Author Guest Post
“Dear Internet: It’s Me, Avery” debuts on May 27. What follows is author Jennifer Ammoscato’s imagined scene when the inevitable film adaptation occurs.
Setting: A movie set in Hollywood. Director Clint Eastwood has assembled the cast of the much-anticipated comedy Dear Internet: It’s Me, Avery for a pre-production meeting.
“Mornin’ everyone,” growls the director. Mumbled responses from sleep-deprived stars and crew. “That was sarcasm in case you didn’t know it. It’s two o’clock in the goddamned afternoon. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks.”
He squints at the lovely blonde to his left. “Reese, we’re all thrilled you’ve signed on to play Avery. Call up Vuitton for your Oscar dress, sweetheart. I hear last year’s Academy Awards goodie bag had bath salts, free Audi rentals for a year, and the Orgasm Shot in it.”
The Oscar winner daintily nibbles on a bite of melon. “Do you think we’ll get Apple Watches next time?”
“No goddammed idea.” The grizzled director turns to his right and addresses the other dazzling beauty in the room. “Ryan Gosling—you being cast as Ryan was just goddamned serendipity. I mean, look at you: you’re a stud. You’re funny. You’re sensitive. Women want you. Men want to be you. Just goddamned perfect.”
“I’m humbled to accept this role,” come the words from perfect lips. “Though, I admit, I hate leaving my darling Eva and our beautiful baby.”
Zooey Deschanel, cast as Avery’s best friend Jordan, smiles brilliantly at the young actor. “Wasn’t your daughter voted the cutest child ever conceived in the history of the world in a recent People.com poll?”
Ryan blushes. “Aww. I was afraid someone might mention that. And, to be fair, there was a formal protest lodged by the Jolie-Pitts on Shiloh’s behalf. But I’m much more concerned that our devastatingly adorable child grows up to be a responsible citizen who makes positive change in the world and drives an eco-friendly car.”
Eastwood glances down the long table at the group. “Where’s Charlize? Oh, there you are, you gorgeous woman. We are just so goddamned excited to have you as that evil bitch Victoria Van Horne. I mean, you can play anything. Your talent. Your range.”
Ms. Oscar-winner Theron peers through stylish reading glasses at a sheaf of papers in front of her. “My contract specifies that filming has to be done in ninety days. Sean and I have some charity work to do in Haiti. And a Dior shoot in Paris after that.” She directs her flinty gaze at the director. “Not a problem, right, Clint?”
“Of course not, beautiful. I’ll take out anyone who screws around with our production schedule. You know me: Just make my goddamned day, punk. Get the film in the can or I’ll blow you away with my Magnum 44.”
An assistant whispers in the director’s ear, who scratches his head in response. “Um. Yes, apparently Dear Internet: It’s Me, Avery isn’t that kind of film. It’s a chick flick. What the hell is chick flick?”
Reese rolls her eyes. “My God! Haven’t you seen Bridget Jones? Confessions of a Shopaholic?” The director shakes his head. Her cornflower blue eyes narrow with suspicion. “Tell me you’ve seen Legally Blonde!”
Clint looks at his shoes, guilt written across his lined face. “I, uh…”
The small but mighty actress leaps to her feet in indignation. “I am so outta here!”
A lawyer lurking nearby tugs on Reese’s sleeve before she can stalk away and whispers in her ear. She frowns. “Fine! I’ll do the goddamned movie. You don’t have to explain contracts to me. I was in goddamned Legally Blonde, you know!”
Clint clears his throat in an effort to regain control of the meeting and the attention of his high-priced cast. He smiles. “I’ve been in this business a long time. You’re one of the best groups of goddamned actors I’ve ever worked with. This movie is going to make history. We’re going to make history. Dear Abby: It’s Avery will make people laugh—and cry.”
A production assistant whispers in his ear. Clint scratches his head again. “What do you mean that’s not the goddamned name of the movie? What the hell is the title?”
