Today I’m
excited to be a part of the Ceruleans Anniversary party! This February it’s
been two years since author Charlotte Wilson began publishing the Ceruleans
series (previously published under the pen name Megan Tayte), a series I really
loved!

Join the
fun today and read the guest post Charlotte wrote and the amazing Giveaway!

IN SEARCH
OF THE MEANING OF DEATH, SHE’LL FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE.

Seventeen-year-old Scarlett Blake is haunted by death. Her sister has made the
ultimate dramatic exit: run away from school, join a surfing fraternity, drown
in a tragic ‘accident’.

Following in her sister’s footsteps, Scarlett comes to an isolated English cove
to uncover the truth. And, as it turns out, to fall in love with the place and
its people, especially a certain blue-eyed surfer with a serious case of the
heroics.

But as Scarlett’s quest for the truth unravels, so too does her grip on reality
as she’s always known it. Because there’s something strange going on in this
little cove. A dead magpie circles the skies. A dead deer watches from the
undergrowth. Hands glow with light. Power.

What transpires is a summer of discovery: of what it means to conquer fear, to
fall in love, to choose life, to choose death.

To believe the impossible.

(Check out
my review here.)

IN THE
FACE OF DEATH, SHE MUST PROTECT THOSE SHE LOVES.

Death is stalking Scarlett Blake. As if the encroaching darkness in her head
wasn’t enough, she’s become disturbingly accident prone. Falling off a cliff
isn’t ideal when all you want is as much time as possible to live the life you
love.

But the clock is ticking, louder with every heartbeat, and now Scarlett must
decide how best to protect the people she loves.

Will she trust in Jude and the life-after-death he promises? Will she stand
against the Fallen, who have her sister captive? Will she carry the burden of her
death alone – every headache, every hallucination, every harrowing emotion?

And when the clock falls silent, will Scarlett fight for life? Or will she
surrender to the one who’s determined to kill her?

(Check out
my review here.)

When
Scarlett Blake chose to Become a Cerulean, she expected to grieve for all she
left behind. But at least Cerulea, her heaven, would be… well, heavenly. Right?

Wrong. The world in which Scarlett awakens is picturesque, sure, and serene.
But there can be no paradise within the unforgiving walls of a prison, be they
of cold, hard stone or beautifully blue water.

Now Scarlett faces her hardest decision yet: be a good, dutiful Cerulean, or be
true to herself and fight for freedom.

And if she can find a way to escape, what then? Can she save her sister from
the murderous Fallen? Can she evade her destiny with the Ceruleans? Can she
ever reclaim her life-before-death… or must she let go of all she loves?

(Check out
my review here.)

STORM
CLOUDS ARE GATHERING, AND THEY WILL RAIN BLOOD.

Scarlett is living her happy-ever-after, back in the real world. Only the
‘happy’ part is proving problematic.

For starters, there’s the isolation. Being a Cerulean among humans is fraught
with risk, so time with those she loves can only be fleeting.

Then there’s her power over life and death. Less awesome talent, as it turns
out, and more overwhelming responsibility – and it comes with rules that are
increasingly difficult to obey.

But what’s really pushing Scarlett to the precipice is something much bigger
than her life in the cove. A force to be reckoned with: blood.

When long-buried truths are exposed, will Scarlett keep her head above water –
or will she drown in the blood-dimmed tide that is unleashed?

(Check out
my review here.)

DARKNESS
HAS FALLEN, AND SHE ALONE WILL SEE THE LIGHT.

With her mother’s life hanging in the balance, Scarlett is devastated – and
done with being in the dark. She wants answers, all of them.

But when was her pursuit of the truth ever straightforward?

Pulling a single thread impels a great unravelling. And each revelation will
force Scarlett to rethink what she thought she knew about the Ceruleans, the
Fallen, her family – herself.

All that came before was a mere prelude to this, the final journey – to where
it all began and it all must end. But in the final reckoning, none will survive
unscathed. And some will not survive at all.

In this explosive conclusion to The Ceruleans series, all must be defined by
their actions: sinner, saint… or something more beautiful entirely?

(Check out
my review here.)

The
Ceruleans series is available at Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble and iTunes.

One night to write: the
biscuit-crumbed reality of a writing retreat

A few years
ago, when I’d just started writing my Ceruleans series, a new hotel opened near
my home. Big. Light. Spacious. Stunning design. Green spaces all around. A
lounge with shelves of books. A bar serving up a decent coffee for a couple of
pounds. In short: a writer’s heaven – fabulous, but entirely out of reach. Or
was it?

