A few more days to save

On the dark side of the street

I have five published novels, the first pubbed in 2008, but written in 2004. Each of these novels is psychologically dark. Each narrator is unlikeable. Four years before Gone Girl, six years before Girl on a Train. The world, and its appetites, has come closer to what I like to do, and what I do best. Not thrillers, but dark psychological women's fiction.

I have not moved an inch. I have not cloaked my work in anything to be part of someone's trend. All my work is of a piece.

Whether you like it or not, whether it's stubborn or stupid or smart . . . I've stayed true. WHERE SHE WENT, coming out in October, is in my lane. If you like my lane, welcome. If not, at least recognize that it's mine.

Cheering myself up today.

Possibly the most interesting author you have yet to discover.


“Simmons brilliantly draws readers into the family’s pervasive cloud of suspicion and distrust.” – Shelf Awareness


“A cleverly dark family whodunit. The perfect read for a day at the beach.”
--Library Journal


“A read as comfortable as a worn-in sofa at a beach house.” – Booklist


“Gorgeously written and fully immersive.” – NYTimes Bestseller Kate Moretti.


“A rare novel that combines intrigue and suspense with so much heart. One of my favorite books.” -- Sarah Pekkanen, NYTimes Bestselling Author of THE WIFE BETWEEN US



“Simmons hits all the right emotional notes in this wrenching ghost story.”
--Publishers Weekly

“Twisty, psychologically deft and wildly original. It will have you guessing until the very end.” --NYTimes Bestseller Megan Abbott

Breaking Bargain News.

So, this happened. Kindle Daily Deal, only $1.99. That's quite a bargain at just the time we could all use one. Hope you or someone you know will download it and treat yourself to reading over your holidays. (And did you know you can gift an ebook? It's super simple. You just need their email address.) Buy here.

Partial eclipse.

It was not possible to grow up in the sixties without having science thrust upon you at every turn. These were delicious years for science teachers. These were the tornado shelter years, the time of Duck & Cover nuclear drills. The moon landing on every television in every home. Suddenly there were vaccines for everything, the birth control pill was invented. And these were just the things we noticed, remarked upon.Behind the scenes the whole world was being changed.
But in the middle of it all, what I remember, for unusual reasons, was the eclipse.There were projects for building boxes with pinholes. There were discussions of angles, timing. There was chit chat about where we should be, what to do, and how to behave. Just like there is right now.
And then there was my mother’s simple, exhausted, I just-had-a-baby-admonition: For the entire day, just to be safe, don’t look at the sun. No matter what. Not once.
But it was summer, and we ran outside like untended dogs, all the neighborhood kids, which included mostly girls but a few boys, one a year older who lived next door. I was six and he was seven? Eight? We were that young. Somehow he and I were together, alone, on the hill in his backyard, pulling patches of grass up with our hands, throwing them. Braiding them. Trying to whistle with them. Making the long hot July day go by. The sun was directly overhead, which is why we were sitting, there, tempting fate. We talked about not looking. That we could go blind. What it would be like to go blind. The boxes we were supposed to use sat next to us on the lawn. Where was my brother? Where was his sister? Where was my friend who lived across the street? I don’t know.
"I can't look," I said.
He leaned over to kiss me, his lips garden-cool on mine, and for a brief moment, his head, with his blond crew cut and dirt streaks on his forehead, completely covered the threat of the sun. I know because I opened my eyes.
Spoiler alert: I am not blind.

Sleepy summer road trips and reading.

Not all book blogs are equal, that's for sure. We get busy, don't have time or energy to write the beautiful essays that some love, or the funny anecdotes that others prefer, or we fall asleep with books on our chests, and don't get through them, and can't even write a post about books we've loved. But some people never disappoint, their blogs continue to weave interesting things together, and one person who does that, unerringly, is Beth Kephart Books. I was honored to have her reflections on THE FIFTH OF JULY included as part of her all-American road trip. The America I am writing about looks beautiful on the surface, but has so many cracks in its foundation. But all is not lost. It never is. For the rest of this weekend, if you like my Facebook Author Page, there's a free mini-book sampling of THE FIFTH OF JULY. If you hurry. It won't be July forever.

ONE MORE DAY is on sale for $2.99 for, yes, one more day.

A tangled web, perhaps, but a simple price. Thank you Barnes & Noble, for adding me to your 500 under $5. Here 'tis.
Or if you're a kindle person, here.

Also, I should mention the BIG GOODREADS GIVEAWAY on my novel THE FIFTH OF JULY. Please add it to your list!

That's more than enough linking for one day, but it's raining here, and rain means reading. I'll take that as a good sign that you will.

#NotOkay

I have a microblog at verysincerely.com, in which I write anonymous letters about things that amaze me, scare me, irk me. If you're interested, here was this week's:


Dear Chamber of Commerce President:

You. Yes, you. You with the boundless energy. Enough to run a business and an organization, and still coach your sons’ soccer team. Always smiling, always cajoling, the customers loved you, trusted you. Who wouldn’t?

You hired people on instinct, you said, not on experience, not on age.

