10 Book Confessions: Ryan Hill

I know today isn't Monday, however, we are doing an extra addition of the 10 Book Confessions for special guest Ryan Hill.

So, give him a warm welcome, read his confessions, check out the exclusive excerpt for his upcoming novel, Dead New World, but most importantly, take a look at his Kickstarter Campaign, which has been put on in conjunction with Definition House, LLC. Together Ryan Hill and Definition House plan to change the face of Indie Publishing and they need your help!  

1.      I taught myself how to read. At least that’s what my parents tell me. I remember a small chalkboard and magnetic letters. And reading. A lot. I probably could have started school in the second grade. Sure, I’d have been socially stunted, but it might have given me a greater appreciation for hard work at least.

2.      Speaking of second grade, my elementary school used to have contests to see who read the most. I finished third. In the school. Is this really a confession? I don’t know. Here’s a confession: I’ve read the first 115 Hardy Boys books.

3.      In fifth grade, I was so engrossed reading a book during class I missed a spelling bee. Just read right through it. They did let me take it in the hallway between classes at least.

4.      Before writing novels, I harbored dreams of becoming a screenwriter. I used to sit in my room growing up writing scripts in a notebook instead of doing homework. Mom couldn’t tell the difference, so that made it all the better. I even moved out to Los Angeles. For six months. If you’re rich, that place rules. Otherwise… not so much.

5.      I own all of Stephenie Meyer’s novels, even The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner. As the Twilight movies became more and more insufferable, this collection moved from my main bookshelf, to the secondary, and now to the closet where it will remain, free from prying eyes.

6.      One. One book has ever made me cry. John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars. To this day I wish I could’ve held fast, but alas.

7.      I enjoy walking around Barnes & Noble, looking at the books, trying to convince myself these writers are colleagues, not way ahead of me in their publishing career and therefore not colleagues at all. More like…superiors.

8.      I’m not a big fan of John Grisham. Or Dan Brown. Even Tom Clancy. Grisham and Brown are too light for me (especially Brown), Clancy too bogged down in techno-speak. Oh! I tried reading Charles Dickens in high school. It was torture.

9.      I don’t always finish reading books I read. You can look at my bookshelves and see little bookmarks sticking out of the ones I haven’t, and most likely will never, finish. Some people feel obligated to finish something, even if it’s not the most entertaining. Not me. Life’s too short.

10.  Long books intimidate me. I really want to read some of Stephen King’s longer works like The Stand, but 1,000 pages for a book feels too daunting, especially when there are 50 or so books waiting to be read on my bookshelf. Does this make me some kind of weakling reader? I don’t know.

To learn more about Ryan you can stalk him on Twitter, check out his website or check him out on Facebook.


Zombies aren’t mindless anymore.

They follow orders. And if Holt and Ambrose want to kill some undead, they’ll do the same. But when a routine mission goes horribly wrong, the best friends’ lives are flayed to the bone.

Now there’s only one light in the darkness of Holt’s life, and when she’s taken, he’ll do anything to get her back. Even if that means defying orders and using his best friend as a weapon. Holt and Ambrose risk all to save her, but what they discover among the hordes threatens to remake humanity. Again.

In the end, will there be anything left to live for in this dead new world?


And now for the exclusive expert for Dead New World:

The light shone softly in Nancy’s eyes, sending an unfamiliar jolt
through my body. I didn’t know what to say.

Jesus, Holt, you’re about to see your best friend for the last time
and you’re swooning over a girl. Pull your head out of your ass.

Disgusted with myself, I let go of Nancy and walked, alone and with a
heavy heart, to Ambrose’s room. I could see him through the window,
asleep on a twin bed. Next to the door was a control panel.

“Push the red button to talk into the microphone,” Nancy said.

I pressed the button. “Hey man, wake up.”

Ambrose slowly stirred from his sleep. “Who is it?”

“Your mother.”

“Ha.” Ambrose stood, draping bed sheets over his white scrubs. The
days of being stuck in this small room seemed to have sapped his
strength. He leaned against the wall, obviously too tired to stand on
his own for long. “Nice to see you on your foot.” He chuckled.

“Funny. I could say the same for you. I hear you got one hell of a
hickey. Didn’t your mother teach you to stay away from strangers?”

“I never did mind her like I should have.” He laughed.

I tried to get a good look at him, but the dim light made it
impossible. “They said most people don’t last a day after being
bitten. You’ve made it four. I guess I should congratulate you.” As
far as silver linings went, this one was pretty damn weak.

“Yeah, lucky me.” Ambrose coughed into his bed sheets. “Maybe they’ll
give me a prize. Some bacon or something.”

“What…what does it feel like?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Kind of like being sick. Had a fever at first then
some numbness over part of my body.”

“Is it getting any worse?”

“No.” Ambrose sniffed. “Some parts still feel like me, others…like
these gray parts, nothing.” He pointed at his arm where the skin had
turned a sickly gray. “They’re dead, I guess.”

Nancy loudly cleared her throat. “We need to get you back to your
room. They try to patrol this place pretty regularly, especially when
we have…guests.”

I nodded. “I have to go. I’m sorry. I wish it was me in there instead of you.”

Ambrose stepped right up to the window in the door. The light from the
hallway showed me his face, and for the first time I got a glimpse of
what his loyalty to me had cost him. I froze, unable even to take a
breath for a long beat. The guilt rising up seemed almost too much to
bear. What kind of hell had I sent my friend to?

“Doesn’t matter.” Ambrose waved me off. “What happened, happened. Go.
Get out of here. Enjoy your life.” He walked back to bed, covering his
head with the sheets.

I put my hand on the door. “Goodbye,” I said, not pushing the red
button on the intercom.




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