I am thrilled to have been invited to participate in the “Death & Damages” box set anthology with a stable of talented bestselling authors like the one you are about to meet.
These amazing writers have graciously agreed to let my blog readers share in an exclusive interview AND get a sneak peek at the book they have contributed to the Death & Damages box set – 25 stories for 99 cents!
Today, we sit down with Tiana Laveen, author of Dismal.
DAN: Tell my readers briefly about the story you are contributing to the Death & Damages anthology. What inspired your story?
Dr. River Michelet is more than meets the eye. After a family tragedy, he relocated to South Bend, Indiana and leaves the criminal psychology field to work with teenage boys who suffer from psychological disorders. Despite the difficult transition, River’s apprehensions quickly vanish as he realizes he can be an asset to these young men, but at what cost? While struggling to maintain his sanity, he chases the American dream—the pretty wife and the picket fence—but behind the curtains lies another reality altogether…
While a part of him excels, another aspect of him unravels. Secrets, lies, neglect, and hatred lead to him tapping into the darkness within and unleashing his inner monster.
His motivation is simple: When karma doesn’t do a good enough job, Dr. River Michelet steps in to serve a bit of street justice. Welcome to South Bend, Indiana, where the people are nice, the accents are Midwestern, and the killers are the ‘boy next door’…
What inspired this story?
“For as long as I can remember, I have had an unhealthy obsession with the macabre, deep, dark, nasty secrets of the world – the things that are happening behind closed doors but we are often not discussing, at least, not in the open.”
In particular, the underbelly of society I have found far more intriguing than the ordinary or run of the mill stories that are typically the fabric of our daily lives. The human mind, especially as it pertains to what is sometimes coined, ‘abnormal human psychology’ fascinates me to no end.
I have always wondered what causes people to do what they do? Why do we all react differently to the same stressful situations and what makes one person lose their cool to the point of a violent outcome? This story revolves around the idea of a seemingly ‘normal’ man somehow breaking down psychologically. Was he born this way or was it a series of events that led to the behavior?
This story revolves around a man who is hell bent on revenge, with a Robin Hood sort of twist. Though what he does is reprehensible by American societal standards, many I believe, will teeter the line of sympathy and compassion, some may even be in agreement with his actions, at least from an afar perspective. In this day and age of bullying and harassment – taking on an entirely new level due to technology allowing others to be cyber bullied, this story came about due to my some of my own experiences as a child, as well as many recent murders and killing sprees in the last few years of teenagers who succumbed to the pressure of the torment and ended up taking out their anger on innocent people. The results were devastating and left many of us asking the hard questions: “What could have been done to prevent this?” No, not the day before, not the week before, not the month before, but YEARS before?
I began to think about what if the source of the pain was challenged and addressed instead? Would there be any relief for the victim of the bullying if those that made his or her life a living hell were rightfully punished? So, for a very serious topic, I didn’t want to exploit it – I wanted to delve deeper into a possibility of revenge used as medication for what appears to be a character, who on the outside appears perfectly well adapted, but is far from it. What the reader will be witnessing is the decomposition of morality within one person, if he ever had it to begin with.
How long of a piece is it?
“Dismal” is a full length novel that is a little over 95K words, equivalent to 348 pages.
Tell me a little bit about you. Where do you do your writing?
I have an office in my home dedicated to 90% of my writing time. At various times however, due to needing new scenery, I will venture into my bedroom on occasion (much to my husband’s chagrin who finds my long nails beating against the keyboard jarring at midnight) or slip into the dining room for a day or two. I find this helps at times keep the creative juices flowing. I get bored easily so it is necessary for me to at times switch up my space via décor, lighting and at times, another spot in the home all together.
“If I wasn’t such a wimp when it came to certain insects, I imagine outside would be a nice option as well.”
I also enjoy writing while out of town – even on vacation. LOL
What does writing success look like to you?
Of course writing success is different for everyone, but for me – it is reaching my individual goals and producing a book that is either close or exceeds my own personal expectations. I am a perfectionist when it comes to my work and will toil over it until I can ‘live with it.’ So, success to me, is completing what I set out to do – which is illustrating the vision of the book as I saw it in my head. If it closely aligns with that or is even better, the end product that is, then that to me is a ‘gold star’ moment. Success is also when a reader contacts me to let me know how one of my books challenged them or caused them relief in some way. I have been surprised and grateful to be told the impact that my books have on some of my readers. It is a reminder that for some people, this isn’t just a ‘past time.’ This is a soothing balm, a lesson and food for thought.