What did you see in me at age 15? Energy, intelligence? Or did you see in me the shyness, the uncertainty, that would make me freeze in confusion when you rubbed up against me in the dark back stairway? Turning a tight corner into a do-si-do that always ended in a rough full frontal “hug” up against the damp wall, a move I had no vocabulary word for.

Are you thinking of me now as you watch the news?

I remember your name.

But somehow I doubt you remember anything about me but my body.

Very Sincerely,

After School Employee

A special price, today only.

Have you been waiting? Is it on your to-be-read list? Download it on any device, today, Friday June 17th, and head to the beach. Here's the link to Kindle. And here's the link to nook.

Independence Days.

For many years, before I was published, I related not so much to other authors, but to musicians. Indie singer/songwriters just left of center. Not commercial enough to be commercial. The most influential for me was Aimee Mann, whose lyrics and voice I've long admired. My new novel, about halfway finished, is set in July in Nantucket, a tragic summer for one family, and the anniversary of another event that changed one of their lives long ago. The song "Fourth of July" by Aimee Mann has been something of a lighthouse for me on this book. Or a dark house, as the case may be. Long live the independent voices.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOYI85anqmQ

Another great giveaway til April 15 only!

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Baking, reading, remembering.

At all my book events, I have been bringing along mini pies and thumbprint cookies with jam.

The baking figures prominently in my book trailer and in my book, because In ONE MORE DAY, the main character, Carrie Morgan, bakes with her grandmother, as she did when she was a little girl. However, it's not clear whether her grandmother is dead or alive. :)

As she says in the book, "How is it possible that someone dead smells so much like cookies?"

Many of my grandmother's and mother's recipes have been lost. But in their place, I have Ina Garten.

Fab February Fiction Giveaway.

If these books sound familiar to you, it's probably because you've heard about them on NPR, or in People Magazine, The New York Times, your favorite book blog or Goodreads -- now you can enter to win all 5 -- the most buzzed-about February fiction, all brought to you by the legendary Binders Full of Woman Writers.


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A fun interview.

I loved this interview at Book Club Babble so much I thought I'd share it.

Me, Babbling, here.

The book is coming. And lots of cool events. Here's February's lineup.

Empty Nest: New things vs. Old things.

When scheduling gets tight, and favorite things go undone, new things get crowded out. "Hey, let's do Pilates together!" becomes "Hey, let's do the dishes together!"

Also, it struck me on vacation that even the things we do the same, we do differently. Like hiking. Since I love scenery yet fear heights, I sometimes have to cover my eyes on the drive leading to the hike. He does not do this (which is a good thing, since he is driving.) And he does not slow down, until I yell, "Hey! slow down!"

We have hiked all over the world together, over many years, through various levels of fitness, pregnancy, and state of mind. My friends have all witnessed my breakdowns around the 5-mile mark. I have screamed a lot more than "Hey slow down!" over the years. I have screamed, "I'm hungry! I'm going back down to the cafe!" I have screamed, "I can't do it! Go get a ranger to carry me down!" And other times, I have simply said, "You climb hand over hand to the top. I'll wait here and you can tell me about it." And then, after watching elderly handicapped people pull themselves to the top, I followed, surprising him, shocking him, that I got over my fear.

But sometimes, going at my own pace, hanging back, affords me the opportunity to see something beautiful. Like my family, my gaggle of sprites, running through the dappled light.

Sometimes, there is a wonderful reason I am lagging behind.

Sofa dreams

My home is filled with my husband's parents' furniture. It's not difficult to imagine how this has happened. Things are inherited. Things are difficult to part with. Three children are in college and who has money for furniture?

But last night I dreamed of my childhood living room sofa. We had a family room with a TV and cozy seating and a basement/playroom and no one claimed the emptier, more formal living room. No one except me, who used it as a reading spot. I read a lot, so I was there a lot. Laying down and looking out the bank of windows in between chapters. I remember that sofa so well. Dark turquoise. A slightly nubby silk shantung, a word my grandmother, who had bought the sofa, told me. It itched slightly against my legs but I didn't care. It was easily the most expensive thing in the house, and my parents never said don't sit there, don't lay there, go read somewhere else. Never. It's something I'm thankful for. For what would I have become if someone had told me to leave my reading spot?

And I wonder what that sofa would look like in my house now. If I would find comfort in it, if I would find peace. And I wonder if its the reason I love the color turquoise, I crave the color turquoise, so much.

It's the climb.

Everyone thinks writing that first draft is the steep side, the rough crossing, the hand-over-hand on icy terrain that rewards you with a view at the top. And -- that revising is the easy glide down the other side. When. in. fact. The opposite is true.

Win an early reader's copy of my new book! (And 4 other fab ones)

Thriller Giveaway!

Let's remember this sky.

We were at her house when the light across the neighboring horse farm turned darkly beautiful. This, I said. This is the in-between almost-autumn that I wrote about in ONE MORE DAY. This always-cloudy never-rainy October sky. The still-green leaves that stubbornly won't change color. The metallic gray clouds that can't quite stop the golden slivers of sun. Remember this sky, I said to her. When you read my next book, remember this sky, and this day.