"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
WHAT'S THE APPEAL OF BEING SOMEONE ELSE IN A STORY?
I don't know about most authors and readers, but when I write and read, I transform. I shapeshift. That's right, I really do . . . in my mind!
When I'm immersed in a book, I'm the main character. I'm the lovelorn vampire torn by his desire for a mortal woman. I'm the sleuth tasked with solving the mystery of the gruesome murders at Rue Morgue. This happens especially when I write . . . I become my main character.
When Abby Watson, my main character, acquires strange new powers that allow her to hop into other bodies, she does so. And heck, what would YOU do? Hop into that 36DD bod you've been eyeing at the beach and wishing you had that tan? What about hopping into the body of the cheerleader who made your life hell in high school?
Or what about hopping into the body of your male colleague....who happens to be gay? And why not go for the ultimate . . . that handsome movie star you've always had a crush on? With your newfound powers, can you do it? And is there a penalty for snatching someone else's life?
Wish fulfilment aside, this is a story about being not comfortable in your own skin, and therefore wishing you were prettier, stronger, thinner, smarter, luckier . . . anyone but yourself. If you've ever been in that situation, then you might understand. But that's exactly why we read stories and go to the movies. We want escapism from our daily lives. And if we can be someone else for a few hours, or however long it takes you to read a book, then we can ourselves transformed just like those main characters whose lives we want to emulate. The ones who can be better, more confident, more goal-orientated, more courageous, and who can actually reach for the stars in addition to that handsome bodice-ripping hunk with a six-pack to die for.
Yes, there's plenty of appeal in being someone else in a story indeed!
Artemis Hunt
Excerpt from "The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick":
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 in Beverly Hills where 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.
About the author:
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 in Beverly Hills where 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.
About the author:
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.
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