s Darla. Like you have to even wonder…

This book is told from the point of view of Darla, Trevor and Joe.

Buy links:

Amazon US:  http://smarturl.it/rotlvazn

Amazon UK:   http://smarturl.it/rotlvuk

Amazon AU:  http://smarturl.it/rotlvau

Amazon CA:  http://smarturl.it/rotlvca

Nook/BN: http://bit.ly/2vmMJt8

iBooks: http://apple.co/2vTLBdO

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2v1WTOG

Google Play: http://bit.ly/2wcl2AD

Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2hteCd6

*****

Excerpt:

“Did you hear about the woman who died by suffocating on a guy’s penis?” I asked, all out of the blue. That’s how my brain worked sometimes, and hell if I understood it. Given any set of crises, I could compartmentalize and let at least one loose strand of gray matter float off in the wind, brought back by a breeze with a strange little factoid tucked away in the outback, coming forward to be uttered out of my no-filter mouth.

Plus, I needed time for the brain’s back burner to figure out how to give them an answer that fully conveyed my apologies and regret for being so stupid. Given that, why not distract them with a huge-dick story?

Trevor and Joe groaned in unison. They knew how I worked.

“He was from Peters, Ohio, wasn’t he?” Joe asked.

“I’ll get beer. We’re going to need it if this is one of her stories,” Trevor said, standing up and shaking his head as he and Joe exchanged a look I didn’t understand.

“No, not from Peters,” I said. “Trust me, if a guy back home had a cock that big, I’d know about it. Or have been dead long before I met you.”

They both froze, then slowly turned to look at me.

Oops.

*****

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down

Social Media Links:

Website:  http://jkentauthor.com/

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/jkentauthor/

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/jkentauthor

Release blitz organized by Writer Marketing Services.

 

An Unexpected Encounter with Magda Gardener

 

With Blindsided, book 2 in the Medusa’s Consortium series, set to be released September 29th, as you can imagine, my characters and their situations are on my mind a lot. That was never more true than this past ten days while I was in New York City, where Blindsided is set. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being watched, shadowed even, by someone who has a lot invested in me getting the story just right.

 

I hear that you occasionally encounter celebrities while walking in New York City, though I never have. I’ve never
encountered anyone I even knew – at least not until this time.

 

I was enjoying one of those lovely solitary city walks. I can combine the total pleasure of exploring with a little research along with the chance to be inspired by the walk, which is always a win-win. One of my favorite things to do is walk the bridges. I love to meander down to Lower Manhattan, slip into China Town’s manic hustle and bustle and then step back out of it onto the gloom and concrete of the Manhattan Bridge. Unlike the bright and airy Brooklyn Bridge that feels almost like it’s suspended above the water on gossamer wings, the pedestrian walk over the Manhattan Bridge is flanked by the noisy clatter and clang of the subway. There are no views off to the left, except for the frequent and noisy trains, sandwiched between traffic crawling over the highway above and steel girders plunging into the East River below.

 

 

To the right the river view is compromised by sinister stretches of high wire fence. I keep coming back not for the glorious views, but for the gated off concrete alcoves and pillars that mantle sections of the walkway in deep shadow and drive an overly active imagination like mind into sheer ecstasy at the story possibilities. While I adore the Brooklyn Bridge, it’s not a place of solitude, always jammed cheek to jowl with tourists. The Manhattan Bridge, however with it’s sparse influx of tourists and its tatty, seen-better-days but totally practical look, inspires me to darker, grittier thoughts.

 

I hadn’t gone very far this time until I had that prickly sense of being followed. Not much of a surprise on the darker, more sinister stretches of the bridge. Even in broad daylight, the place feels a little bit dangerous. Those slightly dodgy sections are the reason I love the bridge, the reason it inspires me. A train rumbled by to my left and the feeling intensified. I stepped aside and let two runners and an elderly Chinese gentleman pass me. I was safe here. No need to worry.

 

 

Photos are hard to take on the Manhattan Bridge because of the heavy cross-hatching of the wire fence, so imagine my delight when I came to a spot near the center of the bridge where someone had torn a hole in the fencing just large enough to get a good photo. I was so caught up in capturing images that I forgot all about that feeling of being followed until I felt a sudden chill crawl over me, and for an instant, I could swear I saw my breath rising in icy puffs. It was eighty degrees already, so I knew of only one thing that would put a chill in the morning, or should I say one person.

 

“Magda.” I didn’t turn around. I’m neither brave nor stupid. The air around me warmed and I felt the heat of her body as she sidled up next to me.

 

“KD.” She returned my terse greeting. I could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Thought I might find you here. I’ve heard you’re quite fond of this bridge. I rather like it myself,” she added. “And Desiree, well that bitch has some chilling tales to tell about experiences of this bridge back when it was being built. A walking history book of the city, that one is. Most of it she was there for.”

