Sixteen-year-old Libby Tanner’s art comes to life. Her painted skies
turn from day to night, leaves rustle on trees, and sometimes, a mystery
boy appears.
While attending England’s Aldridge Art Academy, Libby meets charming
Brent Henderson, a performing arts student who showers her with
attention. But his rival, gorgeous Dean James, is the one who occupies
her mind, even though he’s very much attached to his current girlfriend.
Libby soon learns there’s more to both Brent and Dean than she ever
imagined. In order to save her future and the boy who’s captured her
heart, she must unlock the secrets behind her art by entering the most
dangerous place of all… the world within her paintings.
Laura M. Kolar lives with her
husband and daughter in a one-stop-light town in northern-lower
Michigan. Though she didn't discover her love of books until she turned
thirty, as a self-declared hopeless romantic, she has spent the past few
years reading and writing stories with mostly happy endings. If not at
her day-job or with her family, you will find her sipping a cup of chai
latte while sitting in her favorite rocking chair, hunched over her
laptop writing or spending entirely too much time on Twitter.
It’s been over a year since I’ve written anything. Sure,
I’ve opened a few of my old manuscripts and looked at them, maybe changed a few
words here and there. But to add actual word count has been more than a
struggle.
Some of you authors out there are gasping right about now. How can she call herself a writer when she
doesn’t write? Well, while I may
not have added word count, I’ve never stopped thinking about writing or
brainstorming story ideas. I just can’t seem to pen words to paper (or type
them). Even writing this post has taken me more time than I care to admit.
When I sit down, thinking I have some time to work, I get
completely stuck. Not just writer’s block, it’s a major malfunction. Somewhere
between my head and my hands there is a disconnect.
It’s to the point where I’ve seriously considered trying to
find a ghostwriter. Is that cheating? I
should be able to figure out the dialog, or at the very least describe the
scenery, but even those things have been elusive.
This past weekend, I participated in a book festival with a
bunch of other author’s and I thought to myself, I wonder if any of them have struggled this badly before. Feeling
like a failure at something you love to do is probably one of the worst
feelings ever. The best comparison I can come up with is that it feels like I’m
continually sending rejection letters to myself.
I keep waiting for that breakthrough moment when all my
ideas fall together perfectly and the story flows out like a gushing waterfall
of words. But how long should I keep waiting? When is the point where you just
start typing nonsense and hope that you’ll be able to edit it into a
presentable piece of work? I don’t know.
I also don’t know why or how it happened. Maybe I just got
too busy with other things. Maybe it’s because I started a new day job. Maybe
it’s because my laptop keeps telling me the battery is at the end of its useful
life. Most likely it’s a combination of many factors all rolled into one giant
jumbled ball of goo, keeping me from my goal of publishing more books.
Though, however long it takes for whatever it is that needs
to be straightened out, I’ll be ready. Because there will always be another
story to dream up. My imagination isn’t dead. The follow through is just on
hiatus for a bit.
And here's an excerpt from the book:
CHAPTER
ONE
I
paced my studio floor as evening descended on the field in my painting. The
sparse oak trees cast lengthening shadows on the acorn-littered ground, where
the grass was more golden brown than green. The sunny sky became a star-filled
night, and the field turned murky as the shadows faded into the black
oblivion... just like my mystery boy.
He’d
vanished.
Again.
So did the rush of him appearing in my finished work, my joy
squelched by the
expression
on his face. Usually he wore a smile—a sad one, but still a smile. That night,
he’d just looked miserable.
I
stopped pacing and stared at the canvas, reaching out to the spot where I’d
last seen him. Maybe if I could touch him or knew where he went when he
disappeared, I wouldn’t feel so hollow from his absence.
An
icy trail ran down my arm a moment before my fingers grazed the wet paint. I
pulled away, checking to make sure I hadn’t smeared the field. It was the first
time he’d appeared since I’d arrived at Aldridge, and I didn’t want to ruin
whatever connection I had to him. My hands shook as I picked at my nails, which
were coated in splatters of color from painting all day. A glimpse of him, sad
or not, had been enough to keep me working, hoping to see him again. I’d picked
my fingers mostly clean when a knock came from the door to the adjoining room.
Please
go away.
The
knock came again, more urgent.
If
you’re here, he won’t come back.
He
wouldn’t anyway, though. He never came to the same painting twice.
“Libby,
if you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down.” Travis sounded more
concerned than angry.
I
sighed heavily as I dragged myself across my studio and into my bedroom,
kicking a path through my discarded clothes to open the door. “This is solid
walnut and has a steel lock. You’d only hurt yourself trying to break it down.”
“Hmm...
good point.” His eyebrows knitted as he gave me a once-over. “Did you forget,
or are you wearing that to
dinner?”
I
glanced down at my paint-covered T-shirt and jeans. “This is what I always wear
to dinner.”
“Right.
Surprise, surprise. Olivia Tanner forgot.” He breezed past me, patting my
shoulder on his way to my bathroom where my closet and dresser were located.
“You’re lucky you have me as your social director,” he said, ducking behind the
door.
He
wasn’t joking. If not for Travis, I’d probably never leave my private suite.
We’d met two weeks ago, on my first day at Aldridge Art Academy. He’d enrolled
several months before me and was assigned as my student liaison, a job he took
very seriously. We were both from the States and had clicked right
away—probably because he was the only person I’d ever met who liked Humphrey
Bogart and Lauren Bacall movies as much as I did.
