So I've bee stalking Michelle Hodkin on every social website available to me and this is what I found. I haven't read the teaser by the way :)))
Copied from Michelle Hodkin's Tumblr:
Death, kids, and books.
My mother says that only two things in life are permanent: death and children. You can’t undo either of them. You can’t ever take back having a child, and you can’t ever bring someone back to life.
This has always been a comforting idea for me. Think about it: pretty much any mistakes you make in life you can unmake! You can move on from a failing grade, or a failing relationship. You’re never stuck, or trapped, no matter how stuck or trapped you might feel. You can always start fresh. Start over. Reboot.
But in the last few years, I’ve realized that there’s a third thing that you can’t ever undo. Most people won’t have the chance to discover this third thing, but I have. You can’t undo a book.
Once it’s published, and people read it, it’s out there. Forever. You can’t ever unwrite it, or go back and change it. It may go out of print someday, or fade out of public consciousness if you were ever lucky enough to have your book become part of the public consciousness in the first place, but its still something that can be found and will exist forever in whatever form you wrote it in. Whatever mistakes you’ve made in it are permanent, on the page and in people’s minds.
When I’m having a hard time making a choice, which is a lot because I’m a naturally cautious and indecisive person, I try to do that which I will regret the least. And in working on the third book in the Mara Dyer trilogy for the past 16 months, I came to realize that I would regret asking Simon & Schuster to push back the book less than I would regret having them publish the wrong book. And they have been nothing but patient and understanding about it.
Sometimes you have a moment of clarity when you realize the book you’re writing is not the book you should be writing, that it’s a good story, maybe, but it isn’t the story you need to tell. You’d think that it can’t happen with the third book in a trilogy, but it can. It did. It happened to me, and I know I’m not the only one.
I’ve finished The Retribution of Mara Dyer three times now. The first first draft of it, semi-complete at 87,000 words, was just blowing out the cobwebs, as they say. I scrapped almost all of it. Then I started on a new draft, which was actually pretty good. Really good, in parts. But as I wrote, the deeper in I got the more I realized that while it was starting to take shape as an awesome story, it wasn’t the story I needed to be writing. It wasn’t the end of Mara’s story—it was the beginning of something else, something different. So I put it aside completely for now, and started over again on the book I needed to be writing, and I’ve been working on it since.
I can’t tell you much about it, but I can tell you this: I love it. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, and I think you will too. It’s shocking and provocative and wild and a bunch of other adjectives I won’t use because spoilers, but the important thing is: I’m proud of it. And a thing I want you to know: the ending to the trilogy has always, always been the same, since the second I had the idea for the series. Only the beginning and the middle have changed. (So, you know, nothing important).
So that is all to say, The Retribution of Mara Dyer will not be coming out this October. It will be coming out in 2014. When specifically, I do not know. When I do, I will tell you personally, and I will make sure that the date I give you is the official date. I am so, so sorry to disappoint you—you can’t possibly know how sorry I am—but not as sorry as I would be if I gave you the wrong story. The Retribution of Mara Dyer is finally right now, and the ending of the trilogy, which you will read in 2014, will be the right ending. And I can’t be sorry for that.
But to soften the blow, how about a teaser?
[Here be spoilers, under the cut]
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that I was covered in blood.
The second thing I noticed was that this didn’t bother me the way it should have.
I didn’t feel the urge to scream or speak, to beg for help, or even to wonder where I was. Those instincts were dead, and I was calm as my wet fingers slid up the tiled wall, groping for a light switch. I found one without even having to stand. Four lights slammed on above me, one after the other, illuminating the dead body on the floor just a few feet away.
My mind processed the facts first. Male. Heavy. He was lying face down in a wide, red puddle that spread out from beneath him. The tips of his curly black hair were wet with it. There was something in his hand.
The fluorescent lights in the white room flickered and buzzed and hummed. I moved to get a better view of the body. His eyes were closed. He could have been asleep, really, if it weren’t for the blood. There was so much of it. And by one of his hands it was smeared into a weird pattern.
No. Not a pattern. Words.
My gaze flicked to his hand. His fist was curled around a small tape recorder. I moved his fingers—still warm—and pressed play. A male voice started to speak.
"Do I have your attention?" the voice said.
I knew that voice. But I couldn’t believe I was hearing it.