All My Restless Life to Live by Dee DeTarsio Book Give Away

*Disclaimer - I was provided a complimentary copy in order to write a review. All opinions are my own.

Life is a soap opera, especially for Elle Miller, who writes for one. (Ellen dropped the “n” in her name in 
hopes of finding a better ending for herself.) When her laptop crashed, she borrowed her dead dad’s 
computer and got more than she bargained for. As Elle comes to terms with her father’s death, she’s 
busy unraveling mysterious communications from his computer. From dealing with her mom, who 
has decided to give Internet dating a try, to saving her career at I’d Rather Be Loved, with a storyline 
featuring a trip through Atlantis, to a trip to the Emmys, Elle also finds herself in the middle of a 
romance between a real doctor and a hunk who just plays one on TV. Friends, family, and clues from 
“the other side” all help Elle figure out the difference between living the good life and living a good life. 
Hint: The universe always gives us clues.

Buy All My Restless Life to Live on Amazon. Find it on Goodreads.

With humorous writing, and quirky coworkers, you will love Dee DeTarsio's book All My Restless Life to Live.

Dee DeTarsio is a TV writer living in southern California. After growing up in Ennui, Ohio, and graduating from The Ohio State University she vowed never to be cold again (in a tantrum more worthy of Suellen
than Scarlett) and ended up in Tucson, Arizona, producing the news for the CBS affiliate, oddly enough called KOLD-TV. She moved to San Diego where she worked in the SeaWorld entertainment department
as a producer/writer. (Penguins are mean!) She then became a producer/writer for the NBC affiliate.

Connect on Dee DeTarsio's website, Facebook page, on Twitter @DeeDeTarsio



Check out this excerpt from Chapter 1:

Be nice and don’t eat sugar. Once again, my daily mantra was about to be blown. “GiGi!” I hollered from the studio edit bay as I caught a sparkly swirl of scarf whiz by the corner of my eye. The scarf froze. Then backed up. Magenta-macchiato was the color-of-the-week highlighting GiGi’s Marge Simpson updo.

“You rang?” GiGi asked.

“Look, I thought we talked about this. Go back.” I nodded to the editor, Mr. Peevey. He cued up the video as GiGi folded her arms across her chest.

“There,” I pointed. “Stop, GiGi. This show is in enough trouble. I don’t care what our leading actress has told you. Danielle is anywhere from her early thirties to only God and the guy who signed her birth certificate know. While it is lovely lingerie, do you not see that the scene takes place at a nursing home?” I knew it wasn’t really GiGi’s fault, but I was just getting started on my tirade. “She is about to find out that her Nonnina is . . . ” I stopped and looked at GiGi.

“What? Her Nonnina is what?”

“Ah. Good. You’re intrigued. I’ll tell you what she isn’t. She isn’t supposed to wake up from her coma and think her granddaughter is a prostitute.”

I had finally worked my way up from an associate producer, or ‘ass-prod’ as my friend Adam always said, to producer, and I may take things a teeny-tiny bit too seriously. “Could you and the rest of your stylist friends please inform the fashion industry we just want one more inch?”

GiGi laughed. Mr. Peevey winced.

“Very funny.” I shook my head. “One more inch of material.”

I squinted my eye through my pinched fingers, “to raise the waistband as well as the morale and unreal expectations of all of our viewers.” I told the editor to zoom in. “It’s our job to make her look perfect. You know, like no one really is.”

One day, I thought as I tapped my pen and pretended to be a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara, as God is my witness, I will have a matching bra and underwear. I tugged up on the belt loops of my jeans.

“Sorry, Elle.” GiGi shrugged. “Danielle loves those pants and thinks she looks really hot.”

“Well, ‘hot’ is such a strong word.”

The editor’s shoulders straightened. I suspected he was pulling in his own stomach.

“They’re going to have to do a cutaway to Mort’s face or something, which will make no sense, right Mr. Peevey?” The editor just grunted and straightened his bow tie. I sighed.

“Please, GiGi. We all have the same goal. We don’t want this show to be cancelled. Just class her up a bit, and cover it up. You know this. Please make sure Danielle looks elegant. She is a gorgeous woman, but do we really want our audience to laugh at her underwear trying to escape?” It was hard to watch the video
without holding your breath. “Cut the sizes out of her clothes if you have to, but she should be a little more haute couture, a little less hot mess.”

“I hear you.” GiGi saluted and walked out.

I left the edit bay and detoured back to my own cubicle, hoping to miss my boss.

“El-ena!”

No such luck.

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