Friday, February 21, 2014

Laura Kenyon is in the Author Spot Light!

One part Sex and the City. Two parts Desperate Housewives.  
Three parts Brothers Grimm.

A Novel

Laura Kenyon

Imagine what might happen if our most beloved fairy tale princesses
were the best of friends and had the dreams, dilemmas, and libidos
of the modern woman. How would their stories unfold after the
wedding bells stopped ringing? Set in a fictional realm based on New York City, DESPERATELY
EVER AFTER sprinkles women’s fiction with elements of fantasy, and encourages readers to rethink
everything they know about happy endings.
Years after turning her husband from beast back to man and becoming his queen, Belle finds out she’s
finally going to have a child. But before she can announce the wondrous news, she catches him
cheating and watches her “happily ever after” go up in flames. Turning to her friends for the strength
to land with grace, she realizes she’s not the only one at a crossroads:
Cinderella, a mother of four drowning in royal duties, is facing her 30th birthday and
questioning everything she’s done (or hasn’t) with her life.
Rapunzel, a sex-crazed socialite and one-woman powerhouse, is on a self-destructive
quest to make up for 20 years locked away in a tower.
Penelopea, an outsider with a mother-in-law from hell, is harboring a secret that could
ruin everything at any moment.
One part Sex and the City, two parts Desperate Housewives, and three parts Brothers Grimm,
DESPERATELY EVER AFTER picks up where the original tales left off—and reimagines them a la
Gregory Maguire’s Wicked. With the wit of authors like Jennifer Weiner and the vision of ABC’s
Once Upon a Time, the women of DESPERATELY EVER AFTER rescue each other from life’s trials
with laughter, wine, and a scandalous new take on happily ever after.
About the Author: Laura Kenyon is an award-winning journalist and graduate of Boston College. Her
stories and articles have appeared in Kiwi Magazine, Westchester Magazine, Just Labs, Serendipity,
The Improper Bostonian, and Westchester/Hudson Valley Weddings, as well as in myriad newspapers
and at She lives in Connecticut with her husband and their silver Labrador
retriever. DESPERATELY EVER AFTER is her first novel.
She loves connecting with readers on her blog (, Twitter (@laura_kenyon),
Facebook (laurakenyonwrites), and Goodreads.
By Laura Kenyon
Available at
On-Sale Date: February 1, 2014
Paperback Price: $14.99

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Laura Kenyon Discusses Your Ever After

Have you ever wondered how Cinderella would feel ten years down the road, when her
iconic ball gown no longer fit and she had four kids, royal duties up the wahzoo, and a husband who was hardly ever around?

And what about Beauty? After all, her husband was quite a jerk before he became a monster. Too hung up on looks to let a little old fairy in from the rain! Once his curse broke, how long would it take for “Beast” to go right back to his old ways? When would he realize there were a million other “beauties” in the sea …  and it was good to be the king.

These are the kind of questions that can drive a girl crazy. And as someone who can't watch a movie without making a million “that-would-never-work” remarks, they’ve been driving me crazy for years!

Like so many women today, I grew up on Disney films and fairy tales. If you ask my mother, I saw “The Little Mermaid” in theaters at least a dozen times (take that, Titanic!), and I definitely orchestrated sing-alongs for hours during our family road trips.

Even as late as high school, my friends were known to debate who among us was Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, Ariel, Snow White, etc. (Believe you me, these could get heated!) To my shame, the conclusions we drew were always based purely on looks. But hey, isn’t that exactly how true love works in fairy tales?

Well, isn’t it?

Be it sugar coated Disney or drop-your-jaw Brothers Grimm, it always bothered me how the characters fell madly in love with each other after one second’s glance. He’s handsome! She’s gorgeous! Their lives are going to be filled with butterflies and rainbows and infinite happiness forever after!

It’s nauseating enough to make you root for the evil witch.