A quick
(illicit) hotel-booking website peek uncovered an immensely exciting fact:
because the hotel was new, it was quiet, and to fill empty rooms it was
offering some at a staggering discount. Some husband-convincing later, I was
booked in for the Sunday night. To write intently, away from distractions, from
check-in at two p.m. through to checkout at eleven. Heaven, surely. Well, yes.
But also a little more challenging than I’d envisioned.

The distractions

The
clock’s ticking on this writing time. But oh, look! A king-size bed with
freshly laundered sheets all to myself. A massive bath that fills in two
minutes and a long row of miniature toiletries to examine. A tray of little
sachets of tea and coffee and biscuits, all of which must be sampled. A vast
amount of carpet to dance across without standing on a single piece of Lego or
sticklebrick. A flatscreen with a hundred channels. A free magazine. Room
service.

The beginning (finally)

Abruptly,
I remember why I’m here. Standing at the window and dreamily munching a biscuit
while watching squirrels frolic in the trees is swiftly abandoned for dragging
the table to the window, sitting down and typing. And typing. And typing. Such
is the focus that the hotel room recedes, and when I finally come back to
reality, I’m disorientated – where the heck am I? But there’s no time for
coming to, because I need to make:

The first phone call home

To my son,
to say goodnight and promise to 1) to save the free biscuits for him (uh-oh)
and 2) let him jump on the bed when he comes with his dad to pick me up
tomorrow.

The second phone call home

Five
minutes later, once my son’s in bed, to tell my husband the hotel hideaway
initiative is going brilliantly (while not admitting I just had a little cry
from exhaustion and missing my son, my husband, my house – everything outside
this room).

The decamp to the bar

Where I
engage in a lengthy game of musical chairs in the hunt for a laptop-charging power-point,
a table at the right height, a chair in the light, a chair in the shadows, an
escape from an inebriated couple sniping at each other. Sometime later the
bartender dims the lights to alert me to the fact that the bar is closed. Oh,
and apparently empty except for the two of us. I take a moment to wipe a smear
off my laptop (that’s the last time I eat nachos while writing) and swig back
the dregs of my umpteenth Diet Coke. Then I stagger back to my room and
execute:

The collapse

Into the
big, empty bed. Where I soon realise I can’t sleep because it’s so big and it’s
so empty, and I’m wired on Diet Coke, and Mr and Mrs Inebriated are in the
next-door room and have taken their row up a level.

The morning after

I awake in
a panic – only five hours to go! I’m forming sentences before my feet hit the
carpet, and I’m at the desk and typing before I’ve fully opened my eyes.
Somewhere around ten the sound of vacuum cleaners in the hallway outside
registers. Quick shower. Clothes. Stuff thrown into bag. Back to desk. Type,
woman, type!

The end

A text
message at ten to eleven warns of the imminent arrival of my husband and son. I
stop typing. The room is very, very quiet. And there appears to be a lot of
biscuit crumbs around. Tentatively, I move the mouse and hit the button I’ve
been avoiding all this time: word count. Twelve thousand. Oh. More than I
thought. But are any of those words keepers?

I won’t
decide that when, moments later, I’m kangarooing about the bed with my little
boy. Or as we check out and I sweet-talk the receptionist into a large stack of
free biscuits. But sometime during the week, when I’ve had enough time to start
missing the hotel, I’ll open the file and read.

And then
I’ll go and tell my husband the good news: free biscuits all round again this
weekend. And the next?

Once upon a
time a little girl told her grandmother that when she grew up she wanted to be
a writer. Or a lollipop lady. Or a fairy princess. ‘Write, Charlotte,’ her
grandmother advised. So that’s what she did.

Thirty-odd years later, Charlotte is a professional writer. For authors
and publishers, she writes and edits books as The Book
Specialist. For herself, she writes soulful, coming-of-age romance
for young adults.

Charlotte grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long)
jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in a village of
Greater Manchester with her husband and two children. When she’s not reading or
writing, you’ll find her walking someplace green, baking up a storm, or
embarking on a DIY project. She recently achieved a lifetime ambition of
creating a library in her home to house her ever-increasing collection of
books. She pretends not to notice that the shelves are rather wonky.

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