What happens when you get stranded at one of the world’s largest music festivals without a hotel room? You get rescued by a broody stranger of course!
Here are all the deets!
A Charm of Finches
Release Date: November 1, 2017
From the author of An Exaltation of Larks comes the long-awaited second book in the Venery series.
“I swear. Give me one more chance, and I will make the most of it.”
Ex-escort Javier Landes is asking for his third chance at love. The third time proves to be the charm when he meets an art therapist named Steffen Finch. What starts as casual deepens into a passionate relationship—everything Jav has ever wanted, and everything he fears losing.
Stef’s business card reads Curator & Sailor. His creativity and insightful nature have made him into a talented therapist, the one to call for tough cases. His professional success can’t conceal a deep need to connect with someone, but Javier Landes is the last person Stef expected.
Geronimo “Geno” Caan is Stef’s most challenging case. To cope with his ordeal, he’s allowed an alter-ego called Mos to make decisions, and now lives a double life within a web of lies. Under Stef’s navigation, Geno uses art to express what he can’t yet speak aloud. But as Geno’s attachment to Stef gradually extends to Jav, the boundaries between professional and personal begin to blur.
Over the course of a year, Jav, Stef and Geno form an unexpected and unconventional triangle, revealing how men make love in times of war and how love is a great wisdom made up of small understandings. A Charm of Finches is an epic tale of survival and secrets guaranteed to make you think and feel and remember.
Signed Copies Available (To be shipped after the November 1st release date) Order Here
A former professional dancer and teacher, Suanne Laqueur has gone from choreographing music to choreographing words. Her goal is to create a new kind of emotionally-intelligent romance that appeals to the passions of all readers, crossing gender, age and genre.
Suanne Laqueur’s An Exaltation of Larks won the Grand Prize in the 2017 Writer’s Digest Book Awards. Her debut novel The Man I Love and its follow-up, Give Me Your Answer True, won gold medals in the 2015 and 2016 Readers’ Favorite Book Awards. Both were finalists in the 2015 and 2016 Kindle Book Awards, and Laqueur was named a gold medal Debut Author with Feathered Quill Book Reviews.
Laqueur graduated from Alfred University with a double major in dance and theater, and taught at the Carol Bierman School of Ballet Arts in Croton-on-Hudson for ten years. An avid reader, cook and gardener, she started her blog EatsReadsThinks in 2010. She lives in Westchester County, New York with her husband and two children. Visit her at http://suannelaqueurwrites.com . All feels welcome. And she always has coffee.
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Kick up your feet and get comfy because here’s my super detailed and lengthy play-by-play of RT Atlanta:
Arrived. Took classes. Ate at Sway. Bought books. Fangirled. Ate at Sway again. Fangirled again. Took more classes. Refused to eat at Sway again. Ate at Sway again. Flew home. Cried.
Seriously though, RT Atlanta was one of the best experiences of my book loving life. And while I’d like to give you a super detailed and lengthy play-by-play, I’m going to spare you—and myself—because…deadline.
But I will say this: If you love books, if you write books, want to write books, read books, or have ever seen a book in your life, go to RT Reno.
And now that I’ve convinced you, here are the top 5 things you need to know before your trip:
1.) Packing light is for boys and backpackers, so don’t bother. Spend your pre-con days lifting weights and dragging rolling bags of bricks around your house for practice.
2.) Be prepared for heartache. Checking in books at the airport is harder than sending kids off to college.
3.) People who drive tend to have full bars in their rooms. Make friends.
4.) If you want people to think you’re a writer, dye your hair blue. I swear, if you have blue hair, no one will even notice the color of your badge.
5.) Think you’re too cool for a selfie stick? You’re not. Bring one.
The truth is, it doesn’t matter what you pack or if you decide to dye your hair pink instead of blue or if you cry at the airport.
It’s the people you meet that makes an experience like RT special, and I made some seriously stalkable new friends. The romance community is a warm and welcoming place, and I’m so happy to be a part of it, as a reader, as a fangirl, and as an “aspiring writer” with an orange badge and normal colored hair.
And is it just me, or is anybody else jonesing for a Sway grilled cheese about now?
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There is nothing cute/romantic/sexy about condoms. They’re kind of gross. And they smell (a fact I really don’t need to be reminded of while reading, thank you very much).
I don’t want to wait for the hot, strapping hero to tear into a foil packet and roll it on his swollen manhood any more than his heroine does. But, by God, if he doesn’t stop to put one on, I wonder about him. Not to mention the heroine beneath him, legs spread and morals TBD. For a reader, it’s a total catch 22. And for a romance writer, it’s damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
This is further complicated by the book’s tense. If it’s past tense, it doesn’t bother me so much. In my zany brain, past tense equates to a retelling of sorts, and such details aren’t necessarily, well…necessary. But I read present tense as real time (even if it really isn’t), and if a condom isn’t used, it sticks out to me like a sore, throbbing, burgeoning…thumb.