Now, I’m not trying to launch a crusade against “happily ever after” or tell parents they shouldn’t let their daughters admire cartoon princesses. (In truth, they’ll experience the real world and its heartbreak soon enough.) But us adults know that real relationships take work. We know people fall in and out of love. We know life occasionally hurls giant boulders in our paths and we have to either turn back around or plot a way around them.

So where are our fairy tales?

For me, for example, I consider my husband to be better than any Prince Charming on record. But if you were to make a movie about our lives … well, let’s just say not all of it would be family friendly. There would be screaming matches, angry silences, and long, rainy walks with Snow Patrol crooning through the clouds. And for the most part, these moments would not be due to any evil witch or warlock. They would happen because someone’s tone of voice was a little bit off. Or someone wouldn’t turn their iPhone off at dinner. Or someone was stressed about other things and just couldn’t put them aside back at home.

But at the same time, there would also be bright, colorful scenes. There would be white lights and happy songs and nuzzling on a balcony in Tuscany. There would be a montage of tickling matches, snowball fights, babies being born, and puppies being cuddled. And in the long run, those happy scenes would far outweigh the others.

But it would certainly be a different kind of fairy tale.

This is what I was thinking when I started writing Desperately Ever After. I wanted to know what happened after the wedding. And more importantly, I wanted to know something that the original stories never told us—how the characters felt. What would they have said if they had the freedom to do so? If their choices weren’t marriage, poverty, or spinsterhood? If they had the luxury of deciding between the designated hero, someone else, or no man at all?

At the same time, I had no interest in doing the sort of modern fairy tale retelling where Cinderella has two evil roommates and works in the mailroom at Prince Charming’s Fortune 500 company. As a “Lord of the Rings” kind of girl much more than “Real Housewives,” it just wasn’t my thing. Plus, I had so much more fun creating a parallel world that echoed our own but still retained that element of fantasy.

So when it comes down to it, Desperately Ever After is about a group of women coming to terms with how their lives have turned out. They may be dealing with infidelity, temptation, aging, stress, or the constant need to sacrifice their own dreams. They may pretend they feel one way because they think it protects them, when really they feel the complete opposite. They may ignore problems that are right in front of their faces, or they may fabricate problems that don’t exist at all. Either way, it’s about real life and friendship and how one could never work without the other.

For more about Desperately Ever After, please visit  at, Amazon, Blog, Twitter, 

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

A Preview of Looking for LaLa

Here is an excerpt from Looking for LaLa.   Ellie Campbell the pen name for Lorriane Campbell and Pam Burks.  This novel came out this last year but is worth looking into.


Not a sound is heard as it lands silently on the mat. No drums rolls, crashing thunder, shafts of light. The walls don’t start crumbling, the ground doesn’t vibrate with terrifying tremors and a yawning fissure fails to zigzag across the kitchen floor and separate my husband from his breakfast marmalade.
In short, I’ve no clue as to the impact it’ll have on our lives. Mayhem. Marital breakdown. Murder. It should at least have been written in blood or come in the beak of a dark-winged raven. 
It is a postcard. “Love from London” blazoned above a giant pair of pouting lips kissing a cherry-red heart.
At first sight it appears to be one of those “Please Come to Our Rave” flyers which get thrust through my door periodically. Now the chances of me, a world-weary, put-upon mother-of-two, going to a rave are slim to none, but heck it’s nice to be invited. 
I turn it over.
Dearest, sweetest Declan – it begins. My eyes widen as I take in the blue spidery
handwriting and race to the signature. ‘Love from La La.’
A tiny blip courses through me as I beetle down the hall attempting to identify the exact emotion I’m feeling.
It’s – I recognise it now – excitement. A blip of excitement forcing its merry way around my clogged up veins.
‘Postcard for you,’ I say nonchalantly, opening the door and stepping back into the kitchen, ‘from La La.’

