Guest Blog: Paula Peckham and Still Haven't Found What I am Looking For *Giveaway on any Book Previously Published--Or you can wait for this one :)

Dear Readers, I hope you are well. I'm fighting with technology but will hopefully win eventually! We're having beautiful weather, how about you?

Now, to our guest author...she's been a guest before and has become a friend over the years. She's helped me with Amazon and we've exchanged books. Thank you, Paula, for being a guest!

Introduce yourself—name, where you’re from, and something people notice when they

meet you.

My name is Paula Peckham, and I live in Burleson, Texas (home of Kelly Clarkson!). More

than one person has told me I look like Jamie Lee Curtis.

Tell us about your book—title and back cover blurb?

My upcoming book is titled Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.

A conflicted rock star. An aspiring journalist at a crossroads. An unlikely

pairing of two wildly different worlds.

Derek Norton spent the past two decades writing songs and performing music with

his band, aiming for the Number One charts. Now that he has arrived, fame and

fortune are less fulfilling than he expected. Surely, he should spend his God-given

talents on something more meaningful.

Andi Thompson is rebounding from her ex-husband’s adultery. At the same time, her

only child has left for college. The past year has figuratively knocked her to the mat.

Soon after she claws her way back to healthy self-esteem, her ex drops a bombshell

that takes her breath away.

A chance circumstance delivers a dream assignment. A new avenue opens before her,

bringing a chance to reboot her life and prove she has what it takes to stand on her

own. And Derek sees his life through new eyes. Can God bring his prodigals back to

his plan for their lives?

Share an excerpt?

This could be Derek Norton’s worst day since becoming sober.

He scowled at Chaz. The producer, who usually operated in a “we’re all friends here”

mode, had switched to his upper-level management version, total business. The weird

looks Derek received walking through the Pony Boy Records office suddenly made

sense. Apparently, the Assassins had been the main topic of conversation at the music

company’s weekly pitch meeting. He’d expected to discuss tour plans with Chaz. That

expectation evaporated within fifteen seconds of sitting down in front of the man’s desk.

How to end this meeting with his dignity intact?

Greg, the band’s manager, sat at Derek’s side. For the moment, he’d added nothing to

the conversation, but the mild-mannered cocker spaniel could switch to a Rottweiler as soon as the change was merited.

Chaz leaned back in his leather office chair, the light streaming in through the plate-

glass windows behind him surrounding him like a halo. Hah. The epitome of false

advertising.

“Derek, I know this isn’t easy to hear, but the numbers don’t lie. None of your shows

on this tour have sold out yet.”

Derek flinched. “Are you calling the Assassins a failure?”

Chaz clicked his pen, an annoying tic. “Your words, not mine. We gotta shake this off.”

Samuel, Chaz’s overeager assistant, gave a nervous chuckle from his position behind

Chaz’s shoulder.

Ignoring the lackey, Derek directed his gaze instead to his ankle propped on his knee,

picking at the seam of his worn Converse tennis shoe. He bit back an angry retort. He had

twenty-six years of producing hits in his portfolio. His gaze darted to Greg, whose

impassive expression gave nothing away. Good thing the guys weren’t here with him.

They’d have erupted by now.

“Time to face facts.” Chaz’s impersonal tone pinged a nerve like a guitar string that

had been wound too tight. “You know as well as I do that record sales have been on a

downward slide for a couple of years now.”

Okay, so maybe sales weren’t great. Certainly, they’d been better. But this doomsday

attitude from Chaz rankled. “Our fans like what I create.” Derek swallowed the

defensiveness in his tone and strove for confident geniality. “I’ve been writing music for

nearly three decades. I’m finally hitting my stride. I have more than an album’s worth of

new songs. I’m branching out, trying something new, and I want to introduce my favorite

ones during the tour. They may be the best I’ve ever written. I know they’ll kick off sales

of the new album.”

“I don’t need the best you’ve ever written. I need something fans’ll download. We’re

here to produce hit songs people like to listen to.”

Derek dropped his foot to the floor with a thud. “Remember what happened with EMI

Records? They turned down Freddie Mercury when he came to them with his latest song.

Told him they weren’t interested in producing a six-minute-long operatic dirge. But

Freddie knew what he was talking about. So do I. I make good music.”

Samuel shifted. “‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ was one of their best, but … let’s be honest.

You’re not Freddie Mercury.”

Derek’s gaze flicked to the younger man, then returned to Chaz. He wouldn’t grace

that with a reply.

A muscle in Chaz’s jaw flexed. He obviously had more to say.

Derek took a deep breath and leaned back against the chair. Whatever the producer

had yet to share affected not only him but the band too. He had to chill out. Where was

the balance between knowing the Assassins’ worth to Pony Boy Records and trying too

hard to please? He couldn’t afford to let his pride destroy everyone else’s livelihood. He

shared a silent look with Greg. Thank God he’d come along. Derek let the tension ease

from his neck—this was Greg’s terrain. Contracts, percentages, damage control. Derek

handled the music. Greg handled the rest. He’d know how to take the hit when it came.

Chaz lifted his smooth-shaven chin, his gaze direct and cool. “It’s your job to write

great songs.”

Samuel jumped in. “And you do it better than anyone. Your poetic lyrics … your

symphonic accompaniments. You’re the best.”

Derek leveled a skeptical gaze at him. “Stop blowing smoke.”

Greg snorted a muted chuckle.

Chaz’s fist clenched, a spasm of irritation quickly released. He cleared his throat.

“It’s my job to count the pennies,” Chaz said. “I have to appease the accountants and

shareholders. We’ve gotta get your sales numbers up. If this next album doesn’t do better,

then …” His words trailed off.

Ice froze Derek’s gut. The unspoken threat quivered in the air between them. “Then

what?” he demanded.

“Pony Boy is a business, Derek. Not a charity. I can’t sign off on albums that—”

“Charity?” The word exploded from Derek. The ice in his belly morphed into heat

that flashed up his neck. He leaned forward. “Gold and platinum Assassin records line

that wall out there.” He jabbed a finger toward the hallway outside Chaz’s office. “We’ve

more than paid our way.”

Chaz straightened his shoulders and widened his chest. Not good body posture for a

negotiation. “That’s not how business works. You don’t get to bank decades-old goodwill

against today’s expenses.”

“Decades? We aren’t geriatrics who need walkers to get on stage.” Derek flopped

back in the chair. “Unbelievable.”

Greg shifted forward. “Chaz, if you’re that unhappy with the Assassins’ performance,

perhaps it’s time for us to seek a new producer. I’m sure there are other companies that

would be happy to take on the band.”

Yeah. Derek mentally cheered Greg on.

“Look, it’s not going to come to that.” Chaz spread his hands wide in a gesture

probably meant to be conciliatory, but which came across as patronizing. “I have a plan.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. The reason for this meeting had finally arrived.

“A friend of mine works at American Sound. He owes me a favor,” Chaz said. “He’s

agreed to do a feature story on y’all.”

Disapproval rumbled in Derek’s chest. Of all the magazines in the world, he had to

pick that one?

Ask the blog reader a quirky question or two?

One of my favorite parts about writing this book was finding song titles to use with each

chapter. What a trip down memory lane! What songs, either from your high school years or

special times in your life, remind you of important times?

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I hope everyone has a wonderful day/week!