Do you ever collaborate with others?
I have, yes. I am typically a solo artist however collaborations allow for readers to be introduced to a variety of new authors, allows the authors to meet and network with other authors that they may not have known previously and it is a great opportunity for people with common goals to work together towards the same mission.
Tell me a little bit about your process. What is the path from idea to finished story? Do you use critique partners? Do you have a favorite editor?
My process begins with a vision for the story. It is just an idea floating about. This could be as simple as just a face of someone. Many of my books originated from dreams or nightmares. I will take those pieces and build a story around it. I sit down and envision the main characters- appearance, personality, where they live, where they work, etc. I then write out a very loose ‘skeletal’ outline. I then go into that outline and flesh out what each scene will entail. By the time I have completed the story, it will have more than likely, shifted and changed as the characters develop. I listen to my characters – I don’t drive the ship, they do so I never marry anything that I have written in the outline. We are not dedicated to one another and it is privy to change at any time.
“If I originally thought a character was going to do A,B,C and instead they do X,Y,Z, I don’t fight it.
I follow my intuition.”
I tend to write 3-4 rough drafts of each scene. I have an editor and beta readers jump in at the end and I take that time to address anything that may have been brought to my attention that I agree needs a second look. After it is all said and done, off to publishing we go.
What do you do for your cover? It’s always hard to find a good cover. How do you find yours, or the artwork?
I find my own artwork. As someone with an art background, I am very particular about my covers. I will explain to the person I typically use to lay out my ideas graphically, what I want. Sometimes though, I just send the artwork, models etc. and title over to him and let him have it because at this point, he knows my style and has a good idea of what I like and don’t like. I know personally what makes me look at a book cover twice. Everyone has different tastes, so what I may find attractive, someone else may not but there are of course many trends in book covers. I don’t usually follow trends. I go with what speaks to me because when that trend passes – that cover will still be there and I don’t want to chase after what is ‘in fashion.’ I want what matches what the story is about and how I envisioned it.
What about your blurb and tagline? What is your process for arriving at a really killer tagline and then a blurb that makes readers want to buy the book?
I don’t believe that I have ever mastered this, not in the least, lol. However, I think depending on the genre, I may find it easier or harder to form a good blurb and tagline. Horror and suspense taglines I find to be far easier for me to figure out than my typical genre, which is romance. However, my romance novels are not ‘typical’ and that is where the dilemma often pops up. I tend to have ‘dark’ bits and pieces in my romances, real issues and relatable situations which cause me to have to dig a bit deeper.
* EXCLUSIVE SNEAK PEEK *
“How does it feel, Winston? The agony you’ve imposed on her has come to an abrupt, ugly end. Not the conclusion you’d hoped for, I imagine?” His breathing slowed as he took in the moment. The stench of the surrounding dumpsters caused an involuntary snarl. River glanced down at his dripping thumb and sucked his teeth in irritation. He hadn’t planned to venture back out to L.A. so soon, but Caroline’s boyfriend had gone too far.
“Why are you so quiet, woman beater?” He gleamed at his handiwork, admiring the way death lay before him like wilted black roses wrapped in human flesh, stinking of a life better off unlived. “Oh, that’s right,” He clicked his tongue against his jaw, a wide grin across his face as he nodded. “You’re finished talking now, aren’t you?”
River leaned over the slumped body covered with a mixture of rain and blood. This one put up a hell of a fight. Caroline’s boyfriend had put her in the hospital, and if it hadn’t been for Dad calling him and screaming through the phone about the doozy of a black eye and busted lip she’d received, he would have been none the wiser. He knew when he saw her during their visit that something was amiss, but Caroline had always been a good liar, drifting in and out of reality. Perhaps she, too, had convinced herself the poor boy had done it because he loved her so much. It didn’t matter now. What was done was done.
He sighed as a dull pain radiated along his right thumb, the skin sliced open from a chomp of uneven teeth. He cocked his head to the left, then the right, snapping the surgical glove against his wrist before giving the hunk of flesh a swift, careless push with the tip of his shoe. The body rolled over into the long, rain-filled pit of the alley to get swallowed by the darkness and pelted with rain. The downpour soaked his khaki gabardine pants. He curved his lips in a satisfied grin as the puddle beneath the mass turned crimson. Turning on his heels, he made his way down the to his rental car.
