Author Guest Post: Emlyn Chand







This is a guest post by Emlyn Chand, author of Farsighted

I am 26-years-old, and I <3 YA books. Now here I sit on the cusp of my big debut as a published author (squeal), but it probably never would have happened if I hadn’t found my affinity for YA. In fact, the first novel I wrote was multicultural literary fiction— it’s never going to be published. I wrote lit fic, because I was trying to prove something to myself, to the world, to somebody. But the book didn’t encapsulate who I am or what makes me a strong writer. So naturally, the story fell flat. I have no idea what made me decide to write YA the second time around. I even remember trying to avoid it. I spent months trying to convince myself that Farsighted was too ambitious of a project. I was this close to writing a historical fiction novel instead. I’m glad I didn’t listen to my inner worrywart, because writing Farsighted is the best thing I’ve ever done. When you find that genre that speaks to you and allows you to speak through it, don’t let that go! Now I’d like to share 10 reasons why I love writing YA. It’s okay if YA isn’t your genre du jour, but don’t force yourself to write something just because the genre is popular or well-respected. Write what your heart wants to write, and the rest will turn out okay. I write YA because… 1. I wish I had a chance to do my teen years over again. To live them more fully. Writing about teens gives me the chance to do so vicariously. 2. YA is a broad genre. The sky’s the limit. I can write a dystopic novel this year and a romance or mystery next year. YA is not confined by specific plot conventions like other genres. It’s more focused on the characters. 3. YA has a broad readership. The primary audience is, of course, teens. But younger kids also enjoy reading about what the big kids are doing, and adults like reliving their glory days too. 4. The language is fun and approachable. Sure, you could write literary YA, but the candid and easy-to-read style of YA is part of its appeal. 5. First person POV is where it’s at. YA doesn’t have to be told in the first person viewpoint, but a lot of it is. Adult literature sticks more to the third person. I love writing in first person. It’s easier for me to develop a character that way, and I enjoy the writing process more. 6. The characters are sympathetic. It’s easier to forgive the misdeeds of someone who’s “just a kid,” making it easier for readers and writers alike to identify with YA characters. 7. The characters can change and grow. They aren’t yet set in their ways. Growth is an expected part of teendom, and it’s wonderful helping your characters achieve that potential. 8. The readers of YA are incredibly devoted. If they like what you’ve written, they will tell the world. Can you think of any books that have a greater cult following than Twilight, Harry Potter, and Hunger Games? Because I can’t. 9. YA readers WANT to enjoy books. They’re not looking to tear a book apart and flesh out all of its flaws. They are willing to overlook weaknesses within a book and focus on what they love about it. Their pleasure in reading is free and much more pure. 10. It’s what I most enjoy reading. Write what you love to read. Don’t force yourself to write a romance if writing sexually suggestive scenes makes you uncomfortable. Don’t write literary fiction as a way to show off your intellect. Write what you want to write. Write was fits your talents and enthusiasm. That’s your best chance at success (no matter how you define the term).  

Blog Tour Notes

THE BOOK: Alex Kosmitoras may be blind, but he can still “see” things others can’t. When his unwanted visions of the future begin to suggest that the girl he likes could be in danger, he has no choice but to take on destiny and demand it reconsider. Get your copy today by visiting’s Kindle store or the eBook retailer of your choice. The paperback edition will be available on November 24 (for the author’s birthday). THE GIVEAWAYS: Win 1 of 10 autographed copies of Farsighted before its paperback release by entering the giveaway on GoodReads. Perhaps you’d like an autographed postcard from the author; you can request one on her site. THE AUTHOR: Emlyn Chand has always loved to hear and tell stories, having emerged from the womb with a fountain pen grasped firmly in her left hand (true story). When she’s not writing, she runs a large book club in Ann Arbor and is the president of author PR firm, Novel Publicity. Emlyn loves to connect with readers and is available throughout the social media interweb. Visit for more info. Don’t forget to say “hi” to her sun conure Ducky! MORE FUN: There’s more fun below. Watch the live action Farsighted book trailer and take the quiz to find out which character is most like you!  



by Emlyn Chand

Genre: Paranormal YA


Short Synopsis:


Alex Kosmitoras may be blind, but he can still “see” things others can’t. When his unwanted visions of the future begin to suggest that the girl he likes could be in danger, he has no choice but to take on destiny and demand it reconsider. 