Travis
emerged from my bathroom, holding up my red dress. “You’re also lucky you have
me as a fashion consultant.”
I
hadn’t been paying attention to what he was wearing, but as he stood waving the
gossamer fabric between us, I noticed his white shirt, black coat, slacks, and
tie. His usually
tousled
blond hair was combed neatly, and he wasn’t covered in bits of clay from
sculpting all day.
“Oh,
crap. I forgot.”
“Yep,
we’ve established that.” He thrust the dress at me. “I know you’d rather stay
locked in your room like an old maid and sniff paint fumes all night, but trust
me, you do not want to miss this.”
I
grabbed the dress and glared at him. “I don’t sniff the fumes. My studio is
well ventilated. And if you’re telling me I don’t want to miss a fluffy dinner
where a bunch of teenage girls ogle over a bunch of teenage boys, sorry. Not for me.”
“See,
that is
something an old maid would say, and you are a teenage girl.” He shook his finger at me. “Or did you lie about being sixteen?”
“No,
I didn’t lie. I’m sixteen going on seventeen, not seventy.”
“Anyway...”
He waved me off.. “I hear there’s a fresh batch of cute guys, and you haven’t
met any of the performing arts students yet. Most of them are great people.” “Most of them?” I put one hand on my hip, the
other still clutching my dress.
“Well,
I don’t know all of
them. Yet.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But the point is, you have to come out of
your studio, and this dinner is mandatory.”
Huffing
at him, I flung the dress over my shoulder and stomped into the bathroom. After
an impressively fast shower, I pulled my chestnut hair into a bun and fastened
it with bobby pins, allowing a few curls to fall around my neck. I stepped into
my dress, glad I’d shaved recently, and tugged at the hem. The style reminded
me of the famous Marilyn Monroe image, the one with her skirt billowing up
around her. Mine had the same plunging neckline and gathered waist.
I’d
thought I brought a simple black dress, the one I always wore to gallery
showings. But sometime after I’d packed my garment bag, my mom swapped it for
this one, with a note that read, “Saw this and thought of you. For a girl who
sees the world in such vivid colors, you should dress that way, too. Wish I
could see you in it. You always look beautiful in red. Love, Mom.” I sucked in
a deep breath, willing away my thoughts of home as I tugged at the hem again.
“You
almost done?” Travis called from the other room. “We’re going to be late.”
“I
still can’t believe they make us do this.” I applied some foundation, wishing I
were painting a canvas instead of my face.
“You
mean independent study and no one enforcing a ridiculous curfew isn’t enough freedom for you? Wait.
Don’t answer that. If your parents had any idea how loose they actually are with the rules around here, they
would yank you out so fast it would make my head spin. Oh, the scandal! Teenagers sneaking in and out of
each other’s rooms under the cover of night. Anyway, think of it like an
assembly, England’s Emily Aldridge Academy of Arts’ special brand of torture.”
I
laughed at his horrible attempt at a British accent as he uttered our prep
school’s original name. “I thought you said no cell phones and blocked social
media sites were their own special brand of torture?”
“Yes,
well, they want us to be free-spirited, just
not over the Internet.” He sighed. “At least tonight is better than one of my
parents’ stupid dinner parties. I have to pretend to be someone I’m not at
those.”
“I’ll
let you be whomever you want if you let me skip tonight.” I dabbed my lips with
a tissue then picked up my jewelry from the counter. “I’m going to lose several
hours of painting time, and I’ll probably be out of the mood when dinner is
over.”
“Even
you don’t believe that. You’re never out of the mood to paint. But sure, I’ll
let you skip tonight. You can skip out the door, down the hall, and all the way
to the dining room. Though if your goal is to not draw attention to yourself, I’d suggest walking.”
I
didn’t respond as I fumbled with my necklace. The delicate silver chain held a
single teardrop-shaped topaz, my birthstone. Eventually, I gave up trying to
get it on and opened the bathroom door.
“Whoa!”
His sky-blue eyes grew to the size of saucers.
I glanced down at myself. “Too much?”
He stood up from my desk chair and circled around me. “No,
but I’m seriously
questioning
my sexuality right now.”
I
rolled my eyes and dangled the necklace in front of him. “I need help with
this.”
“I’m serious, Libby. You’re...” He took
the chain and fastened the clasp with ease before
his
gaze wandered down to my plunging neckline. “Eyes up here,” I said.
His
lips spread in a wide Cheshire cat grin. “Sorry, even I can appreciate a nice rack.” “Well,
don’t get used to it.” I smoothed down my skirt.
“I won’t. But this”—he waved his hand at me—“is not the way
to avoid attention.” “That’s it.” I gritted my teeth, realizing my rack would soon be on display for the whole
student
body. “I’m chang—”
“Oh
no, you don’t.” He grabbed my hand. “We’re late, and besides, in my opinion,
not even your cleavage beats a well-defined six-pack on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”
“You
win.” I pulled my hand from his grasp. “Let’s go.” I slipped on my black heels
and made my way to the door. “You coming?”
“Yep,
just enjoying the view.” He shut the door to my suite behind us. “Committing it
to memory actually. It may never happen again.”
I
glanced over my shoulder, almost wishing I’d let him try to break down the
door. I didn’t want him to get hurt, but I would’ve had more time to paint.
The giveaway is in the sidebar!
Book Blurb (From goodreads) 
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