In the first five chapters of my book, condoms play a big enough roll to necessitate their own Wiki page. I can’t even begin to tell you how many hours I’ve spent debating the damn things. With my betas. With my friends. Even with my husband, who at this point reads the word “condom” and is ready to set my manuscript ablaze. His exact words while reading my latest edits were, “Enough with the condoms already!” Dude. I’m trying. I swear.
It should be simple, right? Just stash one in my hero’s pocket and be done with it.
Except…it’s my heroine who first instigates sex, so shouldn’t she be the one with a condom?
AND THERE IT IS. I give my heroine her very own box of Trojans and the next five scenes topple over like falling dominoes. One little change and Frankie and Darian’s sexual future is altered, thus The Condom Effect.
Suddenly my days become less about writing and more about condom logistics. I worry about who has them and how many they have. Where they’re located at any given time. Is water going to be involved?
Oy vey. Am I overthinking this? Probably. I overthink my breakfast.
In a perfect world, Darian would have a Red Room of Pain and a file cabinet full of lab results at his disposal to offer
Anastasia Frankie, who I should have written as a twenty-something “virgin” on birth control. But alas, it’s not a perfect world. It’s a safe sex world. And we’re all just reading in it.
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It’s March, and locally, as well as in the far-reaching grasp of the music industry worldwide, it’s time for South by Southwest (SXSW).
In a nutshell, SXSW is a collection of MUSIC, FILM, and INTERACTIVE festivals and conferences. If you’re in one of these industries, it’s a great way to be discovered, and if you’re a fan, it’s a great way to discover.
SXSW is held annually in Austin, Texas and lasts ten days. Today I’m focusing on the music festival which lasts seven, and myself, which lasts three.
I don’t want to bore you with the details, but if you’re unfamiliar, click here and scroll down for a short synopsis. Basically, what you need to know is that thousands of unknown bands seeking representation perform at parties (or showcases) in every nook and cranny of the downtown area. Some parties require a badge and some don’t. Some offer free drinks and some don’t. I suggest saying NO to the badge and YES to the free drinks.
SXSW and I go back to my mid twenties when I was working for a CD manufacturer in Austin. My husband and I had a condo downtown (prime SXSW real estate which I’d later learn is rent-able for over a thousand dollars per night during the festival!). One of my company’s clients, a band out of Jacksonville, managed to book a showcase but not a hotel. They slept on our living room floor.
It was late afternoon on a Thursday. The guys were in the living room tuning their guitars, strumming a few chords, and singing a few versus. I’d just gotten out of the shower. Wrapped in a terrycloth robe with my hair in a turban, I sat at my vanity while the music picked up outside my bedroom door. Then came the voices, lots of them, and a chorus of instruments at full volume. I managed to get one eye sufficiently lined and shadowed before a full-on concert erupted on the other side of the wall. Without giving my appearance a second thought, I sprung from my chair and threw open the door. My living room was full of people. Standing room only. What began as lazy downtime had shifted into an impromptu showcase for a major record producer. In my living room.
Several years later, my husband and I drank our weight in free Mai Tias and chased Glen Hansard from party to party until our efforts were halted at a badge only showcase at Antone’s. The line stretched for blocks, and there was no way I was going to wait hours just to be told my badge-less ass couldn’t get in. Still, I wasn’t about to give up, and I had just enough rum swimming in my veins to forge ahead. I grabbed my husband’s hand and dragged him around the side of the building to the stage door where two gate keepers (at the time, I was sure I’d seen four) were in the middle of a heated argument. My husband was mortified because I was convinced I could talk my way in.
It happened in a blur, but before I knew it we were being shoved through the door and ushered to the stairs. The two (possibly four) gatekeepers resumed fighting, their voices fading as we climbed.
“I can’t believe you did that! What the hell were you thinking?”
“Are you kidding? That was a true fan. That’s what SXSW is all about.”
“Uh no, dipshit. It’s about bands getting…”
That’s the last thing I remember.
Over the years, we’ve encountered some changes, but some things remain. Like Frankie, we continue to favor restaurants to food trucks. We always plan to end the night at a wristband only showcase, but our feet carry us to Pete’s Piano Bar instead. We still spend weeks researching bands, parties, and freebies for our annual SXSW spreadsheet. And we always, ALWAYS carry our tried and true Justin Bieber backpack.
South by Southwest has been a part of my life for decades, but as the opening setting of my book, it has become a part of my heart. Something happens to me when we make that left onto Caesar Chavez. I’m not just there to catch live shows and hunt free drinks anymore. I’m there to visit old friends, imaginary friends. Friends I can’t wait for you to meet.
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February is the month of love, and in that spirit, I’d like to pay tribute to one of the things I love the most: BOOK BOYFRIENDS.
If you’re a romance enthusiast like myself, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Those impeccably penned heroes who keep you glued to the page, reading late into the night, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and ohmygod-ing.
Everyone has their tropes of choice. Most of my friends go gaga over the alpha male (Travis), and if he’s a billionaire (Gideon), bonus. Some are suckers for the dangerous anti-hero (Caleb), or the womanizing rock star (Kellan). I prefer the boy next door (Nick), broken if possible (Gabriel), with a side of single dad (Cory).
