e-book Darkride (The Darkride Chronicles Book 1)

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Dodging bullets, fights, and explosions, Adrienne must learn to trust the man who claims he wants to protect her, and Zan must open his heart to the woman he is starting to love. Dark Ride's and blurb give you a great introduction into what you can expect from this wonderful novel. It's time to meet Angela Smith, the amazing woman behind the nine novels. My questions and comments are in italic.

Angela, thank you so much for doing this interview. As you might have guessed, I loved Dark Ride. Can you tell us how you came to right this romantic suspense. I started Dark Ride with an idea of a woman who witnesses a terrible accident outside her home. I wrote the first scene and the one where he goes to her home before I ever had the actual story idea.

I melded it and rewrote to fit the rest of the story once I finished it, but the first scene is how Dark Ride came to be. I have never began a book in that way before. Lets talk about the basic possess of writing a book. You would not be here today if you hadn't figured out how to turn that one scene into a full length novel. What was your biggest obstacle and how did you overcome it? Oh Gosh! My biggest obstacle was in finishing it! I had this image of what I wanted to happen, and the beginning was easy.

The ending was a mess as I tried to figure out the best way to bring this to a climax, and it changed from my original intention. But slugging through the middle, adding scenes, removing scenes only to add them back. All the while I was trying to remodel my home, and dealing with issues at work can make a difficult time even more so. But what drove me is the characters not wanting to shut up, like an intrinsic part of my pulse that made me keep on writing and pursuing this story.

Wow, do I get all of that! Just living life gets in my way, and things that come up I couldn't possibly see in my future. I also have the constant voices in my head from my characters demanding I get their story out there.

I'm sure you will agree that the day the voices stopping making demands is the day I discover something else to do. My next question ties nicely into this discussion. When did you realize you wanted to be a writer? Probably by the time I could read, but definitely by the time I was I checked out a book about writing from the library—this is when they still had library cards you signed—and my mother, who had died two years before, had checked out that same book.

I wrote off and on but every time I stopped, I felt restless. Great quote. I did a little researched, but came up clueless of the author. Do you believe writers are born or made? I believe you are born with the desire, but not necessarily the talent. Although there are some writers who probably were born with the talent also.

That's an interesting response, born with the desire. Maybe I would have taken everything more serious than a good grade. So for something a little lighter. What is your ideal writing space? An office full of space, books, dictionaries, and lots of room to breathe.

Dark Ride by Caroline Green

Overlooking a beautiful mountain countryside. Must include water. A lake, river, pond, or swimming pool. But honestly, this will do!

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OHHH that's adorable. And I'm jealous. What moment in this journey are you most proud of? The fact I did it. Again, I so get that. Now for a few giggles. There is someone you will never meet but whom you desperately need for them to know who you are. The only way to communicate with them is to send them a box with three items. What would those three ideas be? What fun! Okay, I have no idea who this person would be. Chris Hemsworth maybe?

Why not?

I mean, I am married to the love of my life and all, but this is fun. So here goes. How does this overgrown puppy-boy, with his baseball mitt hands and his size zillion kicks, turn into a thing of beauty on the track? But somehow when he runs, the sloppy teenage boy is gone and something powerful and primal takes his place.

Ander rounds the final curve and flies into the straightaway. He presses a little harder once the finish line is in sight, putting on a completely unnecessary rush of speed that would leave anyone else in his wake. He bursts across the finish line and keeps going, full tilt, for a few more yards before finally, reluctantly, slowing to a jog.

Sipping it is like a nervous habit with him, and he never, ever shares. He looks up and notices us for the first time. I smile and give him a thumbs-up while Zoe golf claps. He breaks into a goofy grin and lopes in our direction.

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And you know? I tug my worn red hoodie a little tighter around me, shove my notebook in my bag, pick up my violin case, and make my way down the bleachers, my combat boots clonking on the wood. Zoe follows me, even more slowly, in her leopard-print platform clogs. Why are you wearing those shoes? This makes sense only in Zoe World, since the coat in question is lime green polyester, circa nineteen-seventy. But it does make my usual uniform—gray t-shirt, red hoodie, dark jeans, black boots—look boring as hell.

The sweatshirt is a size too small. It strains over his shoulders. He tugs it on, then reaches out a hand to help first me, then Zoe, down the last step. I shrug.

Baseball, by the way. Not so much a sports fan. I just came down to see if you wanted to walk home together. Zoe shakes her head. I need to go get ready for my shift. You read constantly. He still looks exhilarated from the run.

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His pale blue eyes are glittery with adrenaline, his blond hair spiked with sweat. I need to hit the showers. Ander laughs and spreads his arms wide to catch the crisp fall breeze. Instead I stand there protesting as Ander wraps his strong arms around me and nearly crushes me in one of his signature bear hugs. He does smell like sweat—but in a good way. He smells like shampoo, too, and that other smell I can never place—something sweet like cloves, but spicy. I squirm and struggle against his grip, which is futile because Ander is much taller than me and extremely strong.


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What I want is for this to be a real hug. Zoe laughs and waves me away with her hand.