 

“I sort of suspected she’d been around awhile.” I risked a peek at Magda’s feet, surprised to find her in soft leather sandals, toenails painted a bright shade of coral.

 

 

She followed my gaze, then chuckled. “I do enjoy a little summer heat now and then. I don’t get enough of it in the Lakes.” Then she huffed out an irritated sigh. “Oh for fuck sake, KD, don’t be such a wuss. After all I’ve allowed you to write, if I was going to make a statue out of you, I’d have done so a long time ago, and I certainly wouldn’t be doing it in the middle of the Manhattan Bridge.”

 

“And the little chill?” I asked, still not looking at her. Frankly it took all the courage I could muster to confront her.

 

I felt more than saw her shrug. “Oh that’s nothing, just a friendly little reminder that you’re playing with the lives and the hearts of my people when you tell their stories.”

 

“They tell their stories,” I replied, still trying to keep my knees from shaking.

 

“Exactly my point. As long as you let them tell their stories, as long as you don’t try to rewrite them, you’re perfectly safe with me.”

 

“I’m not Susan,” I commented, finally getting up the courage to glance around at her. “I can’t make something reality just because I write it.”

 

 

“Can’t you?” She took me by the shoulder and turning me to face her, and for the briefest moment, I felt as though the bridge was collapsing beneath my feet. Then the world righted itself and I found myself looking into the face of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, eyes hidden beneath a pair of Ray-Bans. She wore her long locks in the usual careless black ribbon. Honestly, she could have passed for a tourist in a calf-length turquoise sundress exposing porcelain skin that on any other person would have been sunburnt red in no time. Somehow I doubted that was a problem for Magda Gardener. “What do you think storytellers do, KD? They make what’s in their imagination real.” She offered me a quirk of a smile. “At least to everyone who reads their stories. And that’s a lot of power for one person to wield.” She nodded me forward and we continued on across the bridge.

 

Neither of us said anything as a train rattled by to our left, and when it had passed I asked, “is that why you came to me, to warn me about the power I have?”

 

“Maybe I just like your company,” came the reply. “Certainly I’ve been spending a lot of time with you lately. And anyway,” she added, “I can tell by the sound of your voice you don’t believe you have much power. That’s probably more the reason why I’m here, to remind you that you do. Taking it lightly is just as dangerous as wielding it in the way Susan has, in the way she’s been forced to. There are few things more powerful than the written word. The truth in it, the weight of it, even in fiction, can affect change in ways you never anticipated.”

 

I didn’t respond. She was preaching to the choir here. I always believed that the written language is one of the most powerful tools of civilization and that there’s living, breathing magic in it every time we put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) And sometimes that magic is manifest in words we never expected, or intended, to have any power at all.

 

 

Another train rattled by and a jogger with a Rottweiler on a leash bounded past. “The situation is about to get really hairy. It won’t be easy, what you’ll have to write from now on. You know that?” She said without looking at me.

 

“I know.” My pulse raced at the thought of what I’d have to write next. “I hope I’m up to the task.”

 

“So do I,” she responded. That wasn’t exactly the ringing vote of confidence I’d hoped for. Then she added. “I want you to tell the truth. That’s what I want. I’m not sure all of my people want that. Some don’t have truths they’re proud to share.” She huffed out a little laugh and I swear I saw frost around her lips. “I’m not particularly proud of my truth, for that matter, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want it told.” She nodded. “It needs to be told.”

 

“Even with what’s coming?”

 

“Especially with what’s coming.”

 

As we drew near the end of the bridge, there were more people to dodge, more joggers, a few tourists, several dog walkers. We walked on in semi-comfortable silence.

 

“I’ll be checking in,” she said. “You won’t be left to struggle on your own, at least not for too long.” She looked up and I noticed the black limo waiting at the edge Jay Street.

 

“One of Desiree’s?” I asked.

 

“One of my own,” came the reply. “Where I need to go is too far to walk. Good luck K D.” She turned and headed toward the limo without asking if I needed a ride. But then she didn’t have to ask. She knew I was walking the story, and it would be a long time before I was ready to head back to Penn Station.

 

I watched the driver get out and open the door for her, keeping his eyes straight ahead. For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw a snake slide from beneath the black ribbon and curl around her neck almost like a caress. Then she disappeared into the car, and I continued my walk, finding it a little easier to breathe as the limo drove away.

 

 

Don’t forget, you can still get your copy of my M/M Medusa’s Consortium novella, Landscapes for FREE by following the link. Also if you want a taste of the first Consortium novel, In The Flesh, you can follow the link.  Download! Read! Be happy!

 
© 2017 K D Grace
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