“Dear Internet: It’s Me, Avery,” pipes up Ryan Gosling, a warm twinkle in his blue eyes. “Eva and I read it to each other while she nursed the baby and I wove hemp receiving blankets. It was a transformational reading experience.”
Clint blinks uncomprehendingly. “Okay, whatever the hell it’s called, shooting starts tomorrow. Be here at six a.m. for makeup.”
“Will there be organic coffee?”
“Gosling, you’re getting on my last nerve.”
About The Author
Author Jennifer Ammoscato – solving the world’s problems one cosmo at a time. Jennifer Ammoscato is a paid, productive member of society. Frankly, it’s not enough. Therefore, May 2015 will see the launch of her debut novel, “Dear Internet: It’s Me, Avery” (The “Avery Fowler 2.0” series, Book I).
During the day, she is an intrepid writer/editor for the public relations department of a Canadian university. By night, she fights crime and the urge to organize closets and stuff herself with salted chocolate caramels.
Jennifer began writing as a child, producing such classics as “The Occurrence” (she understood the appeal of werewolves long before Stephenie Meyer). She had to search for the courage to write a novel, though. “That’s so F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. I didn’t know if I had the alcohol capacity for it.” However, after being goaded (sorry, encouraged) by a friend, she took the leap. Dreams do not inspire Jennifer’s books. In fact, they tend to terrify her. In particular, the everpopular naked-at-school or I-have-a-final-exam-and-didn’t-study dreams. She usually just makes stuff up.
She is married to her husband, Ezio. As opposed to someone else’s husband (insert name here). She is the proud mom of two very tall sons, Dante and Christian.
Author Website
Goodreads
Book Review
Book 1: The Avery Fowler 2.0 Trilogy
Publisher: Blue Moon Publishers
Publication Date: May 27, 2015
Format: eBook - 294 pages
Kindle - 2548 KB
ISBN: 978-0993639784
ASIN: B00XNP1PLC
Genre: Chick Lit / Romantic Comedy / Women's Fiction
Buy The Book:
Amazon
Goodreads
Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the author / publisher via NetGalley in exchange for my honest review and participation in a virtual book tour event hosted by Chick Lit Plus Blog Tours.
Book Description:
Oh, don’t judge me, people. We all do it.
Don’t try to tell me that you’ve never checked that weird mole on your thigh on WebMD. Or how to fold meringue on Epicurious. And, there’s no way that I’m the only one who clears her search history after looking up how to give a great bl— (Um, that last one’s not important.)
When newspaper reporter Avery Fowler discovers her husband is having an affair, the online help site HowTo.com is where she turns to navigate this challenging stage of her life.
If the Internet is Avery’s information god, then HowTo.com is her Holy Grail. Its live chat option is like having a virtual life coach for the low, low price of $14.95 a month:
When I joined HowTo.com, it assigned me “Clementine” as my advisor, based on my choice of “British female” in the Preferences panel. That way, I can pretend that a Maggie Smith or Judi Dench type supplies the wisdom, tinged with a sassy touch of malt vinegar. (In reality, it’s most likely a bored, seventeen-year-old boy labouring in a New Delhi call centre.)
Add into the mix a new boss whose managerial style calls to mind the Wicked
With Clementine (virtually) in tow, our heroine tackles such tricky situations as dating after divorce, sex once nothing points north anymore, and how to cover attempted murder scenes (despite a paralyzing fear of blood) as the new and improved Avery Fowler 2.0.
Book Excerpt:
“Do you realize that you have a more intimate relationship with your iPhone than you do with me? Avery? Avery, are you listening?”
Shit. How long has he been talking to me? My husband, Michael, scowls across the smudgy, glass-topped restaurant table. “I’m sorry, Michael. What did you say?”
“You really don’t see the irony in that, do you?”
“I’m not a mind reader, Michael. Can you simply repeat the question?”
He rolls his eyes. “Can you put that fucking phone down long enough to order? Jesus, I’ve been ready for five minutes.”