Long Synopsis:


Alex Kosmitoras’s life has never been easy. The only other student who will talk to him is the school bully, his parents are dead-broke and insanely overprotective, and to complicate matters even more, he’s blind. Just when he thinks he’ll never have a shot at a normal life, a new girl from Indiamoves into town. Simmi is smart, nice, and actually wants to be friends with Alex. Plus she smells like an Almond Joy bar. Yes, sophomore year might not be so bad after all. 

Unfortunately, Alex is in store for another new arrival—an unexpected and often embarrassing ability to “see” the future. Try as he may, Alex is unable to ignore his visions, especially when they begin to suggest that Simmi is in danger. With the help of the mysterious psychic next door and new friends who come bearing gifts of their own, Alex must embark on a journey to change his future. 

In this enthralling debut novel, Emlyn Chand creates a world in which friendship, perseverance, and a handful of psychic powers come together to fight against what appears to be the inevitable and all-too dangerous future. This is a book you won’t want to put down—even after you finish it! 


Excerpt –


Book trailer –


GoodReads 10-book give-away –


Check out the fun quiz readers can take to determine which character they are.

It’s just 7 questions long and has badges that readers can use to display their results
Author Bio:


Emlyn Chand has always loved to hear and tell stories, having emerged from the womb with a fountain pen grasped firmly in her left hand (true story). When she’s not writing, she runs a large book club in Ann Arborand is the president of author PR firm, Novel Publicity.


Emlyn loves to connect with readers and is available throughout the social media interweb.


Visit for more info.

Don’t forget to say “hi” to her sun conure Ducky! 

Tour Stop and Review: The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

By Artemis Hunt

Genre: Romantic Comedy with Paranormal Elements

Word Count: Approximately 83,000



Abby Watson is about to move in with the man of her dreams. Too bad the body she wears isn’t hers.

Abby Watson’s life is an airtight box of a dead-end job, a skinflint boss, and a best ‘frenemy’ who thinks Abby has the fashion sense of a tubeworm. When a lab experiment at work blows up in Abby’s face, she develops the ability to jump into other people’s bodies. Suddenly it’s goodbye frump, hellooooo . . . anyBODY gorgeous.

Abby’s leaping into the bodies of heiresses, her best ‘frenemy’, anyone who has ever been mean to her in high school, her scrooge boss, and even the President of the United States (!).

When a chance encounter with the Ferrari of her childhood idol — stunning movie A-lister, Jake Carradoc — leaves one of her beautiful bodies in the hospital, Abby feigns amnesia . . . then a spot in Jake’s home as his indefinite ‘houseguest’.

But Abby’s real body is dying in her soul’s absence. What must she do to get and keep Jake, the only man she’s ever loved with all of somebody else’s heart?

Get it at: Amazon and Smashwords


I’m on Cloud Platinum.

Jake Carradoc is beside me, driving his red Ferrari 599 GTB (personalized and customized) – the very Ferrari which floored me into procuring the very litigious medical diagnosis of retrograde amnesia – and we are cruising to his home inBeverly Hillswhere I’m going to live!

That’s right.

I’ll be staying with Jake Carradoc (!) until such time I recover my memories and decide I want to go back to my life. He has very kindly offered me food, shelter, money, and his complete hospitality until I get my memories back, or if someone with a similar backpack from a rat-infested, one-star ‘the bar soap on the grimy sink is as thin as an insurance agent’s promise’ motel ultimately claims me.

This is so incredible I have to literally cradle my bladder from shooting out a squirt of excited pee every time we navigate a bump.

Jake, of course, completely believes I have severe amnesia.

“We’re. Now. Going. To. My. House,” he says slowly, enunciating every syllable just in case I’ve forgotten the specifics of English grammar. “Do. You. Remember. What. A. House. Is?”

Since leaving the hospital, we have conversed no more than three very prolonged sentences in this manner.

“How. Are. You. Feeling. Today?”

“This. Is. My. Car. This. Is. The. Key. That. Unlocks. My. Car.”

“This. Is. A. Seatbelt.”

