NY Times Bestselling Author Caroline Leavitt – SHOUT OUT!

.Caroline Leavitt .


iitcoverCaroline Leavitt


New York Times Best Selling Author  debuting her new book, Is This Tomorrow.


Find Caroline here, and . . .

The Chatterworks Group would like to invite you to a Tweet Chat/Google+ Chat with NY Times Best Selling Author Carolyn Leavitt!!!

Tuesday, June 18th at 8 pm ET

Follow Caroline at @LeavittNovelist

Follow @AlgonquinBooks

Follow The Chatterworks Group at @Chatterworks

SIGN UP to win a place at the special 15 minute Google+ chat following the Tweet Chat where you will meet and talk with Caroline directly – bring your questions!

SIGN UP TO WIN HERE for #LeavittChat  PLEASE USE YOUR TWITTER HANDLE AS YOUR FIRST NAME  (Your last name will not show up on the public sign up sheet)


How does this work?

If you’ve never tweeted before – no fear.  Read this post and sign up on Twitter.  It is not a hard thing to learn and here’s the clincher –  it will enrich your life. If you want the chance to talk to Caroline Leavitt face to face – here is your chance.  Put your name and email on the list below.  A select few people will be chosen to join Caroline on Google+ immediately following the chat.   If you don’t get selected, no worries!  You will be able to click on the link we will give you at the end of the chat and you can log on and see the session live!  If you miss it, it will be recorded and put on YouTube.
Eventbrite - #LeavittChat


Read an excerpt here:

Is This Tomorrow

Chapter One

She came home to find him in her kitchen. She was in no mood, having spent the whole morning arguing with a lawyer, but there he was, her son’s best friend, Jimmy Rearson, a twelve-year-old kid home from school at three on a Wednesday afternoon with too long hair and a crush on her, reading all the ingredients on the back of a Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix, tapping the box with a finger. ”Adjust temperature for high altitudes,” he said, as if it really mattered. She felt a pang for him, a boy so lonely he feigned interest in how many eggs and how much sugar a cake might need. He unabashedly leaned over and turned on her radio, and there was Elvis crooning, ”Heartbreak Hotel,” the words splashing into the kitchen.

“How’d you get in here?” Ava asked, reaching over to turn down the music. No one, except for her, locked doors in the neighborhood. She had her kid wearing a key around his neck like an amulet. Other kids were allowed to run free to wander in and out of everyone else’s houses, something Ava never could quite get used to. It wasn’t that she had anything to steal—truthfully, she had so much less now—but still, there was Brian, miles away, breathing down her neck with a custody threat, telling her he got a lawyer and she’d better get one, too, because he was going to file to revisit their agreement. But in fact, she had started locking her doors the moment the movers left, two years ago and maybe that was what made the neighborhood suspicious. “Don’t you like kids? What’s the matter, do you think they’re going to wreck your house?” a neighbor asked, but how could she explain what she was afraid of?

“Your lock is easy,” Jimmy said. “All it took was a bit of wire.”

“Don’t break into my house again,” she said. She didn’t know if she was angry or not, but she didn’t like the way it sounded. Easy to break into. “Lewis is at the dentist,” she said. She had given Lewis money to take a cab (it wouldn’t cost much), and by the time Lewis was finished and safely home, Ava would be at work.

“I know. He told me at school. I’m meeting him at my house later. ”

She nodded at the box in his hands, and then glanced at her watch. No matter what kind she bought, the mixes never turned out right. Quick and easy, the labels always said, but the cakes were always dry and powdery, and what good was quick if it was also tasteless? Well, baking was something to do, and they had some time. She didn’t have to be at the plumbing company until five today. It was her day off, but she took an emergency evening shift she couldn’t afford to turn down, not if she didn’t want to go back to retail, which paid less, gave her fewer hours and had no chance of advancement. It was only for an hour tonight, too, typing letters about 14k gold toilets and colored tubs that Richard, her boss, said had to be ready to go first thing in the morning, but even the small extra pay would be something she could tuck in the bank. “Want to bake?” she said, and he looked at her. “Boys don’t cook,” he said, abandoning the box on the counter. “Can we play checkers instead?”



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