God forbid he’d have to wait six. I place the cell next to my cutlery with great ceremony and pretend to peer intently at the menu.
Oh, don’t judge me, people. We all do it.
Call me “Phone Face”, but don’t try to tell me that you’ve never checked that weird mole on your thigh on WebMD. Or how to fold meringue on Epicurious. And, there’s no way that I’m the only one who clears her search history after looking up how to give a great bl— (Um, that last one’s not important.
If we worship the Internet as our information god, then HowTo.com is my Holy Grail. Its live chat option offers me an immediate, easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy solution to any problem I throw at it, 24/7. It’s like having a tiny life coach who lives in my phone for the low, low price of $14.95 a month.
When I joined HowTo.com, it assigned me “Clementine” as my advisor, based on my choice of “British female” in the Preferences panel. That way, I can pretend that a Maggie Smith or Judi Dench type supplies the wisdom, tinged with a sassy touch of malt vinegar. In reality, it’s most likely a bored, seventeen-year-old boy labouring in a New Delhi call centre.
Whatever the case, I wish I could chat with Clem now. You see, I think Michael is fooling around on me.
The sun slants low in the sky and casts a golden glow inside the tiny Thai restaurant on this June evening. My heart feels a chill in spite of it, as though the recent brutish Ottawa winter still lingered. You see, Michael just told me that he has another late night meeting after our meal.
My suspicions aroused, I sneaked a peek at Clementine’s signs of spousal cheating while Michael scoured the daily specials. “Working longer hours,” was right up there with “pays more attention to grooming and fitness,” and “less interested in sex.”
“Are you ready to order?” Our waitress has appeared, a slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead and stray wisps of hair drifting across her cheek. It’s an idyllic June evening and the popular restaurant is busy.
I pretend to study the menu but instead study my husband through my lowered lashes. I look for some magical, telltale confirmation of guilt or innocence.
Other than mild annoyance, Michael’s face betrays nothing: the hazel eyes, full lips, and close-cut, blond hair are the same features I’ve lived with for years. My gaze settles on his polo shirt’s impossibly beautiful shade of Caribbean blue. When did he buy that? As he turns the pages of his menu, I can’t help but notice Michael’s bicep bulge as he does so.
When the hell did he get a bicep?
I didn’t know Michael had a bicep. I mean I know he has them, but they went missing under years of only using his arm to lift the TV remote. Looking him up and down now, I see that his arms are more muscled and his stomach is trimmer; his cheekbones are more prominent.
In an instant, dozens of tiny suspicions that vaguely teased at the corners of my mind over the past months coalesce into the very real possibility that my husband is having an affair.
In that split second, I know that the signs I’ve brushed aside in the hopes they signify nothing but my own paranoia, add up to something very real.
I believe this is called an “aha moment.”
Shit. How long has he been talking to me? My husband, Michael, scowls across the smudgy, glass-topped restaurant table. “I’m sorry, Michael. What did you say?”
“You really don’t see the irony in that, do you?”
“I’m not a mind reader, Michael. Can you simply repeat the question?”
He rolls his eyes. “Can you put that fucking phone down long enough to order? Jesus, I’ve been ready for five minutes.”
God forbid he’d have to wait six. I place the cell next to my cutlery with great ceremony and pretend to peer intently at the menu.
Oh, don’t judge me, people. We all do it.
Call me “Phone Face”, but don’t try to tell me that you’ve never checked that weird mole on your thigh on WebMD. Or how to fold meringue on Epicurious. And, there’s no way that I’m the only one who clears her search history after looking up how to give a great bl— (Um, that last one’s not important.
If we worship the Internet as our information god, then HowTo.com is my Holy Grail. Its live chat option offers me an immediate, easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy solution to any problem I throw at it, 24/7. It’s like having a tiny life coach who lives in my phone for the low, low price of $14.95 a month.
