Wordsmith– I also write books

EbookSoda is featuring A BRAND NEW ADDRESS (Intervenus ice age series) and will send this news to New Adult and college age readers. Writers’ interests work their way into manuscripts, and I’m fascinated with space travel and the International Space Station.  With leisure pursuits of gardening and sailing, heroine Yardley is an intergalactic gardener.  Marchand sails his ice-boat across the frozen tundra to deliver goods to the needy.

I feel lucky the new adult genre, particularly futuristic sweet romantic suspense, is going so well, 

AppleIntervenusCover

Below is an excerpt illustrating Yardley’s identity crisis and clash with her dad’s fiancé. Readers identify with her struggle to fit in.  Marchand, a lively fun guy,  is her opposite.  His parents support his robin-hooding thievery.

From the living room Dad’s voice charged its way to the front porch swing.  He and his fiancé were at it again. Just terrific.

Hunkered under a fur-lined quilt, Yardley Van Dyke’s head pounded, worsened by the frigid air.   As if trapped in a vise, pain squeezed hard from both temples.  On the swing she faced forward with her back against the house.  Against them.  Between them.  With their fight on its fourth day, they battled over her late mother’s greenhouse. 

Yardley tended it all day, every day.

His fiancé, Pinky Hazelton, wanted to sell it and move into the Biosphere with its profits.  Powerless with her at the top of the pecking order, her mouth strained.  Around Pinky, she forced it into a straight line. 

Why did Dad ignore her promise to her dying mother?  For three years, she’d grown food for the family.  Mom’s hodge-podgy structure protected plants against the freeze of Earth’s second ice age.  Yardley met the challenge of gardening in the frigid hinterlands, but without a surplus to sell, she had the low pro of a subsistence gardener.  She reined in ideas to maximize sunlight although her latest effort worked.

Discarded Mylar balloons reflected light.  With fifty mounted, she pinched fewer dead leaves.  Under the quilt she balanced a basket of peas on her lap, proof of success from her dirt-candy world. Yardley took a pod, tore down the string, and dumped peas into the basket. 

Inside the cabin Pinky screamed, “Time is running out.”  Timeliness, a variation of her hammering technique, arose with every current event. 

 “I’ll think on it.” Dad’s voice razzed like a trombone.

“Better be quick.” As Pinky squawked about the essence of time, the trombone cranked louder and louder.  Their bombardment sent Yardley a wakeup call.

Her hands shook, and she stopped shelling for one reason.  She predicted their routine.  Dad blew a gasket before giving in.  After that, Pinky won. 

He yelled, “Stop needling me, Pinky.”

Hearing a smash, Yardley jerked upright.  A crashed dish against the wall?  She had no idea what would come next.  A flipping of a table?

His fiancé screamed, “Yeah?  Put this in your data bucket. An ice cap moves south.” 

She imagined Dad’s face turning beet red as he fumed just short of a gasket-blow.

Rubbing one side of her head, she faced the frigid combination of family tension and the twenty-second century ice age. Their now quiet cabin in Newport Beach, California sat in an Arctic spruce forest with northern Siberian climate suffering an annual drop of five degrees.

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