Blog Tour and Giveaway: Into a Million Pieces by Angela V. Cook @angelavcook

Into a Million Pieces
Release Date: 01/2015
300 pages

Summary from Goodreads:
Allison McKready is a succubus. So is her twin sister. But while Allison spends her summer break hiding in the library behind her Goth makeup, Jade fools around as often as she can. Allison can’t believe Jade would ignore their mother’s fatal example so recklessly, but concealing a cursed bloodline and its dangerous effects is far from Allison’s only problem. Mean girl Julie’s snob mob is determined to ruin her summer, and Aunt Sarah’s Bible thumping is getting louder. Only her new friend, Ren Fisher, offers safe haven from the chaos of her life.

When one of Jade’s risky dates leads to humiliation and sudden tragedy, Allison reels, and Ren catches her. But as her feelings for him grow, so does her fear that she’ll hurt him—or worse—in an unguarded moment. The choice is coming—love him or save him—but Allison might not live to make it. One way or another, the curse will have its due.

 Why I Do What I Do
I used to love reading the "success stories" on It was always interesting to read about the writer's journey to getting "the call” from a literary agent. Though I have to admit, there's one question that always made me flinch: “How long have you been writing?" Aside from the fact that there was always some gag-worthy answer like, "I came out of the womb with a pencil in my hand" or "I wrote my first short-story when I was three,” the question always made me feel like a bit of an outsider. The truth is, I've never been one of those writers who write because they love writing. For me, it has always been about the stories in my head, and writing is just the medium I choose to express them.
When I was little, my vivid imagination was expressed through play. I was obsessed with Barbies and would play by myself for hours on end. If I wasn't playing Barbies, I was “playing house” with my best friend from down the street. We would drape old sheets around ourselves and pretend we were getting married, or we'd stuff pillows under our shirts and act like we were pregnant (we weren’t exactly feminists in the making). As I got older, the stories didn't go away, but my means to express them did (apparently, adults playing with dolls is frowned upon). In college, I dabbled with the idea of going down some kind of creative path—directing, acting, writing—something that would allow me to share the stories that floated around in my head. Unfortunately, practicality, and the need for a steady paycheck, won out.
Years (and an early midlife crisis) later, I came to the conclusion I had to share these stories—even if the thought alone terrified me. Sure, maybe I was a decent writer, but I didn’t think I was good enough to write a book. I'd written angst-ridden, teenage poetry, had a couple of things published in my high school literary magazine, kept a journal, aced college papers, composed press releases… but write a novel? It was definitely not a walk in the park. I had zero confidence and was riddled with self-doubt every, single time I sat down to write.
Let's face it, some people have a talented love affair with words.  They can bend and sculpt them into beautiful pieces of art. Their stories flow like calm and winding rivers. And then there's me. Writing that first book did not come easy to me, and to be honest, it still doesn’t. If you were to come to my house and observe me writing, you would see me type real fast for about five seconds and then sit and stare at my screen for three minutes. This little routine would go on for about an hour, with interludes of backspacing and maybe a little high-lighting and deleting. If I had two pages written after that hour, I would consider it a productive day.

But that's okay. The story is being written, and over the past five years, I've learned (and continue to learn) to write, to bend and sculpt my words, not so my prose are a piece of art, but so my readers can see the story in their heads with as much detail and clarity as I see it in my own.  And that’s what’s important to me. I could care less about winning any kind of hoity-toity literary awards. I just want to entertain people with my stories. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters to me. 

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About the Author
Angela V. Cook lives a very unexciting, but never boring, life with her husband and two children just outside of Detroit. Like most writers, she’s been making up stories for as long as she can remember and can’t imagine a life that doesn’t involve creating worlds.

Angela loves to write novels for teens because it’s the best outlet for her sarcastic personality, immature sense of humor, and love of romantic firsts. Her idea of the perfect day involves a quiet house, a good book, and a piece of cheesecake. Or two

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