When I joined HowTo.com, it assigned me “Clementine” as my advisor, based on my choice of “British female” in the Preferences panel. That way, I can pretend that a Maggie Smith or Judi Dench type supplies the wisdom, tinged with a sassy touch of malt vinegar. In reality, it’s most likely a bored, seventeen-year-old boy labouring in a New Delhi call centre.
Whatever the case, I wish I could chat with Clem now. You see, I think Michael is fooling around on me.
The sun slants low in the sky and casts a golden glow inside the tiny Thai restaurant on this June evening. My heart feels a chill in spite of it, as though the recent brutish Ottawa winter still lingered. You see, Michael just told me that he has another late night meeting after our meal.
My suspicions aroused, I sneaked a peek at Clementine’s signs of spousal cheating while Michael scoured the daily specials. “Working longer hours,” was right up there with “pays more attention to grooming and fitness,” and “less interested in sex.”
“Are you ready to order?” Our waitress has appeared, a slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead and stray wisps of hair drifting across her cheek. It’s an idyllic June evening and the popular restaurant is busy.
I pretend to study the menu but instead study my husband through my lowered lashes. I look for some magical, telltale confirmation of guilt or innocence.
Other than mild annoyance, Michael’s face betrays nothing: the hazel eyes, full lips, and close-cut, blond hair are the same features I’ve lived with for years. My gaze settles on his polo shirt’s impossibly beautiful shade of Caribbean blue. When did he buy that? As he turns the pages of his menu, I can’t help but notice Michael’s bicep bulge as he does so.
When the hell did he get a bicep?
I didn’t know Michael had a bicep. I mean I know he has them, but they went missing under years of only using his arm to lift the TV remote. Looking him up and down now, I see that his arms are more muscled and his stomach is trimmer; his cheekbones are more prominent.
In an instant, dozens of tiny suspicions that vaguely teased at the corners of my mind over the past months coalesce into the very real possibility that my husband is having an affair.
In that split second, I know that the signs I’ve brushed aside in the hopes they signify nothing but my own paranoia, add up to something very real.
I believe this is called an “aha moment.”
My Book Review:
In her debut novel, Dear Internet, It's Me Avery, author Jennifer Ammoscato weaves a thoroughly entertaining chick lit / romantic comedy tale that follows the trials and tribulations of Avery Fowler.
Avery is your average woman who is trying to live her life the best way she can ... she's attached to her phone (oh come on ... admit it, you are too!), but when she finds out that husband Michael cheats on her with a younger woman, Avery takes to the internet website HowTo.com and her personal online advisor Clementine, for answers to every issue that she encounters in her life from her love life, to her boss from hell, to cooking! So come follow Avery's journey as she muddles through her daily life adventures with the help of her crazy internet advice addiction!
Oh my goodness, Dear Internet, It's Me Avery is a crazy good, laugh-out-loud chick lit tale that will keep the reader in stitches. Author Jennifer Ammoscato uses her wicked sense of humor to weave a witty tale that has a great mixture of humor, drama, and romance that is pure chick lit at its finest.
The reader is easy drawn into Avery's story, you can't help but relate and commiserate with her as she faces the challenges in her life. And talking about realistic storytelling, come on people, we all are guilty of being attached to our cell phones ... and who hasn't googled "how to" everything ... you know you have, so just admit it!
Dear Internet, It's Me Avery is such a fun story that easily kept me engaged and turning the pages, shaking my head in amazement, and snickering so much that my husband thought I was going crazy! I can't wait to read the next installment in The Avery Fowler 2.0 Trilogy! This is the perfect summertime beach read for chick lit fans.
RATING: 5 STARS
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Tour Schedule:
May 25 - Second Bookshelf on the Right - Q&A
May 26 - Chick Lit Plus – Review
May 27 - Ai Love Books – Review & Excerpt
May 27 - Samantha March – Q&A & Excerpt
May 28 - Chick Lit Goddess – Review
May 29 - Jersey Girl Book Reviews – Review, Guest Post & Excerpt
June 1 – Cafinated Reads – Excerpt
