Vivian Chastain is an adrenaline addicted veteran transitioning to civilian life in Sacramento, California. She settles into a new routine while she finishes up college and works as a bartender, covering up her intense anxiety with fake bravado and swagger. All Vivian wants is peace and quiet, but her whole trajectory changes when she stumbles upon a heinous crime in progress, and has to fight for her life to get away.
While recovering from the fight, she falls in love with someone who is tall in stature but short on emotional intelligence, and this toxic union provides Vivian the relationship that she thinks she needs. Given Vivian’s insecurities and traumatic past, she clings to the relationship even while it destroys her.
Prone to fits of rage, the spiraling of Vivian’s temper creates a turning point for her as she looks within to find the peace she seeks.
Vivian’s alcoholic brother and emotionally devoid mother serve as frequent thorns in her side, prompting her turbulent history to often bubble up to the surface. The bubbling turns to a rolling boil when Vivian’s brother lands himself in jail for drunken indiscretions, and not long afterward her partner is arrested for something so atrocious Vivian cannot even fathom it. She is left pondering whether or not to believe that the person she loves could have committed such an inexcusable crime.
Vivian’s relationships are strained to their breaking points as she continues to seek balance. She turns to her best friend for support, only to be left empty handed and alone until she finds comradery and care from the last person she would have thought.
Publisher | Amazon | Goodreads
Hey all, my name is Liz Faraim. I write contemporary fiction with a queer focus. People have asked me about my writing process, and the first thing that always comes to mind is music. For me to be completely productive and focused while writing, I need to shut out all of the distractions, and the only way I am able to do that is with music. And I don’t mean music playing on the stereo in the background. I literally have to have music piped straight into my head via ear buds.
Not just any music will do though, because even certain music can distract me. It has to be music that flows on the same wavelength as my brain does while writing.
While writing the entire Vivian Chastain series, I listened to one playlist the entire time. It started out as the standard Beach Bar Lounge Radio channel on the Pandora app, though over time I customized it a bit. Here is a sample of what is on the playlist that I wrote this series to:
Miss You by James Hersey
Can I (Tez Cadey Remix) by Alina Baraz & Galimatias
It Ain’t Me by Kygo & Selena Gomez
Nevermind by Dennis Lloyd
Wild One (Feat. Tep No) by Lucky Rose
Be Mine by Ofenbach
Kings of Summer (Feat. Quinn XCII) by Ayokay
Waves (Robin Schulz Remix) by Mr. Probz
This Girl (extended) by Kungs & Cookin’ on 3 Burners
How Hard I Try (Feat. James Hersey) by Filous
Call On Me (Ryan Riback Remix) by Starley
Stolen Dance by Milky Chance
No Diggity by Chet Faker
Something Just Like This by The Chainsmokers and Coldplay
Make You Feel (Ark Patrol Remix) by Alina Baraz & Galimatias
Prayer in C (Robin Schulz Radio Edit) by Lily Wood & the Prick
Here With Me (Feat. CHVRCHES) by Marshmello
Shadows of Ourselves by Thievery Corporation
With this playlist on repeat for almost four years, the Vivian Chastain series came, haltingly, into existence. These songs have seared certain memories into my brain so much so that when these songs come on now, I remember specific instances of doing research or agonizing over a specific scene. It’s always been a curious thing to me that sights, sounds, and smells can bring back long-lost memories in an instant.
Liz is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour:
I backed off the throttle and downshifted. The bike rapidly slowed under me. I pulled into the dirt lot and parked along the side of the structure. I killed the engine and hopped off quickly, yanking off my helmet and gloves.
My bladder was screaming for relief. I grabbed a tissue from my tank bag and jogged around to the east side of the building so I wouldn’t be seen from the road. Dropping trou, I squatted against the side of the building. The heat of the warm metal siding radiated through the back of my shirt. Once I was finished, I stood, buckling my belt as the relief washed over my body.
The building was surrounded by row crops, and a breeze blew across the fields. The distant Sierra Mountains wavered in the hot air.
It occurred to me an abandoned warehouse like that would be a great spot for geocaching and I walked slowly along the side of the building, looking for potential geocache hiding spots.
I rounded the far corner of the building and stopped in my tracks. I was startled to see a car parked about twenty feet away. It was a rusted-out old Honda Accord, its windows rolled down. The burgundy paint was oxidized, and strips of the headliner hung down, fluttering in the hot midday breeze.
Some faint shuffling sounds came from inside the warehouse, and I realized I was standing directly in front of a rusty pedestrian door. I took a few steps back. My hands tingled and I balled them into fists.
It’s just a farm worker getting some tools, dumbass.
But the hypervigilance that had kicked in would not go away. Something was off, and it made me bristle.
I reached down for my M16 sling and came up empty. I looked down at my boots on the dusty cracked ground. They were my scuffed-up riding boots, not military issue jump boots. My pants were denim, not BDU’s.
I slipped away to another hot, dusty day five years prior. A day when RPG’s and bullets filled the air rather than the sound of the breeze rustling crops. A day when blood was shed.
I took another step away from the building and forced myself to breathe. Breathe in the smell of freshly plowed soil, leather, gasoline, and the faint hint of a dung heap.
I slapped myself across the thighs, hard. Even through denim, the sound and sting of it helped bring me back. My thighs and palms burned. I did it again to make the point to myself.
The door to the warehouse opened, and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a tan backpack, whistling, and twirling a key ring on her fingertip as she walked toward a spigot near the door. Her long hair was brown and tightly permed. She was short but solid and moved like an athlete. Scanning her, I noticed that her hands and shirt were bloody. I coiled up inside, ready to fight.
The door closed heavily behind her, and she took a few more steps before looking up and spotting me. She stopped whistling as our eyes met.
I immediately shifted into a fighting stance. With no hesitation the woman charged at me. I got low and opened my arms because I didn’t have time to try a side slip. As soon as the woman plowed into me, I wrapped my arms tightly around her.
We went down hard. I wrapped my legs around her waist. Dust and grit were immediately in the air.
I had a hard time keeping a grip on her torso because of the backpack. I worked my arms up until the crook of my elbow was wrapped around the back of her neck, holding her as close as I could. She bucked and tried to roll out of my grip. I locked my right foot into the crook of my left knee and squeezed the woman’s guts. She grunted as I clamped my thighs down around her, restricting her ability to get a full breath. She was solid and strong, deep down in her core.
Adrenaline and rage surged through my body, and a clear lucidity took over. I was in my element, and apparently so was the woman I was hanging onto.
Liz writes contemporary fiction that highlights queer characters and often includes complex polyamorous relationships. Her writing has a hefty dose of soul searching and emotional turmoil while also taking the reader on fun adventures. She loves spending time in nature and does her best to share nature with her readers.
Author Website: www.lizfarim.com
Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.loud.16
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Author Twitter: @FaraimLiz