I had a blip when I first spotted Declan at Bubbles, a dingy disco located east of the pier in downtown Bognor Regis. It was Sandra Mason’s leaving work party and I was nineteen years old. Sandra was tear-stained and puffy faced – partly from drink, partly emotion and partly because she always had a fairly puffy face. We’d given her a pretty good send off, bought her sexy underwear and filled an enormous padded card with witty farewells and humorous poems, all of them sounding a whole bunch better than my lowly “To Sandra, All best – Cath”. 
The fifth yawn of the evening had just wormed its way out of my mouth corner, when I spied Declan dancing under a glassy mirror ball, had the blip and knew immediately we were destined to become involved. I wasn’t sure how. Perhaps he’d introduce me to a mate or better-looking brother. Not that he repelled me exactly, but spiky ginger hair had never been top of my “must haves” and the way he was swinging those hips in perfect rhythm with a blonde nymphet, well, they looked set for life. In and out they gyrated to Unchained Melody, his large hands caressing her tanned shoulder blades. I found out much later she was his long-term girlfriend, Lucy. Juicy Lucy, I labelled her. Not very original maybe but it inevitably served its purpose of getting right up Declan’s nose.
They made quite a couple. Lucy laughing, licking her glossy lips, and my future spouse leering lovingly at her, beads of sweat running down his freckled brow. I was entranced for a good few seconds before being beckoned back to earth by Sandra, who wanted an all-embracing photo of the girls from Credit Control. So, blocking out the blip, I pasted on a wide cheesy grin and darted across the room. 

