Once a long time ago *coffs* — a few years ago— I got an email from a reader, well, a reviewer, really. She was sweet and made ridiculous noises about how much she loved Dirty Kiss and how it—I don’t know what else. My brain was busy going off like a Jiffy Pop shipment that’d fallen into a volcano. Who the hell would think that about what I’ve written?
I responded—kind of overwhelmed and rather more than a bit touched; in the heart as well in the head—and well, we’ve not stopped emailing ever since. Lisa—blogger extraordinaire—probably some days regrets emailing that first time because her day is full of neurotic messes and my loathing of what I’m writing but God, I wouldn’t change a thing. We’ve met, laughed, eaten together, snored, falling asleep on one another and had champagne.
On the surface, Lisa and I have very different lives and life experiences. Yet here we are, so very much aligned in philosophies and thought. She can also stand to be around me for long periods of time without killing me, which is always a plus in my ledger. We can talk for hours about everything or nothing.
But most of all, we also talk about books.
I’ve found, you see, a deep friendship by simply writing a book.
Because words—emotions—thoughts—ALL of it brings the most unlikely of people together.
I think ultimately that’s why I write. Okay, some of it is because I’m certifiable but mostly because I do believe the writing and reading of books brings people to places they might not ever have been. It allows us to step outside of what we know and dabble a bit in the unknown and yet the desired.
I kind of wrote Fish and Ghosts with that in mind. There is so much outside of what we know. I will be the first one to say; the world’s a mysterious place so I’m not going to discount anything. We merely perhaps lack the science—the understanding—of why something is or is not.
It’s all about the maybe. The possibilities. The wonder.
So with this in mind, I’d like to offer up to one reader here a special place in the afterlife of pixels and letters. I’ll be scribbling together the next Hellsinger novel, and I will be needing a ghost. YOU can be that ghost. Simply comment below to enter! The winner will get to choose the ghost’s appearance and name.
In addition to the spectral guest appearance, the winner will be sent a small token from Hoxne Grange—a seven inch Jack, in corporeal form this time around. A plushie from Webkins. Yes, I’ll send him international. Ghosts have no boundaries! And he’ll fit in a padded envelope—much like a padded room. Muah hah hah *coffs*
So! Visit the afterlife! Send a postcard from beyond!
But most of all, imagine the possibilities.
THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED
When his Uncle Mortimer died and left him Hoxne Grange, the family’s Gilded Age estate, Tristan Pryce knew he wasn’t going to have an easy time of it. He was to be the second generation of Pryces to serve as a caretaker for the estate, a way station for spirits on their final steps to the afterlife. The ghosts were the simple part. He’d been seeing boo-wigglies since he was a child. No, the difficult part was his own family. Determined to establish Tristan’s insanity, his loving relatives hire Dr. Wolf Kincaid and his paranormal researchers, Hellsinger Investigations, to prove the Grange is not haunted.
Skeptic Wolf Kincaid has made it his life’s work to debunk the supernatural. After years of cons and fakes, he can’t wait to reveal the Grange’s ghostly activity is just badly leveled floorboards and a drafty old house. The Grange has more than a few surprises for him, including its prickly, reclusive owner. Tristan Pryce is much less insane and much more attractive than Wolf wants to admit and when his Hellsinger team unwittingly release a ghostly serial killer on the Grange, Wolf is torn between his skepticism and protecting the man he’d been sent to discredit.