Starting the vehicle, he sat there for a few moments, looking out the window. Cars came and went in the near distance, kissing the front hood with white lights as they moved by. Snatching himself away from a budding daydream, he reached over to the driver’s side of the car, tossed the soiled gloves inside a paper bag, then tended to his wound. Dabbing a little hydrogen peroxide on the gash with a cotton swab, he let it bubble and froth, regarding the gaping flesh and wincing ever so slightly at the sight of it all. Wrapping a good deal of gauze around the injury, he started the engine and drove slowly out of the alleyway and onto the street, blending in with traffic effortlessly as he made his way back to the airport.
Four hours later, he was back home and took what little time he had to tidy up. He pulled up in his black Infiniti G37 to the Lasalle Grille on Colfax Avenue, parked nearby, and headed towards the upscale eatery on foot. This time he refused valet service and headed towards the oldest commercial building in downtown South Bend, Indiana, which housed his favorite restaurant since relocating to the city. As he entered the establishment, the host nodded in his direction with an all-knowing, gentle wave.
“Ahhh, Mr. Michelet! Your wife is waiting. Come…right this way.” He trekked behind the man with neatly cropped, dark brown hair until his eyes rested on her…
There she sat, looking like a demure siren. Beneath her sophisticated veneer was a lust-filled, dedicated sex symbol that owned his heart. She had her long legs crossed, her bone colored heels catching the light just so, and an anklet he’d purchased for her sparkled almost as brightly as her blue eyes. She wore the hell out of her royal blue satin dress that clung to her curves in all the right places. A linen napkin sat on her lap and as he drew nearer, he took in the lipstick stain around the rim of her glass of red wine. He swooped down towards her like some hawk spotting its prey, placed a gentle kiss on her rosy cheek, then shifted his attention to her plump, mauve lips. The softness of her mouth pressed urgently to his, almost making him forget about the soreness of his thumb and the harsh beating of his excited heart.
“Sorry I’m late, honey.” He took his seat across from her, pushed his dinner menu to the side, and took hold of the wine selections list for the evening, wanting something strong in the worst way.
“Your flight to Denver long and grueling, huh?” She winked. It unnerved him, the way her tone pitched in an all-knowing way. Her light brown eyebrows rose as she waited for his reply, her lips parting and the sides of her mouth lifting in delight—almost as if she were in on his little secret … aware of his true comings and goings.
Can you see through me, Abigail? A part of me hopes that you can…
Flicking her light blond hair over one shoulder, she took a sip of her wine, but her smile remained ever present. He grazed his cupid’s bow with a swipe of his finger, curing an itch as his eyes scanned the vinous options.
“Yes, I’m glad to be home.”
“What happened to your thumb, River? Are you all right?” She leaned back in her seat with a sigh, while light jazz music played and the surrounding patrons grew a bit more gregarious.
He slowly looked up from the menu and into her eyes. His heart filled with desire as he scanned her up and down, anticipating what he’d do with her once he got her alone later that evening. He casually looked at his bandaged digit.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he said with a grin. “I reached down to pet a stray dog and it bit me. No worries though, he’s gone. And I’m famished…”
Dad had been gone for at least twenty minutes, off to his chef job to cater for the lunch crowd. The front door separated sixteen-year-old River from the precarious world, and he finally felt safe. Turning back to the window, he stretched out long, slender fingers along the chipped paint of the windowsill, enjoying the way the rough surface felt against his flesh, threatening to tear it open and draw a sacrifice of blood. The idea of seeing his veins cut appealed to him, as long as it happened on his own terms…
He liked the scars and the blood, the cutting, the pain. The best thing was that no one had a clue. People didn’t think twice about weird River wearing long-sleeved shirts in the dead of summer, anyway. Still, how stressful it could be to keep a secret.
Term papers were due soon. His thoughts drifted to the work he’d not completed, preferring to play hooky. Yet, for good reason. He hated himself for being such a coward, cowering from the bullies that turned day-to-day drudgery into a ferocious nightmare. Dragging his long, pale, bare feet, he navigated past the checkered print couch that sat in the semi-dark living room and made his way into the bathroom for some much-needed relief.