He sits motionless, his knife suspended in the Flora margarine, blue eyes gazing into the far distance, as he listens to a heated political debate on Radio 4.
‘Postcard, darling, from La La.’ I raise my voice, aware it’ll take a more urgent tone to break that level of concentration. Either that or blasting out the latest match score. Arsenal 0 – Manchester City 2. He reminds me at times of De Niro in Awakenings, forever trapped in a catatonic state. I often wonder if I throw a ball at him whether he’d whirl round in his chair and catch it in one swift movement.
‘What?’ He finally looks up, granary toast perilously close to his open mouth. ‘Not more bills, surely?’
‘La La,’ I repeat, handing the postcard to him.
‘Who the hell’s La La?’
‘Sounds like a telly tubby,’ I return to my half-eaten boiled egg, disguising my curiosity. ‘Not sure which colour though? Ask Josh and Sophie about it tonight.’ 
Our two children have been despatched to school by Henrietta, a fellow mum. A ruse we’d come up with so we could have “quality” time with our husbands on alternate mornings. Knowing Henrietta she’ll be using her time to bonk Neil senseless. Me – I just aimed for a halfway decent conversation and constantly missed. 
He’s silently reading.
‘What does it say?’ I add a pinch of salt to the last millimetre of yolk. Declan hates that I add salt to food, wants it banned from the house, which makes it all the more decadent and delicious.
He fishes in the drawer for his wire-framed reading glasses, perches them on the end of his nose, in a way that hides his boyish face and makes him look nearer fifty than his “recently passed forty-two”. 
He clears his throat. ‘‘Dearest, sweetest Declan, I long to have you in my arms again. Ever yours.” A tinge of colour slowly works its way up his cheeks. ‘And there’s a “Love from La La” at the bottom. Well, how about that?’ He starts pacing the floor, a puzzled frown etched on his forehead.
‘So who do you think sent it?’ I ask eagerly.
‘No idea.’ The postcard’s placed on the worktop. ‘Practical joke, I guess.’
Forlornly I tackle the stack of plates lying accusingly in the sink. 
‘I seriously need a dishwasher,’ I mutter, squeezing a generous helping of Fairy liquid onto a brown, greasy stain. ‘Everyone’s got one, even Patience Preston.’ 
Patience, mate of my closest friend, Raz, lives on her own in an immaculate flat.
‘All she uses her fridge for is to chill vodka. Not a scrap of food’s ever marred its spotlessness.’
Sometimes my conversations went totally one way.
‘She skips breakfast, buys herself wraps lunchtime and eats out each evening. And yet she owns a dishwasher. All I’ve got is an empty space waiting to be filled.’
‘Patience can probably afford a dishwasher,’ he says slowly. ‘Because she has a job.’
My hackles raise a notch. ‘Ah, but she doesn’t have children to chase after all day, does she?’
‘And nor do you. Now they’re both at school till four.’
Another few notches of hackles are raised. ‘Half three actually. And I have to leave ages before that to pick them up.’ Rather than tromp through a well-planted minefield I decide to divert. ‘Did you know Patience’s mum owns a microphone once licked by Tom Jones?’ Occasionally a little falsehood helped deflect the shrapnel. 
It works, momentarily. ‘Why on earth does Tom Jones go around licking microphones?’
‘Dunno, maybe someone threw their knickers at it and knocked it into his mouth.’
He raises his eyebrow a fraction. ‘Anyhow a dishwasher’s not exactly a priority, is it? What with the roof space that needs lagging, windows needing replacing, boiler about to blow. Where the money’s coming from, I don’t know. My pockets aren’t…’
His diatribe’s thankfully interrupted by his ringing mobile. It’s in his hand faster than Wyatt Earp with a smoking gun.
‘Hi. Mm. Sure, sure. Sounds good. When? Ha, ha, ha. Have you asked Jessica-Ellen? Uh huh. Uh huh. Cathy? Nah she’s cool. ’Course. Eight p.m. it is.’
‘Eight p.m. it is,’ I echo under my breath as I scrub furiously at last night’s saucepan.
‘So,’ his voice is casual as he slips his phone into his pocket. ‘Wonder who sent it then?’
‘Maybe someone at work fancies you.’ My chortle halts abruptly when I turn and catch his expression. He’s not been in the mood for jokes lately, his sense of humour apparently absconding the morning of his fortieth birthday.
Besides he knows he’s attractive. I made the mistake of telling him he was voted “Body of the Year” by the Tuesday Twice-Monthlies – the Restaurant Research Group I attend each fortnight. Henrietta likens him to a ginger Nicholas Cage with his high cheekbones and well-defined eyebrows. Raz adores his muscley arms, “sex on elbows” she calls them. And everyone everywhere tells me how lucky I was in nabbing him. As if I was a total pleb who lured him with some secret charm they could never quite see in me. I want to rage at them all, ‘I was the one “nabbed” sisters. I was the one “bloody nabbed”.’ Of course being a coward, I never do.
He turns the card over. ‘If that were true, you’d think they’d pop it in my pigeonhole rather than send it to my home, wouldn’t you?’ He drops his cup into my washing up bowl. ‘Right, I’m off.’
I wipe my hands on my dressing gown as I follow him down the hall.
‘You couldn’t just take my watch to be repaired? On the bedside cabinet.’ He retrieves his umbrella from the pot by the door.
‘Sure, honey babe.’ I stand on tiptoes to tweak his tie.
‘Oh and my black boots need soles.’
‘Consider it done.’
‘And do get the kids to clear up those toys in the back garden.’ His face takes on a pained expression, strange love cards already dismissed. ‘Neighbours must wonder who they’re living next to.’ 
‘I’m on to it.’ I resist the urge to snap into a salute.
Pathetic, isn’t it? These seem to be our new roles in life. Declan barking orders, me acting the subservient housewife. Usually I’m not so wimpish but since Josh started school six months back, I realise I’m on extremely shaky ground even if it looks like the same old floor tiles. Casual mentions of spiralling debts, sharing the load or even carrying it for a change have been accumulating faster than Victoria Beckham’s Hermes handbag collection.
Too bad that as the bickering increases so does my morbid fear of rejoining the workforce. Once lodged comfortably at the back of my mind, like a suspicion of woodworm you’ll get around to dealing with later, it’s morphed to become a monstrous bugbear between us.
Rattle of keys. He’s already mentally in his office as he pecks me on the cheek. Smack of suit pocket to check for his wallet, quick comb of the hair to confirm it’s up to R A Wilson Inc standards, and he departs for work. I wave serenely on the doorstep before dashing back inside to put on Coral Duster’s Greatest Hits. 
As Coral’s dulcet tones wash over me, I head for the phone.