Book Blitz: Stim di Kevin Berry + giveaway

Buongiorno ^^ Eccoci ad un nuovo book blitz, ideato come sempre da Giselle di Xpresso Book Tours; oggi vi presento un new adult contemporaneo, spero possa piacervi :) 

Titolo: Stim

Autore: Kevin Berry

Genere: New adult contemporaneo
Trama: Robert is different. He has Asperger’s Syndrome. He experiences the world differently to 99% of the population. Follow his entertaining and highly empathetic story as he struggles to realise and accept who he really is, try to understand other people—which he cannot—and find a girlfriend. Especially find a girlfriend—he’s decided it’s his special project for the year. Accompanied on this transformative journey by his quirky flatmates, Chloe (who also has Asperger’s, amongst other things), Stef (who hasn’t, but doesn’t mind) and their oddly-named kitten, Robert endures a myriad of awkward moments in his quest to meet a nice, normal girl…and not even a major earthquake will stop him.
This absorbing and humorous story is starkly told from Robert’s point of view, through the kaleidoscope of autistic experience.

Kevin Berry is an indie author. His particular niche is writing Aspie New Adult contemporary novels set in an earthquake zone. The first of these is STIM, published in October 2013.
His first novels, co-written with Diane Berry, are Dragons Away!, Growing Disenchantments and Fountain of Forever (humorous fantasy). These are available as paperbacks and ebooks at Amazon and elsewhere.

Website / Twitter / Goodreads

ESTRATTI

#1

Meeting Chloe in the café became comfortingly familiar and as regular as clockwork. On Mondays, Tuesdays (twice), Thursdays and Fridays, we convened in the café—nearly always at the same corner table, whenever we could occupy it, and with the same drinks—like déjà vu stuck in some kind of unstoppable time loop. On a few occasions, the time passed without either of us saying anything, but somehow comforted by the other’s presence. Sometimes we talked about our studies or assignments, but mostly we talked about ourselves. Or more accurately, I should say Chloe talked about herself. She had been entirely truthful about the verbal diarrhoea. Words spilled out of her mouth with a rapid staccato, machine-gun-like rhythm.
But I did not mind this. When I was in the café by myself, I could only observe people interacting socially, try to work out what was going on in their minds and what it was they were doing, to try to unravel the mystery of their behaviour. I never actually knew what was going on with them, could never properly interpret what I observed, because I could only imagine. 
Invariably, people behaved inconsistently and did not do what I expected or wanted them to do, and I could not discern any patterns underlying their actions. This was confusing, sometimes bewildering.
With Chloe, it was all very easy. She just poured herself out to me, wholly and honestly and clearly, and I lapped it all up like a thirsty kitten drinking cream from the saucer of knowledge. For the first time, I had a friend I could understand, and who could understand me, because we seemed to communicate on the same wavelength. I think she felt the same, but she never said exactly.
Chloe told me all about herself, how she had been first diagnosed when young, and passed from doctor to doctor and psychiatrist to psychiatrist, collecting the acronyms of different diagnoses like alphabet soup until finally she was evaluated with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). 
Once she knew that, she sped-read numerous books on the subject, assimilating their collective wisdom. The very best, she told me, were those written by fellow Aspies who had struggled to fit into the NS world but ultimately prevailed to establish their own place within it somehow, and yet remain true to themselves. Chloe said she could identify with their early lives, and that everything in her own life, past and present, made sense to her after reading those books. She had always known she was different, and now she understood why. And I agreed with her. I borrowed the books and read them too. I felt the same.
Chloe explained that her father travelled a lot on business and tried to make up for his frequent absences by ensuring that she always had the best care possible. Evaluations. Psych tests. 
Personality tests. Private mental hospital whenever she felt especially distressed. A seemingly interminable tweaking of her medications (eleven different combinations so far) in an attempt to find the right mix and dosage, a kind of educated guessing on the part of her doctors. There is so little known about the human mind in general and the Aspie mind in particular. It is so complex that all the doctors can do is just try one thing at a time, pick up the pieces if it does not work out as planned, and try something else, trying to solve the incomplete jigsaw of a fractured human mind.
One day when she met me in the café, my life changed forever.