Perhaps his little star-studded act was coming to fruition, his latest lie to get out of attending his classes. Or, conceivably, the stress could be messing with his stomach. As he gripped the elastic band of his grape-colored jogging pants and flung them down to his ankles, his face flushed with chill and a cold sweat consumed him. Several minutes later, he peered at himself while soaping his hands with a greenish-yellow bar of soap, the mirror stained with specks of white toothpaste that reminded him of the stars in the universe. He was glad for the minty splatters; they helped obscure his true image…
The long strands of limp, dyed black hair that flowed down to his shoulders, the natural gauntness of his face, the thin lips that remained dry despite his best efforts to keep them moisturized during the blistery late autumn… He hated his sunless complexion that resisted UV rays like a vampire dashing away from cloves of garlic and blessed crucifixes. But then, of course, there were his eyes. Dark, almond shaped, and almost pitch black — startling against the whiteness of his sclera, and even more alarming against the cold, slightly bluish tinge of his flesh.
The room abruptly went dark as he slapped the light off with a brute hand…
On a gasp, River awoke from his dream — actually an old, distressing memory — only to be dazed by the sound of his alarm going off. Taking a deep breath, he turned the thing off and went down to the kitchen to fix coffee and toast, watch the morning news, and get ready for his first day as the new psychologist at the Great Expectations Center. Wrapping his robe tighter around himself, he froze, the filled electric kettle held in mid-air.
An unfamiliar noise had caught his attention — the sound of scratching and clawing against a wall. He scanned the space around him, but nothing seemed out of place.
All he could hear was the low hum of the refrigerator, the slight creaking of his feet against the wood of the floorboards, and his own breathing. As he switched on the kettle, prepared to dismiss this as a figment of his imagination, he heard the noise once again, and immediately glared at the front door. A small shadow appeared at the other side of the threshold —an unholy blackness, the kind that gave him palpitations. Taking careful steps towards the front door, he watched as the shadow stretched, grew, then shrank down, like some slinky manipulated by invisible hands. The scratching noise intensified, then paused, then started up again, even more aggressively as he neared. In an instant, it was gone. His eyes flashed in the direction of his kitchen.
I should get a knife … or run upstairs and get my gun. I know how to shoot the damn thing. Wait a minute; what the hell is wrong with me? It’s probably nothing. I’m losing my mind.
The wind had been kicking up quite a bit; in fact, a wind advisory was in session. Yes, it must’ve been the air whistling and moving about, causing a ruckus against his door. Perhaps a broken twig that had drifted over from some nearby brush, or an old tin can batting against the doorframe.
“You’re being stupid,” he mumbled to himself. “There’s no boogie man. There’s a plausible explanation for this.”
He maneuvered his way closer as if he were about to let in an old friend for a day of fun and excitement, forcing a grin, shoving himself through the discomfort and fright. Thrusting his face flush against the door, he looked through the eyehole. Nothing. All he could see was his empty front yard. No broken tree boughs, debris or roving trash. He stepped away from the door, his mind racing with uncomfortable possibilities. Then there it was again. The scratching, the shadow…
“All right, who is it?”
But the shadow at the base of the door remained. And the scratching of the wood on the other side of that wall continued, too. River’s lips crimped in an all-knowing grin as he suddenly heard soft purring followed by an insistent meow. Removing the deadbolt and taking hold of the brass doorknob, he swung the thing open, revealing a soot gray feline. The thing turned its face upward, its thin black lips curved in a grin before it revealed a deep pinkish tongue. Large yellow eyes seemed to take him all in.
Without a moment of hesitation, River picked the feline up and held it close to his chest, closing the door with a kick of his foot behind them…
…One hour later…
“I’m going to be late for work. My first day and late; that’ll be a first.”
Cloud — River had affectionately named him this after an hour of interaction — was lapping happily at a second helping of kitty white liquor, better known as milk. He’d liberally poured the liquid in a teacup his mother had owned, featuring a hand-painted Geisha woman twirling an umbrella and batting her lashes in a flirtatious way. The cat splish-splashed as it drank, spilling milk on the carpet, but River didn’t mind; the poor thing appeared famished. He’d rummaged through the cabinets searching for a bite to eat the little cat might enjoy, but had nothing he deemed fitting.
Two canisters of peanut butter, raisin walnut oatmeal, Kosher pickle spears, instant onion soup, leftover French bread, two bottles of wine, cranberry and nut protein bars, a half full protein shake from the previous night and an assortment of cheeses. That amounted to all the food he found.