I’m going to let Jake continue to think I have complete amnesia, but not so severe we’d have to descend to smoke signals to get communication across.

“I remember what a house is,” I tell him. “I remember the meaning of words, and grammar, and what things are. I just don’t remember specifics. Like where my house is. Or my street address.”

I’m tempted to add it’s just like Samantha Who, except I remember I’m not supposed to remember who Samantha Who is.

“That’s great.” He is visibly relieved. For a long-accused-to-be-monosyllabic actor, he doesn’t like monosyllables.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Do you know who I am?”

This is the time to decide once and for all how much of a sham I want this to be.



Artemis Hunt has a husband who thinks all fiction is nonsense and all writers of fiction should get their heads checked for situational delusions. At any one time, they have 16 to 20 dogs, many of suspicious virtue.

Artemis frequently wishes she has telekinesis, so she doesn’t have to lift a finger to change the room temperature. She’s constantly glued to her computer, which serves as her gateway to her friends, books, movies, TV serials and sometimes husband, even though they’re sitting on the same bed two feet apart.

Artemis writes under the name of A.R. Hunt for the adult thriller and suspense genre.



The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

The Hunt for the Catalyst (Ether World Chronicles)

Snow White and the Alien

The Ether World Chronicles: Beginnings


Books by A.R.HUNT



Twitter handle: @ArtemisHunt1

My Thoughts:

This book was so funny and at the same time it could make me cry in places too.  I love this in a book!   Abby is a great character that has these amazing body snatching experiences, really it makes you wish that you could jump into the body of those people you always wish you could be either to just experience life in their shoes or well make their life really difficult for them.  I was expecting the book to just be fun and games but it really was much more than that.   A really a decision that is not an easy on to make and so many people have to make in life, either go with your desires or do what is really and truly right.  And the great character continue past Abby into great dimension from both Jake and Helen.  Ms. Hunt does a great job with the balance in this book and provides an outstanding chick lit story that makes you want more. Not only do you want more story but the adult scenes will bring you back for more just on their own.

Author Guest Post: Z, author of The Gossip Ghouls


How To Be Dead and Sexy: Beauty Tips From Hell


by Z, author of The Gossip Ghouls


Most undead chicks think tiny blemishes like rotting skin, missing body parts, exposed brains, and blood-stained bodies are automatic turnoffs, as if they’ll never be sexy again.


They think that once guys see they’re missing whatever it was  that made them women in life that it’s over, like their clubbing days are long past.


Listen, undead ladies: just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you have to stop living!  There are plenty of body parts to steal and plenty of makeups that hide even the most unsightly exposed brains!


Let’s take this undead bride of hell pictured below.  A real beauty, ain’t she?  Granted, unnatural decay, possible maggots, rotted nose and mouth, and super ugly red eyes are a downer.  But all hope is not lost.





The best thing she can do?  Look for the most egotistical, self-serving boy toy she can find and do ladies everywhere a favor: eat him (unless she’s on a diet).  Now I know the ladies out there wonder why we’d waste a perfectly good man like the one pictured below, but believe me: he’s spread more to the female population than his latest cell phone number.  How to fix this?  Just take a few lips, maybe some eyes.




Be sure to add a touch of Dior Blackout mascara and maybe some Dior poison (or actual poison, if you’re running low), some lipstick, and here you go!  A brand new woman ready to rock the stilettos!  So don’t be too picky, girls.  Jerks may be temporary, but their body parts can last a lifetime!



Zombies and Lipstick

By Z

Gossip Ghouls Book One




Zombie punk Z wakes up in her designer coffin to learn that Vampie, the undead Paris Hilton wannabe, killed her. At first, Z believes this attack stems from Vampie’s jealousy over Z’s boyfriend. Soon, Z learns Vampie’s master plan: stealing Z’s boyfriend while eliminating werewolves and zombies altogether. Z decides to pose as Gossip Ghoul to get revenge on the billionaire vampress. Impersonating Vampie’s party girl cousin, Z enters the world of the super wealthy, of birka bags and designer fangs, of Parisian shopping sprees and lavish parties. Will Z be exposed before she texts Vampie’s scandalous secrets to the undead world? Or will Z vanquish Vampie to once again make the high school of the living and the undead a safe and fashionable place for all?


