#BookSpolight: Believing in Bigfoot by JC Miller (@JCMillerWriter)

I'm happy to be part of the promotional tour of this new novel by JC Miller. Today, you could find an exclusive excerpt from the novel. Keep reading and don't miss anything.

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Believing in Bigfoot by JC Miller

Purchase: Amazon
Blurb: Reeling from his failed comeback and ruined marriage, washed-out actor Ian James (née Isaac Janowitz) flees Los Angeles for a two-week respite in Northern California’s remote Marble Mountains—Bigfoot country. His time alone in the wilderness begins to peel away the layers of his Hollywood persona. After a fateful meeting with a beguiling woman, Ian begins to question his heart. In a moment of clarity, Isaac ditches his publicist and finds himself in Redding, living with invisibility at the Vagabond Motel. Professor Ruth Hill is burnt out teaching photography at Redding’s Shasta College, eager for her upcoming retirement. But for unexplained reasons, despite weekly therapy sessions, her panic attacks have escalated. Her artistic slump persists. Looking back, she regrets a life without risk; looking forward, she dreads a meaningless future. Going over her proof sheets one morning, she stumbles upon a series of striking thumbnails, reigniting her passion and creativity. Readers will root for Isaac and Ruth as they grapple with their chance encounter on the mountain and search for meaning in their repellent, yet intense attraction. Their paths do cross again, but when confronted with the possibility of enduring love, Ruth’s cynicism creeps in; Isaac’s self-defeating beliefs take hold. For these two damaged souls, it just may be too late. 


Hours later, within the deepest recesses of her consciousness, a darkly human-animal voice called to her, wrenching her back to the surface. A low rumble—a growl—reverberated through Ruth’s belly, her bowels. A hand gripped her arm—hard. “What the fuck?” she said, sitting bolt upright.

It was Meg; Meg was squeezing her arm.

“Quiet—listen,” Meg hissed.

At that moment, a murky gurgle—no—an utterance—rose up from the culvert. The voice grew louder and more persistent. Getttuummm.

Ruth tried to wrap her mind around two distinct syllables, repeated over and over by some unseen beast, but she could not. What the hell? Get ’em? Then came thrashing—twigs snapping—the stomping of two heavy feet. Tears welled in her eyes. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Jesus,” she whispered.

Branches sighed; a distant owl hooted. Then it was quiet again. Ruth realized she’d been holding her breath. “Meg, what the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said with a tremor in her voice. “I really don’t know.”

The two young women passed a long, disquieting night in silent vigil, clinging to each other in total darkness. At dawn’s first light, Ruth got up. She brushed the dirt from her sleeping bag, shook it out. Running her fingers through her dark curly hair, she realized it was matted, leaf infested. Yet somehow Meg managed to look dewy-faced and lovely, her honeyed hair, smooth and silky down her back—a Breck girl.

“What a night!” Meg said. “I think I slept for about five minutes.” She deftly secured her sleeping bag to her pack.

Ruth’s spine prickled, remembering. “I know.”

She could not explain it then—or now. But it did happen. What they’d experienced could not be categorized or defined. “So creepy.”

“Exactly,” Meg said.

Ruth laced up her boots, returning to the trail. It looked different, less menacing in the morning light. A few yards ahead she noticed that several planks had been laid end to end above the creek bed. She approached the makeshift bridge, finding a beat-up signpost with hand-scrawled lettering: Dead Man’s Pass. Ruth’s eyes widened. “Meg, look at this!” she said.

Meg joined her on the path. “God, talk about creepy.”

“Dead Man’s Pass. It’s like we’re in a horror movie.”

“Getttuumm!” Meg growled, her eyes wild. She gave Ruth a playful poke in the ribs.

Perhaps it was the bone-chilling terror, or perhaps the pure absurdity of the moment. Maybe it was the arrogant invincibility of youth. At any rate, Ruth doubled over with laughter. In response, Meg, too, guffawed like a lunatic, tears streaming from her eyes.

In that moment they considered giving into temptation, hightailing it to the nearest diner—pancakes with maple syrup, scrambled eggs, hot coffee. In retrospect, it may have been the more prudent decision. Instead, Ruth and Meg gathered up their gear. Onward they pressed, to their original destination—the summit.

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JC Miller

About the Author 

JC (Jeanne) Miller, M.A., is an educator and founding member of JAM, an editorial-consultation team. An avid reader, aspiring traveler and table tennis enthusiast, she resides in Northern California.




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