“My dad’s a cook; well, he’s retired now.” He chortled as he slid a drawer out of the living room table, retrieving a red sash he’d saved from a birthday present he’d received from his sister. “Isn’t that funny? He mailed a bunch of pastries to me last week. I ate all of them. And now there’s not a thing for you to eat.” He grimaced and shook his head. “It wouldn’t have been cat-worthy anyway. We’ll have to find your owner. You’ve got a collar on but it doesn’t say anything. In the meantime, I’ll get you some cat food.” The cat paused and looked up at him, as if it somehow understood the declaration, then gave a slight nod of the head before returning to the little teacup to begin the feverish lapping once again.
“You’re lucky I was here, Cloud. I had planned to arrive a couple of hours early into work, but I was too tired.” He pressed the smooth silky material of his light gray pajama pants between his fingers, tightening it, then releasing the tension over and over again. “Who cares though, right? The hell with it.” He took a sip of his freshly made coffee. “It’ll be fine. I need to live a little, be more spontaneous. Let’s talk about you,” he said, patting the animal’s head. “Your name isn’t Cloud … I know that’s not your name.”
The cat paused once again and regarded him, running its long tongue across its nose, then nestling down at his feet, as if taking a much-needed break.
“But I don’t know your name, so what can I do?” He shrugged. “You’re wet, like you’d been caught out in the rain … probably had been. Rain, hmmm, do you like that name better? It was coming down pretty hard last night.” He tossed a glance towards the window he’d been perched at the previous day and took note of the gray sky. “What’s it like being a cat, huh? I bet it’s liberating. No rules, just living your life.” He chuckled, feeling strange for taking up a conversation with the feline, and even stranger for wishing for it to continue.
“You know, my mother used to say animals could talk before Adam and Eve sinned. She was really into the Bible.” He shrugged. “But why would a sin make the animals not talk? I mean, that doesn’t have anything to do with it, right? Does that seem fair to you? Not to me. I asked ‘er about that, too. She told me not to question it… I don’t want to be a part of anything I’m not allowed to question, you know? Everything we think and believe is eligible for examination as far as I’m concerned. That’s my expertise, actually.” He slid onto his kitchen table chair, flirting with a bout of sudden lethargy; he fought against it though. Could have been the weather bringing it on. “Everyone and everything should be questioned, right?” The cat blinked, but remained fairly motionless. “My birthday was last month… oh what’s that, a happy belated birthday? Why thank you, Cloud. You’re so thoughtful.” He chuckled, falling deeper into the silliness of it all.
“How’d you get to my door, little buddy? Where’d you come from? This is private property. You’re trespassing.” He swallowed a mirthless laugh before it had reached full maturity, then drew suddenly quiet. Cloud was looking at him … intensely. “Why do I feel like you can hear me?” With a smirk, he set a piece of ribbon down on the table beside him. “I mean, not hear me … of course you can hear me … but understand me?”
The cat cocked his head to the right ever so slightly, and purred. Reaching low, River dropped his arm towards the ground, inviting the little guy over for a pet. With a long, welcoming, warm stretch, Cloud pushed his head into his knuckles.
“You’re kinda cute.” River grinned as he ran a finger over the furry fellow’s ear. “I’m not really a cat guy, but you’ve won me over. Matter of fact, I’m not much of an animal lover at all.” Cloud suddenly paused, his large eyes hooded and an almost look of disapproval on his expressive face. “I know, right? Insane. Hey, do you like music?”
Getting to his feet, River made his way over to his father’s old stereo that sat perched on a couple of plastic storage bins. He turned on the radio, and out poured the sound of Linkin Park’s “Castle of Glass.”
Hopping from foot to foot, he laughed and bopped about, his body welcoming the impromptu reprieve. His hair fell out of place as each uneven jerk of his muscles fell in line with the rhythm of the music. The beat of the tune pulsed within him, and soon, he lost himself, falling against rambling time. Once the song ended, he turned back towards Cloud, to find the cat sitting on a kitchen chair and patting at the red ribbon on the table, pushing it to and fro, as if trying to bring it closer for inspection. River made his way over to the little guy, his flesh tingling with freshly drawn sweat from his improvised workout.
“You want the ribbon? I thought it might make a nicer collar than your current one.” Picking the thing up, he wrapped it slowly around the cat’s neck. Cloud simply sat there, like a statue, giving some strange sort of consent. “I thought you were a girl when I first brought you in here,” he mused. “But then I saw you weren’t.” He winked. “There!” He tied the ribbon into a perfect bow. “Who says boy cats can’t wear red bows, huh? You look like a million bucks.”