Download for Free:


Kindle on Amazon  
Undead Hollywood

By Z

Gossip Ghouls Book Two




In this sequel to The Gossip Ghouls: Zombies and Lipstick, Z finds herself heading for theHollywoodA-list. There’s just one problem—to get there, she has to join The Club, a studio system run by the vampires who rule Undead Hollywood. During a wild party, Z learns that the entire film industry is truly run by the undead, some of whom plan to stage a war against the living to reclaim their oldHollywoodstatus. Z must fight against parodies ofHollywoodstars of the past in TV’s Undead Idol to save her new husband’s life and to reclaim her status as the zombie it girl.


Get Book 2 on your Kindle for Only .99



Excerpt Gossip Ghouls

Zombies and Lipstick

Book 1 Chapter 1


Never make out with a chick’s boyfriend at her own funeral.

I mean, it should be a law somewhere up there with not stealing another girl’s lipstick or swiping her bra.

It’s just wrong. And anyone with the least degree of common sense, living or dead, should just know it—without the corpse having to spell it out for them.

But apparently these girls never got the text message because there I was, lying in my designer coffin, complete with gold trim, cell phone in hand, seeing every word they texted while they were supposedto be crying for me. Everyone knew that dying was the one way for any girl to become popular, no matter how much of a pariah she was, but these chicks were cold, colder than I was, and I was the freakin’ corpse.

Dead people were supposed to have friends all over—suddenly, everyone knew you, everyone could recall a memory where you brightened up their otherwise crappy day. It was like being prom queen for a day, no matter how you looked. And there was Vampie, the filthy rich—and rich, filthy—blonde, trying to take it all away from me.

You might be wondering, unlike Vampie and her clique, say, what rendered me lifeless? What exactly took the life of a perfectly tanned and scrumptiously attired sixteen-year-old with a whole life to give to the wonders of fashion? Why was it that school was canceled today so that Auburn Heights High kids could attend the funeral of second girl to die in just as many months? I’d have an answer if you bothered to ask, but leave it to Vampie to spread as many rumors as her stubby little fingers could text.

Let me dispel the rumors for you.

Rumor #1: Z—that’s me—was drinking, smoking, and puffing so much she poisoned her body.

Now this rumor was just stupid. Yes, there was a party. And yes, I went. But no, I wasn’t drinking—or won’t admit it—and I never touched drugs. It’s not like Vampie would know—she was too busy making out with any guy who happened to come her way.

Email Rumor #2: Z ended up dying because she was getting so fat her bod couldn’t take it anymore.

Now this one just made me want to scratch Vampie’s eyes out. Vampie weighs more than me any day of the week, twice as much on Sundays, and she was always jealous that I was able to stick to a diet. Especially when Brent Stoker, her so-called ex-boyfriend, ended up taking notice. I suppose that’s what started it all. Vampie, with the largest mansion on the hill, never loses a guy, and so she had to bury me by text.

So if the rumors aren’t true, what really happened?

I wish I knew. I was standing there at the party, waiting for Stoker to show, and something was stalking me in the shadows. At first, I thought it was just Vampie and her clique. But there was something different, something darker, about this shadow, as if it was out for blood. Whatever it was, whoever it was, struck fast, pierced me so hard I felt like I was popping out of my own skin. So there I was, dead. It was so humiliating to die at one of the biggest parties of the year, but what could I do: get red all over and wish I was dead?

So I just lay there, hearing everything, feeling everything, but unable to move. Until I woke up in a casket as the dean of students took the podium—even at my own funeral, I couldn’t get rid of him—and started talking about what a shining light I was for the school and how Auburn Heights High would miss me and raise scholarships in my honor. If I hadn’t known it was me, I’d have thought the girl Dean Morris was talking about was a saint and I would’ve missed her too.

I must’ve been headed in the other direction, though, because the first thing I know I’m looking at my phone, propped as it is in my cold, dead hands, seeing all of Vampie’s texts, and then a single message that stood out from them all: Do you want to start a few new rumors?

How could I answer that one? I mean, who doesn’t?

I’ll meet u 2night at flying angel’s headstone, the text read.

