Karen Marie Moning
“Iced” by Karen Marie Moning, due out October 30th, 2012
For a couple of weeks, on Facebook, I’d randomly notice posts from author Karen Marie Moning. She was/is posting bits of her Fever series in honor of the newest book to be released in four more days. Iced! I am among many of her fans that are dying to get our hands on Iced.
Reading all these bits from the books got me in the Fever! I just had to reread the series. I devoured about a book a day making almost a week of Fever fun. Now if only somehow Iced would magically appear early in my hands! My birthday was two days ago. Wouldn’t that be one heck of a birthday present? (Look below for an awesome looking book trailer of Iced.)
Click Here for Karen Marie Moning’s site
If you haven’t joined the Fever yet, here is a synopsis of the first book of the series, Darkfever:
MacKayla Lane’s life is good. She has great friends, a decent job, and a car that breaks down only every other week or so. In other words, she’s your perfectly ordinary twenty-first-century woman.
Or so she thinks… until something extraordinary happens.
When her sister is murdered, leaving a single clue to her death–a cryptic message on Mac’s cell phone–Mac journeys to Ireland in search of answers. The quest to find her sister’s killer draws her into a shadowy realm where nothing is as it seems, where good and evil wear the same treacherously seductive mask. She is soon faced with an even greater challenge: staying alive long enough to learn how to handle a power she had no idea she possessed–a gift that allows her to see beyond the world of man, into the dangerous realm of the Fae… Continue reading
What happens to the mind once it’s been damaged for a length of time? Is recovery possible? Is the person that was still there?
I think I’m damaged. I shutter when I hear “potential”. Oh sure, I had potential. Heard it all the time growing up. “She has so much potential, if only…”
My birthday is coming up soon. 40 is sneaking up quick. Since childhood I have wanted to be a writer. I dreamed up story after story. I lived to create. It was my favorite activity.
A young child doesn’t understand the depths of potential. I’m not entirely sure my teen daughter yet understands the depth of potential. It can mean everything or nothing. As a young child I was dragged to parent/teacher conferences year after year and listened to the teacher complain to my parents about my wasted potential. I didn’t understand what the teachers were talking about, yet I knew it wasn’t good. I hung my head with shame, sat trembling in the cold, hard wood chairs that plague all schools, and listened not to the words my teacher was speaking but to the tone in which she spoke. Disappointment. Frustration. Concern.
I don’t know who my teachers felt these things for when these things were expressed to my parents. Today, as a woman with five children of her own, I hope the teacher’s disappointment was meant for my parents and not me.
Who the teacher meant her disappointment for doesn’t matter. What mattered was what I felt in my heart and soul.
I was a failure. Potential in the tone that my teachers voiced must have meant I was no good. That’s what potential was. Potential was another word for “nothing.”
Yep. Damaged. It would take a novelette at least to replay all the events of childhood that explains the damage that was done to me at the hands of others. I don’t want to write that story. I lived it. No one else should have to live it, not even vicariously.
I need to be repaired. I think that I’ve done some repairing already. It’s not enough though. Not yet.
I hate potential.