#2

The temperature seemed even hotter than before as we pushed the trolleys back the same way to collect my belongings. My feet dragged as if I were wading through golden syrup with a ball and chain attached to each of my legs. I tried to imagine that we were trudging through some endless desert somewhere, but it obviously was not a desert, it was a main road lined with P30 parking signs, and the shopping trolleys were probably marginally easier to push along the footpath than through the sand. They did seem to have a life of their own, though. The concert outside the Student Union still proceeded noisily and apparently quite chaotically, and if we were heckled again, I did not notice. This was because I felt too exhausted to look. My shirt and Chloe’s top were wet with sweat and sticking to our skin.
We loaded my things into the trolleys—one box of clothes, my laptop and two boxes of books. I collect books like a dragon reputedly hoards riches. They are my little treasures, though I cannot afford to buy them often, and I usually acquire them second-hand. I love it that a book can be relied upon to provide the identical information, or tell the same tale, time after time—unlike people, who can be fickle. Rereading something I already know is grounding for me, and it is pleasing to know that information in a book is always the same each time I look at it.
It was now late afternoon. The trolleys were not easy to handle, not having been designed for long-distance pavement journeys, and squeaked continuously, making me grind my teeth in annoyance. Chloe stimmed by tapping out a beat on the handle of her trolley as we walked, the regularity of which was reasonably calming. Sometimes, one of the trolley wheels would stick and drag along the footpath with a high-pitched shrieking until it freed itself. Other times a wheel would turn randomly, causing one of the trolleys to lurch sideways abruptly, like a pouncing metallic cat. However, we managed the almost 3km back to our new home without serious incident.
After the constant noise and bustle of the halls of residence, it seemed positively tranquil in the new house. I got my first look at my new room. It was a comfortable size, 4.7m by 3.9m, and well laid out, almost a clone of Chloe’s room in size and shape. Chloe had the room next to mine, then there was Stef’s room, and one bathroom, which we would all have to share. Chloe announced that she would draw up a colour-coded timetable for the bathroom for the three of us each morning and evening. I appreciated that careful planning on her behalf. That was one more detail arranged (and one fewer thing about which to be anxious).
We unloaded my possessions and took them into the house. Chloe bent over and carefully placed a box of books on top of the one that I had put down next to the bookcase. As she stood up, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her left hand. She wore a white sleeveless top (because this was a Friday), and sweat gleamed on her arms and shoulders. Her blue hair was tousled, and I wondered if she felt as worn out by the heat as I did. One strap of her top had fallen down her right shoulder, but she ignored it, or perhaps was unaware of it. She took three steps to my bed and lay down, letting out a heavy sigh. She twirled her hair with her left hand, and patted the bed with her right hand.
“Robert, why don’t you sit down here? You must be tired. You could rest a while too, lie down, maybe. We could talk or…you know, something.”
I thought I knew how she felt, though, of course, I could not know for sure without Chloe telling me. This was a significant move for us both, bringing a lot of change and, inescapably, anxiety. As she rested, I looked eagerly at the empty bookcase, already mentally arranging my books in order by category and (within that) alphabetically by author. I felt a surge of excitement as I anticipated removing them from the cardboard prisons of their boxes, feeling the smooth dust covers in my hands, and placing their regular rectangular shapes neatly onto the white shelves in front of me in a perfectly ordered, systematic manner.
Chloe sighed again. Perhaps it was because she realised she would have to unpack also, and felt too tired to do so. Suddenly, I realised that we had missed our break together at the university café because we had been too busy moving into the house. I felt thirsty. A cold drink would be good, but a hot drink ought to be better. Apparently, hot drinks cool your body down faster than cold ones.
“Do you want to go out for a coffee?” I asked her.
“I don’t drink coffee,” she said abruptly, then sat up, stood and left the room. A few seconds later, I heard the door of her room close.
That is right, I admonished myself. Chloe drinks green tea. No wonder she did not want to go out for a coffee.

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