I wanted to ask who this messenger was, exactly, or how I’d recover my senses, how I’d get out from a great big mound of earth. But something in me knew: I had to go.

How many chances does a dead girl get to meet her killer?




That night being dead was beginning to become a serious drag. I could hear everything, including kids tossing beer cans as they drove past the cemetery; I could smell anything, including the worms in the earth above me, and I could even sense my strength gaining as I pressed against the casket lid. But I couldn’t doanything but just lie there, hungry as hell, as night unfolded above me. Until I heard it, the magical clang of shovel against rock and realized that at least two people were digging me out.

I pressed against the coffin lid, but there was no moving it. I was far too weak. I just waited, unable to make out who the voices belonged to as they asked What should we do with her? I was too frantic to hear who replied, even with my super senses, but an answer must’ve been given because before I knew it I was being lifted and placed on the ground. The motion brought up my queasiness, which was nothing compared to when the casket was actually opened.

Standing there, wrapped in night, was the prom queen from hell herself, Valerie “Vampie” von Starkberg, all decked out in her classic pink brazier that she called “a top,” and a silky lace Valentino dress that looked so pricey it must’ve been made out of pearls. She had bright white heels, and a necklace and earrings of glowing white gold. She would’ve looked like a high class escort girl were it not for the blood red lipstick and dark mascara she wore, which earned her her nickname. She had tattoos of different men up and down her left arm, men she claimed to sleep with that we saw once and never again. This, along with her money, earned her fear and respect.

“Val,” I said as these two guys, her guards, lifted me up. The word was spoken with honest relief. “Thank God. I thought I was dead, except I couldn’t just die.”

Vampie laughed—hers was never a good laugh—and said, “Slower in death than we are with my men, aren’t we, Z?”

Her tone was as catty as ever. I just looked at her, wondering what she was going to do next. She pranced around me like a cougar–a fat one–stalking its prey. Off to the side, in the shadows, was my boyfriend.

“Stoker,” I called. Everyone called him that, even his girlfriends.

He looked like he was in some kind of trance, with eyes that didn’t focus and a face that lacked soul.

“What did you do to him?” I threatened more than asked.

Vampie smirked. “Nothing he didn’t want me to do.”

“You’re lying.”

Vampie walked up and slapped me hard enough to leave a pink mark.

I would’ve hit her, but I was too weak to move, let alone fight. I just put on the bitchiest glare I could, but I was so afraid I was trembling.

“Val,” I said, trying again to conjure some humanity in her. “Haven’t I been through enough? I thought I died.”

“You did die, slut. Look down—at your stomach,” Vampie told me.

Blood red was beginning to stain the amber dress my mother laid me out in. Given the choice of dress, that may not have been a bad thing.

“I don’t understand,” I told her.

“That’s why I’m here—to make you,” Vampie said.

I gulped. Vampie’s tone was more threatening than I’ve ever heard her, and, when I was alive, I heard her quite a bit.

“No one takes my guys,” Vampie said, “and certainly not trash like you. I get as many as I want as often as I want and anyone who lays a finger on them without my permission will end up like you. So don’t worry about the dying part—we’ll get there, once I know how much your body is worth—but I want you to see something first.”

I tried to spit at the bitch but was too weary to do that much.

“Brent, come here, now,” Vampie ordered.

Stoker moved forward, even though he never responded to Brent, not with me, at least.

“Stoker,” I said.

“Shut up,” Vampie yelled at me. “Now, Brent, tell Z exactly what you told me earlier.”

Stoker paused; Vampie slapped him.

“I never loved you,” Stoker said to me. “I just went out with you because of your reputation for putting out.”

Vampie laughed snottily enough. No one else did, but it became clear this little get together was a party for one.

“That was lame,” I told Vampie, “even by your lack of standards. You’ll have to do way more than that to get to me, you heartless bitch.”

“Then let’s get on with the festivities, shall we? Brent, undress, now,” Vampie ordered.

I tried to catch Stoker’s eyes, but I couldn’t seem to budge him from his dead gaze.

Vampie spent more time watching the pain on my face than she did watching Brent.

“Stoker,” I called out again. “Wake up!”