Getting back on his feet, he sighed, then checked out the staircase by his bedroom. The door to that room stood slightly ajar and a string of dull light crept from it, inviting him, yet pushing him away, too.
“Cloud, I’m going to drive down to Target and get you some food and one of those little bins so you can piss… I guess that means I need cat litter, too. Tonight, I’ll put some flyers up in case your owner is looking for you.” He glanced at the time. A large clock on the wall tick-tocked, keeping track of the seconds he was wasting. “Let me get showered and dressed, all right?” He began to walk backwards from the cat, pointing in its direction. “Be right back.”
Turning away, he rushed to his bedroom, a sense of urgency hitting him. He thrust the door the rest of the way open. His king-sized bed was perfectly made, the black and white striped sheets pulled taut. He hadn’t even recalled doing such a chore, but surely he had; he always did. The makeshift window treatment, a large green fabric shower curtain, covered the window, but the sheer material allowed the light in nevertheless. He hadn’t found the box that contained his window treatments as of yet.
Maybe I’ll just buy some new ones.
He made his way into his bathroom and jumped in the shower. Soon, the cubicle steamed as hot water hit the air. Making haste, he washed himself from head to toe, singing the Linkin Park song, ‘Castle of Glass’, over and over as water raced down his face and a bit of shampoo stung his eyes. Naked and wet, he made his way back into his bedroom and searched through a bin filled with blankets and towels to pull out one, then quickly drying off. From his dresser, he pulled out a white tank top, making quick work of sliding it over his chest and covering a large hawk tattoo all over his left pectoral muscle. On top of that he wore a green sweater, the color of Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street.
He hated the damn thing, but for some reason, it always seemed to give him good luck when it came to work related matters. Such a thing sounded rather nonsensical; he wasn’t one to perch beliefs on superstition, but he wore it anyway, just in case. Running his hand through his hair, he finger-combed the strands into place then grabbed hold of a can of hairspray and repeated the process for good measure.
He then went to pick up his brown satchel that sat on his computer desk tucked in a corner of the room, and returned downstairs with it to the kitchen.
There Cloud sat, almost as if at attention.
Little furry soldier…
“All right, I’ll be right back and then I have to get to work before I’m late.” But as River made his way towards the front door, Cloud blocked his way. He negotiated his way around the animal, trying not to trip and fall headfirst to the ground, but the tap dancing and twisting about became comically daunting. “Come on, what are you doing, huh?” He was met with soft meows that grew increasingly louder and more demanding. “I can’t take a cat into the grocery store, Cloud.”
Cloud continued his blocking strategy, ignoring his logic. On a sigh, River looked down at his satchel, noting it was big enough to accommodate Cloud… well, at least half of him. He tugged on the straps for good measure; they seemed sturdy enough. Opening the flap, he bent low and picked up the ball of fur into his arms. As if he belonged there, Cloud buried himself deep inside, his body pressed firmly against his tin of mints. On the outside pocket resided River’s keys, cell phone, and a small clip of cash.
“You’re going to have me looking pretty silly. A guy like me walking down the store aisles, sporting a cat stuffed in what most mistake as a goddamn purse. Thanks.” He huffed. “This should be a hoot. I’m sure I can find you a new home in the next few days but until then, I’ll make sure you’re squared away.”
He walked out, locked his door and made his way out of the house…
About The Author
Tiana Laveen is a USA Today Best Selling author. She was born in Cincinnati, Ohio though her soul resides in New York.
Tiana Laveen is a uniquely creative and innovative author whose fiction novels are geared towards those who not only want to temporarily escape from the daily routines of life, but also become pleasantly caught up in the well-developed journeys of her unique characters. As the author of over 35 novels, Tiana creates a painting with words as she guides her reader into the lives of each and every main character. Her dedication to detail and staying true to her characters is evident in each novel that she writes.
Tiana Laveen lives inside her mind, but her heart is occupied with her family and twisted imagination. She enjoys a fulfilling and enriching life that includes writing books, public speaking, drawing, painting, listening to music, cooking, and spending time with loved ones.
Contact Tiana :
If you wish to communicate with Tiana Laveen, please contact her on Facebook.
Gang, please join me in thanking Tiana for sharing these authorly insights with us.
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