What propels an average book hero to BOOK BOYFRIEND status? That depends on the reader, and what makes her swoon. BOOK BOYFRIENDS are designed to be perfect (or perfectly imperfect) and perfection in romance is subjective. Take Kellan Kyle for example (the womanizing rock star mentioned above). Everyone loves him…except me. He’s hot; I can’t argue that, but he’s also hot for his best friend’s girl, and the second he acted on it, my swoon-o-meter reset to zero. I don’t get him at all. But you know who I do get? Caleb (the dangerous anti-hero mentioned above). For whatever reason, I fell hard for Caleb. Sweet, kidnapping, abusive, sex slave trafficking Caleb. See what I mean? Subjective.
For the most part (sweet, kidnapping, abusive, sex slave traffickers excluded) BOOK BOYFRIENDS never cheat. They would never even consider it, and if you happen to find one in bed with a naked woman, you best believe there’s an explanation (Reed).
BOOK BOYFRIENDS always say the perfect thing. They may say a lot of bullshit first, but eventually, they get there (Colton).
BOOK BOYFRIENDS have magical morning breath and lickable sweat. They never fart or belch. They tend to come fully accessorized with cars, houses, jobs, defined abs, and certain desirable…ahem…talents. They’re great with kids, they love to cuddle, and they always smell amazing. Always.
And best of all, the sun rises and sets with their heroine. She can be an awkward, clumsy, scarred, flawed, wary, cynical, needy, jealous, slightly neurotic, penniless Plain Jane and she’s still perfect (or perfectly imperfect) to him.
To Nick, Cory, Erik, Gabriel, Jesse, Sam, Henry, Will, Elliot, Caleb, Alex, Jonah, Theo, Noah, Ben, Ryan, Angelo, Matt, Trent, Nate, Conner, Evan, Francis, Anders, Chris, Brett, Damien, Brooks, Beckett, Cole, Colton, Miles, TJ, Jacob, and especially Darian… I HEART YOU.
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I don’t even know where to begin. I fear this may be a long, chaotic mess of thoughts, so please bear with me, or skim, or totally ignore.
I’ve always been fascinated with the occult. The Exorcist (both the book and the movie, RIP Mr. Blatty) scared the hell out of me, pardon the pun. It still does. Every. Single. Time. And I love being scared. I love horror movies, haunted houses, Ouija boards (even though my husband forbids them), and Halloween. I love Halloween so much it’s my wedding anniversary.
My freshman year of college, I was a moron. I had an English Lit class where I had to write a basic research paper on anything I wanted. I chose exorcism. Why? Moron.
Fascination is one thing; belief is another. I didn’t actually believe all this stuff; I just liked reading about it. All my research during that semester long assignment pointed to one book, Hostage to the Devil: The Possession and Exorcism of Five Contemporary Americans by Malachi Martin. I was nineteen. This was before the internet and Amazon. I actually had to check books out of physical buildings called libraries. I had to find Hostage to the Devil…and I couldn’t. It had mysteriously vanished from every library within 100 miles of my college. My dad happened to find a copy in some little secondhand bookstore, and when he told the bookseller who it was for and why, the guy actually tried to convince him not to buy it.
But I’m stubborn, and my dad knew, one way or another, I’d find it. He bought it anyway. At the risk of unintentionally reviewing Hostage too, I’ll just say…I kind of wish he would have listened. That book messed me up. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I was on edge. Things happened in my college apartment I couldn’t explain. I managed to turn in an incomplete paper, and my professor took pity on me. He gave me a “B” and told me to get some sleep.
Why am I telling you this? I have absolutely no idea. I guess because it’s been on my mind lately, reading this book, and then yesterday with the death of William Peter Blatty and this oddly timed report on Father Martin.
For at least a decade after that taxing English Lit class, I wouldn’t go near this stuff. But time has a way of minimizing even the most frightening memories, and looking back, I’m convinced I was just sleep deprived and hormonal.
So here we are. I read Jay Anson’s Amityville, finally. And not just any old Amityville, but a used battered paperback that looks like it holds its own demons. Was it scary? Not particularly—at least not when compared to The Exorcist. Plus, to be able to read the faded print, I had the room lit up like noon in August. Was it good? Definitely. And for someone interested in the occult, it is, in fact, fascinating. If you look at the reviews, it seems the people who believe the Lutz’s account rate it much higher than the people who don’t. I went into this thinking I’d be impartial; I’d just rate it as a work of fiction and leave it at that. Easier said than done, because the entire way through, I questioned everything. Did this stuff really happen? If they were lying, what was their motive? How do you explain the testimony of respected corroborating witnesses like Father Mancuso and the local police force? It was impossible for me to read this simply as a work of fiction, and to review it, I had to look at it from all angles. The writing, the storytelling. Fact vs. fiction. The phenomenon, the controversy, the legacy. As a whole, it’s kind of brilliant.
Should you read it? If you’re into this kind of stuff? Absolutely! I wanted to go big, thus the creepy looking paperback, but if you really want to be scared…read the e-book version. Alone at night. With the lights out.
Oh, and sweet dreams.