“Oh, he’s quite awake and quite aware of what’s going on. It’s nothing he doesn’t want to do, Z. I can do nothing to Stoker that he wouldn’t willingly do himself.”

Stoker stood there naked as Vampie said, “Time to hook up. Do you love me, Brent?”

“Of course,” Stoker said.

“That’s sweet. You’re nothing to me, you know that, right? Nothing. Now, get it on, and make it good.”

I had to watch, powerless, as Vampie and Stoker went at it. At Vampie’s request, Stoker whispered about what he was going to do to her next. I could see their skins moving closer, their breathing uniting, their lips moving up and down each other’s bodies, and I could do nothing, nothing but say that only a slut of the highest order would do the nasty with the deceased’s boyfriend just after the funeral.

“He’s mine, all mine, like any man I meet,” Vampie said.

Vampie didn’t even finish the act. She stopped just short of sex, slapped Stoker, and said: “Get your hands off me. You’re the worst lover I’ve ever had, and I refuse to finish with such a pig.”

“Honestly, there’s been so, so many lovers, right, Vampie?” I asked. “It has to be such a chore to remember which is the worst.”

“Smack her,” Vampie ordered a guard. “Leave a mark.”

He did, and it hurt whatever senses I had left.

“I hope you enjoyed watching. Now, bitch, we get to the death part, as promised,” Vampie told me.

She reached down in her stockings and pulled out an engraved knife with a golden handle and encrusted rubies and pearls.

“See this,” she said. “It’s special. The oldest knife on the continent. It cost a fortune, not that it matters to me. You’re worth it, aren’t you, my little zombie killer?” Vampie kissed the blade and then said, “That’s all you are, you know, you and your worthless ex, zombies, the poor white trash of the undead. But you know what you’ll become? A chance at immortality for wealthy the world over. I’d call that a fair exchange. We just need to cut you open and have a look at you first. You may be trash, but you’re worth far more than you know.”

She said the term with zombies with such disgust it was like she was talking about her poor relations, if she had any.

“You’re not even worthy of being handled by a real vampress,” Vampie said. “Guards, take the knife and stab her slowly right in front of Brent. Not fatally—not until we get her to the lab. I just want her worthless ex to see this. Maybe it’ll help him get it up for me next time.”

Vampie turned to Stoker and added, “This is for being so lousy a lover.”

Just then, I felt tremors in the ground and heard a large, inhuman growl from the woods beyond the cemetery. I stood there embarrassed until I realized it wasn’t some bodily function. I looked out and saw two of the largest, fiercest yellow eyes I’d ever seen. So much for hoping for a quick rescue. They looked like the eyes of a wolf, but larger, much larger. The guttural growl grew louder and then the creature, this huge, almost bear-like body with a wolf’s snout, came lunging forward. I just wished the guards would’ve hurried it up and gotten it over with.

Vampie took the knife from the guards and tried to plunge it into me as quickly as she could, but it was too late. The monster wolf was on her.

The knife fell just as the wolf tore past the guard and lunged for Vampie.

“Just hang on,” the werewolf told me.

I could’ve sworn the wolf was wearing lipstick.

Before I could ask which brand, I felt myself being thrust on its back, seeing an image of

Vampie, bitten, blood-stained, but not beaten.

She got up, raised her hands in the air, and summoned a whole conclave of miniature vampires who dropped like rain from the trees. They looked soulless, like she had just made them from the air or something.

“Bring the wolf and the zombie to me,” she ordered these elemental vampires.

The tiny vampires lunged through the air with unnatural speed, surroun


ding the wolf, until the wolf went for one of the creatures, nearly tearing it in half in its jaws. Vampie then stalked forward; lightning and thunder appeared all around her—she was definitely the uber bitch. Right as she lifted her hands to do God knows what, the knife she’d dropped flung right into her. She turned and saw Stoker looking right at her. He’d finally gotten it up after all—just not in the way Vampie imagined.

Even the elemental vampires seemed to weaken for just a moment as Vampie fell to the ground, not dead, but pissed—really, really pissed. They were connected, somehow, Vampie and her creations.

“Run,” Stoker said to the wolf. “Get her the hell out of here!”

The werewolf obliged. I was rendered unconscious too quickly to protest, and the last I saw was us racing into the slutty black of night.