This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Stacey will be awarding an eCopy of Never Forgotten to 3 randomly drawn winners via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
Stacey has stopped by to answer a few of our questions. Why do you write in your genre? What draws you to it?
I write YA sci-fi romance for the same reason I read it, because I enjoy it. From the very first young adult story I read back in high school, when YA wasn’t even a thing yet, I just haven’t been able to get enough. I love the fast pace, the high tension, and first love. It’s a lot of fun to write and read.
What research is required?
Ahh… the type of sci-fi I write takes a decent understanding of physics. All of the technology in my books is based on real science, so it required extensive research to make sure the tech was actually possible. From there, it was easy to build a world, but in a series like the Collective, consistency is key.
Name one thing you learned from your hero/heroine.
That sometimes the truth is right in front of you just waiting to be discovered. Whether it’s a family secret, the love of someone you never considered, or crazy technology that a secret organization has kept under wraps, you just never know what you’ll find if you open your eyes and pay attention.
Do you have any odd or interesting writing quirks, habits or superstitions?
Not really. But I do need total silence to write. If there’s so much as a cat meowing, a kid chatting, or the TV on in the next room I just can’t concentrate enough to get words on the screen. Perhaps it’s because I’m so easily distracted.
Are you a plotter or pantser?
I started out as a pantser with the first two books in this series, but as it’s progressed it’s just not possible to pants anymore. In Never Forgotten, the story is far more complicated than it was in Forget Me Not and the story needed to be carefully woven together to incorporate information and complex storylines that began in the other books. I do miss pantsing though. As a writer it’s kind of exciting to discover where the story is headed as you write it.
Look to your right – what’s sitting there?
Nothing. :P I’m sitting at my favourite spot at our dining room table, which is right next to a large window. We’re high on a hill, so from the window I can see the roofs of other houses and all the gorgeous and huge old trees in our neighbourhood.
Anything new coming up from you? What?
Yes! The third book in my other series, The Oxley College Saga, (an upper YA contemporary) is due to release later this month. And hopefully … there will be a final Collective book down the track.
Do you have a question for our readers?
I’m always on the lookout for awesome books. What is your favourite recent read?
Since the strike on Collective territory during Anamae's rescue, things have taken a turn for the worse. Unprovoked attacks on innocent people have Anamae and her friends fighting day and night to minimise the damage. With hundreds of lives lost, morale amongst the resistance fighters has plummeted. But that's the least of her worries.
Manvyke still has Anamae's mom, Annie, secreted away somewhere and after the way they parted, Anamae worries it's not at her mother's bidding. Maybe Annie's disappearance all those years ago wasn't her choice. But with Manvyke scouring the world, there's something far more pressing than the need to find Anamae's mother ...
It's a fight against time to find the other keys before Manvyke. In his hands, the three relics could unlock enough power to reek a much worse havoc than the current issues at hand. If the councillor gets his hands on those keys, civilisation will bow down.
Enjoy an excerpt:
This is my life now.
The same every day. Well, almost every day. Today, it’s Wednesday. Wednesdays and Saturdays are different.
On those days, he comes.
I look from the door to the window and back again. My whole body tense with the anticipation of him and the show I’ll have to put on. The show that I don’t care. That I’m strong. I’m unflinching, when on the inside I’m absolutely not.
The pale walls—a creamy-dirty pink—are a reflection of my constant mood: dull, monotonous. But I have no regrets. I’d do it all again.
Anything to save them.
Click, click, thwack. The round lock at the top of the door flicks open first, followed by each one below. The brass, chrome, and silver knobs rotate quickly and snap to the unlocked position: all from the other side of the door. It’s not possible to unlock them from the inside. I should know; I’ve tried a hundred times over.
I take the two generous steps from my place by the window to the red suede couch and sink into it, lying back with arms roped across my chest, my eyes closed.
The door creaks open.
My heart accelerates, and not in the way it might at seeing a loved one, but in the nervous anticipation of an enemy about to walk into my life.
Like he does twice a week.
Silence hangs in the air for several moments while I breathe slowly—pretending to sleep. I’m not playing his game today.
The smell of fresh donuts mixed with strong coffee enters with him, the delicious aroma assaulting my senses and making my mouth water. It’s a Kenyan blend, which he knows is my favorite. Trying to ignore it is no use, not with the smooth smell growing stronger and stronger until steam dampens my face. The jerk must be waving right it under my nose. Yet I keep my eyes closed, my face masked.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
If my resolve snapping had a sound that would be crack. “More like Rapunzel,” I say, a dig at my captivity.
When I open my eyes, that ridiculous half-a-dumbass smile stretches across his face. He tips his chin toward the corrugated, disposable cup in his hand. CityBoy.
Really? He thinks we can be friends, huh? Just because he brings a coffee from a place I once loved. That was a lifetime ago and we can never go back. Not now, not ever.
“Take it.” He inches the cup closer to me. “I walked halfway across town to get this for you.” He shoves the offering further under my nose. If I opened my mouth and sucked in the air, I’d probably taste the sweetened coffee.
Giving him the satisfaction of taking the cup irks me, but it’s been so long since I drank the smooth, rich nectar that only CityBoy can perfect. Stupid hand has a mind of its own, closing around the warm cup. Now that it’s in my hands, there’s no point missing out. I’ve already let him win, so I may as well get some enjoyment out of my miserable predicament.
“It’s been a long week . . .” He relaxes into the couch, flipping a pair of bronze coins through his fingers. I stop listening. No matter how he treats me, we’re not friends. We haven’t been for years.
We never will be again.
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